#Neither side is even 60% white

[foreverisntenough]

- YOU’RE MINE -

Summary: While you daydreamed about his face an ocean apart, he had no idea what yours was about to do to him. With a twist of fate and the heat of summer, a new relationship would completely ransack his heart - Everyday heavy with the thought of one another, neither of you were going to let the unexpected love of your life go. You were going to be his, you were his, and you were going to stay his.

Warnings: This story will contain fluff; maybe smut and angst- not sure yet!

Note: I was planning on keeping this just for myself so please be nice. I hope you like it! There will definitely be more than this part (don’t know many just yet though)

Chapter 1 - ‘You’re Mine’

It was a warm morning in July. You pulled at your Nike crew socks to fix them after you’d tied the laces of your white sneakers. Popping your AirPods in before heading out the door. You turned the key to lock your apartment and navigated on your phone to Spotify. The volume was too loud, it always was but you wanted to check out for a little. Focus.

You began your run; across a few avenues before hitting 5th Ave. It was your favorite part of the run. The sidewalks were wide, the juxtaposed calm of the busy upper east side raced with your heart. The sun splashing in between scaffolding. You made your way from the 60s into the 70s. At 78th Street you needed to cross to round out the loop.

You stood on the left side, waiting to cross right. You felt as if someone was watching you for some reason, as if you had eyes on you. Your long sleeve Lululemon shirt stuck to your body in sweat. You pulled it up and wiped your forehead with the hem. The pull showed your toned stomach reflecting in the sun. You sponged up a bead of sweat that raced down your long tan legs with your Nike running shorts that slit high on the sides. You tried to breathe as slow as you could and turned the music down as you stepped into the crosswalk. Your Isabel Marant hat covered your eyes slightly blocking your vision as you gazed at the ground but found yourself staring at an odd amount of designer sneakers standing at the opposite corner. In what felt like hours of inspection, actually fleeting seconds, you got closer to them. You deduced it was a group of men, given the size, styles… You’d be lying if you didn’t judge men by their choice of shoes often. Style mattered to you. Not necessarily brands or the price of something but the care someone put into how they presented themselves was important. You glanced up quickly clocking a group of 6 or so men around your age. Your heart faltered at the image so you kept your head down. Like a child, you told yourself if you couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see you. As you stepped up onto the sidewalk, the group now unbelievably close, you snaked through the other people waiting to cross the street to go further uptown. You lowered your headphones volume again…almost to a pause. You overheard the group talking; they were loud. Not obnoxious, they just were goofing around with friends. You clocked the distinct accent almost immediately. It was so specific, it was also so random. What are the odds you hear a Liverpool accent behind you. Sure not 0% considering you were on fifth avenue in New York City but your interest definitely peaked. You had a soft spot for the English city. You loved the people in Liverpool. You went to Liverpool every year, maybe even more often than that with your dad. It was special to you.

The first time you went to Liverpool was just to go to a football game with your Dad. Was it a little frivolous to travel to another country for a game, absolutely, but it was a lot of fun too. You always had an amazing time visiting your Dad’s native country and over time, like he was, became slightly attached emotionally to Liverpool Football Club. You followed from the US waking up early on weekend mornings to watch. It didn’t hurt that the team was cute. Not bad people to follow on Instagram. You found it easy to develop a crush on people you didn’t know. You could build them up, make them apologize for things they never did, deliver on every whim of yours all from the comfort of your head, sitting on your bed. You’d listen to the team’s interviews and memorize the annunciation or stress placed on certain syllables in their varied accents. You’d be quick to zoom in on Instagram holiday photos trying to deduce if they were with women or where they might be. It was addicting. It was also harmless, they didn’t know you, you didn’t know them but god, would you want to. Although you wanted to know one particular player. Get to know his face in real life. You wanted to get lost in those dark brown eyes, wanted them to flirt with you. He was beautiful. Like genuinely and objectively beautiful. There were a lot of physical traits about him that made your head spin, your heart race, you just wanted to lick and yet… you’d never exist in that world, holding his gaze, his world.

The accents rang in your ears as you pulled one headphone out to eavesdrop a little, smiling at the familiarity and intricacy of words. You turned your head slightly back to the left looking to find the crosswalk counting down to see when you could start your run again. Before your eyes could land on the descending numbers flashing, your view was obstructed and found yourself looking directly into someone’s eyes. There was a glimmer in the strangers eyes, a warm honey hue. You snapped your gaze, looking back down at your sneakers immediately in shock. ‘What the fucks’ flew around in your head. You could feel he was still staring at you and you weren’t exactly sure what to do. Caged on the sidewalk; unable to cross as the cars proceeded to pass and unable to back away with the people waiting behind you. You laughed in your head at how ridiculous you were being about simple eye contact. ‘This is a complete stranger… relax’ you told yourself. When you mustered up the courage to pick your eyes up and your heart off the floor you got lost. Those eyes. You squint your eyes under your hat questioning what the hell was happening. There he was… in the flesh.. looking at you. He looked angel like. His skin soft, placing his hand on his forehead over his eyes to block the sun to take a closer look back at you. His amber smell wafted towards you. He was all consuming. You felt crazy. What honestly was happening. His plump lips pulled at the corner revealing the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. It sank in your stomach that this stranger wasn’t a stranger at all. An internet obsession genuinely was stood in front of you. You couldn’t help but smile back. A panicked confidence came over you. It was innate, instinctual, you had to; you reached out your arm and lightly grabbed at his. He looked at you slightly surprised but also smug. He knew he had a gravitational pull on people and he was not particularly upset that it worked on people that looked like you too. You felt the words slipping out from your lips but a static fuzz filled your brain.

“Sorry, are you Trent Alexander Arnold?” You already knew the answer.

His smile got bigger, he seemed flattered. He looked at you with sincerity. And then he spoke…

“Yeah, and you are?” His voice laced with his accent was smooth, heavy, beautiful.

You started to question your decision. Why did you say anything to begin with, you had nothing to say to him. You realized quickly your hand was still on him as he stared down at it. You rolled your eyes a little embarrassed and slowly pulled it down his arm. He was intrigued. Despite the internal chaos ensuing inside of you, you presented incredibly calm, smooth, and as your hand brushed over his, pulling back to your side, sexy. He stared at your collar bones and the dip in your throat, a drop of sweat ran down your tan skin. He studied its path. Watching it trace over the bone and then over a little scar, he observed it absorb into your top. He was embarrassed in his own mind that he wanted to watch the sweat keep rolling down your body, sans shirt.

“Y/N” you spoke quietly.

“This is kind of mad to run into you here, you know?” You babbled and he looked amused at the speed of your words as you continued. “I have been in Liverpool a lot, I guess just England in general a lot and never could imagine running into someone like you and definitely didn’t think I’d ever be here.”

“Yeah? Someone like me?” He asked.

It was flirty. Suggestive. Was he flirting with you? Maybe he was just being nice but you couldn’t stop your thoughts from running wild staring at the veins on his hands.

“What you doing over in Liverpool” he questioned you with a raised brow.

“Oh, erm” you weren’t sure how to phrase this. You were a fan, nothing wrong with that but you also didn’t want to freak him out.

“My dad’s from England so we go a lot and I follow the prem, I guess…We usually go to a game or two up north every year..” you explained. He seemed calmed by your honesty.

“See anything of interest up north?” your breath hitched at his words and his eyes boring back at you. You laughed a little, he was more charismatic than you maybe ever gave him credit for. Definitely reserved and quiet but he was entertaining the conversation pushing it in a direction you thought that you must’ve been dreaming.

“Had my eyes on something at Anfield, sure” you smirked. He watched your pink lips curl. It was enticing, he licked over his top lip then his bottom in response and hummed.

“Where are you staying?” you stopped his thoughts. “Sorry, you don’t have to ans…” you awkwardly tried to not pry.

“The Plaza” he cut you off. You returned his smile at the fact that he had been staying in such close proximity; right under your nose, blissfully unaware.

“Best area.” You spoke again. “Upper East Side will always be it for me but I’m biased because I live here.” You held your hands up in innocence.

“You live near here?” he asked, taking a small step towards you. His body so close to yours.

“A few blocks down and over on Park Ave” you pointed ambiguously, telling him. His eyes traced your body intently. It very quickly washed over you how sweaty you were. This isn’t the way you’d ideally want to look meeting someone you fancied, let alone him.

“I swear I don’t always look like this” you paused, shaking your head “it’s hot” you laughed defending your appearance.

“It is hot” he echoed cheekily, not talking about the weather anymore taking in every inch of your body in front of him.

“I would’ve really preferred having you see me in something else.” Your words were unintentionally suggestive. You slowly shut your eyes hoping he didn’t take your comment the wrong way. His mouth gaped open a little as he laughed

“Oh yeah?” He mocked you. His tease was endearing though.

“How long are you here for?” You needed to change the topic before you passed out from his intense gaze on you.

“Few more days...” he spoke, turning his head up to look at the street. The crosswalk sign had changed to’ walk.’ You felt your heart sink as your little interaction with Trent was going to end. One of the boys from his group walked by you two pinching in between Trent’s shoulder and neck. He winced at the feeling and the boy gave him a knowing look meeting back with the rest of the group. The boys crossed the street, you were stuck watching them so you failed to realize that Trent hadn’t budged. He returned his eyes to you and smiled softly. It made your heart flutter that he maybe still wanted to talk to you. In a panic to keep the conversation alive you blurted out an unsolicited offer without thinking…

“While you’re here, if you need someone to go out with, or just even need recommendations you should hit me up” Your face pulled into a childish grin. His eyes widened at your forwardness. You honestly were surprised at yourself too.

“I don’t really know you though, do I?” He questioned back at you.

You felt a little sick, a little stupid for maybe misreading the situation and conversation. You shyly laughed and rolled your eyes again embarrassed. This whole thing was ridiculous.

“Yeah, well… I don’t really know you either do I?” You mocked his question.

“You do though.” He leaned in a little closer to you.

“No” you paused at his face's closeness. “I don’t know you, I know your name and your face. That’s not really knowing someone is it?” He smirked at your rational. “And honestly, with that, it's only to your benefit. You’re going into this with the upper hand. You already know I think you’re attractive.” You should’ve thought your sentence through a little more but you were caught in the moment.

“Really? I didn’t know I knew that” he quipped.

He was funny, you’ll give him that. Your faux confidence was already dwindling preparing for him to turn you down. Letting a stranger down, rejecting a pass must be awkward and hard for him to do. Although he probably had a lot of practice doing it, his response wasn’t what you’d expected. It just about stopped your heart.

“And what if you knew I thought you were attractive” he almost whispered. It was sexy. Your brow furrowed genuinely because you had believed he was about to reject you.

“Are you sure?” you asked so quickly looking up at him in confusion. He thought your ignorance was cute.

“Yeah, I’ve got eyes haven’t I? I can see what’s in front of me. You caught my eye across the street before you even snuck your way next to me” You blushed at the idea he was already looking at you before you even had clocked him. You felt like someone might’ve been watching earlier but you couldn’t have dreamed it would be him.

It felt like it happened in slow motion as you watched his hand come closer to you. The back of his knuckle traced your highlighted cheekbone. Goosebumps arose all over your skin. Before he could remove his hand he heard a loud familiar whistle and was thrust back into reality that he was standing on the corner of the street. He gestured to the group he was with to hold on a second.

“Let me take you out tonight” he ask calmly

“You don’t really know me though, do you?” You quickly hit back making a smug face he wasn’t impressed with.

“Let me get to know you then” he cooed. You looked around you as if people might overhear you, like your response was just meant for him.

“Yeah. I’d like that” you said hush.

“Gimme your number” he said as he forced his phone at you. Your eyes stuck watching the group across the street monitoring the situation. Were they staring because of you, because he does this a lot? Or rather never does this? The questions poured into your head but the harsh sun reflecting off his phone into your face brought you back down to earth. You typed your number into his phone, saving your name with a little ‘🗽’ emoji as a contextual reminder and gave him his phone back.

The gears in your mind were still turning. What honestly just happened that you were holding a Liverpool football player's phone. Trent smiled seeing your name and the little emoji.

“Y/N L/N” he repeated.

“That’s me” grinning back.

He placed his phone in his pocket and lifted his arm again and reached to stoke your arm. You shivered at the touch.

You blew some air out your mouth in disbelief at the events unfolding. You weren’t sure what to do with the lull in the conversation now but Trent seemed comfortable in the silence.

“If you’re still heading up fifth, my favorite view of the city skyline is up at the reservoir. You ever been?” You softly suggested. He dragged his hand back up your arm.

“Nah, should I?” he asked. Focused more on the feeling of your skin than your words.

“It’s nice if you have the time. Good for the gram.” You laughed.

“Important” he replied as you stared at his hand continue to stroke your arm

“Very” you confirmed. He rocked backwards a little

“So I’m gonna see you tonight, yeah?” He said looking at your face once more as he dropped his hand from you.

“Yeah, yeah” you responded not totally sure that would actually happen but you were happy with this little conversation to hold in your mind forever. His smell, his gaze on you, saying you were attractive. Even if he was lying, you’d still take it from him. You bite your cheek before speaking again.

“If I don’t see you ” you paused and he looked at you confused. “It was nice to meet you” you said sweetly. He started laughing and shaking his head.

“I’m going to see you, trust me” he winked at you. It felt like you could fall over. Your legs felt like jello.

“Go on then, finish your run” he said tilting his head, gesturing down the avenue you were at.

“Absolutely not. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you watch me run down the block now” you were embarrassed by the idea of trying to exercise in front of someone who did it for a living.

“I like what I’ve seen so far, don’t deprive me of a nice view” his tone dripping with ideas.

You were shocked at the tone. You liked it. It was sweet and full of suggestion. You wanted to just listen to him talk for hours.

“I’m going to walk this way” you spoke up pointing down the street emphasizing the word ‘walk’ a little teasingly.

“See you, yeah?” He winked.

“Yeah, I trust you” you said, walking a bit away from him.

It felt like leaving a friend but also nothing like that. You craved so much more knowing he wasn’t one. You needed more of him. He was intoxicating, he felt like you took a shot of liquor. You felt light headed, the world blurred around you, giggling to yourself at the feeling in your chest. What the hell was wrong with you. You put your headphones back in and made your way down the street. You started to text your sister about the flirty encounter with the footballer but you didn’t want to jinx anything. Maybe you actually would see him later. That going to happen fell on Trent though; he was the one with your number, he was on his holiday. It didn’t seem likely to happen but he seemed so nice at the very least you’d hope he’d have the courtesy to tell you he couldn’t meet. You looked back towards where he was wanting to relive those minutes over and over again. Your eyes met again. He had his on you still. He squinted trying to follow your path and he smiled.

Trent crossed the street towards the group of boys nonchalantly, he was playing off how smitten he had just become with a complete stranger.

“What the fuck was that?” one of the boys looked at him as Trent embarrassingly bit onto his lip still watching you.

“Yeah, she was fit but like did you need to get the whole life story or…” another boy said.

“Did you know her?” The comments and questions came flooding in from the group confused at the interaction. To answer what you had wondered earlier. No, Trent didn’t do this a lot, igniting more of an inquiry. He kept to himself a lot of the time. Of course he’d get with girls back at home and on holidays and such but right now he was sober, it was in the middle of the day, on the street, and he seemingly was drooling over someone he’d never spoken to before. This was out of character.

“I honestly feel like I know her,” Trent spoke, trying to clear his throat. “Gonna see her tonight,” he informed them. The boys bustled with noise and confusion

“What about our dinner tonight?” Someone questioned

“You’ll figure it out. I’ll meet you after to go to that event.” Trent calmed the group still watching you as you looked back once more at him before turning the corner out of his view. He didn't like that he couldn’t see you anymore. He felt like he needed to study you more. The image of sweat dripping down your body had him down bad. It shouldn’t have affected him like that. He questioned why he was aching for you. He didn’t even know you. He exhaled confused. He could hear your voice replaying in his head. Soft and sweet, was it suggestive? Was he making it up?

“She didn’t even ask for a picture with me, ya know” he spoke quietly towards his brother in the group. Trent didn’t want to look like a melt to his friends so opted to confide in him. With his brothers he couldn’t really embarrass himself; they were so close.

“Maybe she doesn’t care about that,” Trent’s brother Tyler responded. Trent grunted slightly annoyed that you weren’t fawning and falling over him like he’d want. What he didn’t know was that you had actually been nauseous at the sheer idea of speaking with him. Tyler watched his face change.

“That bother you?” He asked. Trent looked back at him unsure.

“Don’t know… just not sure why I feel like this. Like I thought she was into me but the more I think about it” he paused reflecting “maybe I was just pushing a narrative in my head. She didn’t exactly seek me out, it was by chance, she was minding her business” his heart hurt a little at the thought.

“You just don’t stand that close to someone you don’t know and aren’t interested in” Tyler quipped back.

“Yeah?” Trent questioned his sincerity.

“She was grossly close to you. Made me a little sick not gonna lie '' a voice from behind them piped up. Their younger brother Marcel wanted in on the conversation, the gossip about the mystery girl was too good to miss.

“She from here?” His brother questioned

“Mmhmm, I felt like I was almost being played because she gave me everything up front. She told me her name, where she lived, about her dad, she follows footie, told me about visiting Anfield and that. Like I couldn’t build a more ideal woman, she’s a dream and she just stood there like she was somehow at a disadvantage.” Trent ranted.

“Oh” the brothers simultaneously echoed. Marcel looked at Tyler a little concerned about Trent’s vulnerability. Trent was independent and smart but it was often on everyone around him minds if people were trying to take advantage of or attempting to use Trent for something.

“She’s been to a game… of yours?” Tyler asked

“I assumed I was there playing. She didn’t really specify”

“The odds of meeting your dream girl like this on the street is mad but then again it’s you Trentski. If you really want to go find out more.. I guess shoot your shot.” Marcel tried to be honest but still support him…

“You think it’s bad to text now?” Trent cautiously asked. His brothers just laughed at him.

“Why are you being like this bro? You’re down so bad already and you don’t even know her. What did she do to you!” They exclaimed, clinging to each other continuing to give Trent shit for his lack of confidence.

“What am I doing?” Trent felt ridiculous; where did his conviction go? He needed to not let you get this in his head. Yet the only thing playing in his mind were images of you.

“What the fuuuucckk” he groaned.

“Relax bro, just go and maybe you’ll get to release a little” his brother joked about Trent’s obvious growing crush. The innuendo made Trent’s heads spin. His brothers kept talking but all he could think about was you peeling the sweaty clothes off your body at home. He wanted to be there for that. He needed the girl he didn’t know he would even meet an hour ago.

“This is embarrassing” he said despite hitting send on a text he was terrified of.

You sat on your bed after showering. If there was any luck in life for you he would text you. Your shower was long. The idea of you potentially seeing Trent tonight required you to look your best. The bathroom steamed, you washed your hair twice, exfoliating, shaving absolutely everything. You moisturized like you never had before. Your post shower routine was extensive and so was your skin and hair care. The idea of him even near your body had you giddy. You had to wonder if he was that clever and smooth with everyone. You felt the character you had built up in your mind from behind an on screen image had been torn to shreds by his unwavering confidence, his eyes glimmering, his composure. He wasn’t anything you imagined. He was much much better.

Your phone pinged, the screen illuminating with a new text. You tried to tell yourself to relax. It was probably going to be your mom to be realistic but there lied the unknown uk number on your phone. You squeezed your eyes shut, your leg now bouncing up and down a little. ‘What the fuck it’s just a text. You’re embarrassing’ you spoke to yourself. Your stomach dropped as you swiped to read the new message.

“The reservoir?”

It was so simple but you felt your heart racing. You wanted to be quick in response not knowing how he was with his phone and you didn’t want to miss your opportunity. You were trying not to think too much as you hit send.

“The reservoir.” You confirmed.

“Going to make me way there and let you know what I think” his response was quick in return.

“Please do 😉” you typed and deleted the wink emoji 1000 times but just said fuck it. Every moment exchanged with Trent felt like it could be your last so you decided you were going to try not to hold back.

A genuine full smile swept across Trent’s face.

“She responded I’m assuming” Tyler watched his brother’s expression change. Trent didn’t want to get into how excited he was feeling about something as small as an emoji.

“mmhmm” he hummed, not picking up his gaze from the wink you sent.

“Dinner with me tonight?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed”

“Got one condition though..”

You weren’t sure what the condition could be. As much as you two had joked, you really didn’t know him at all. You couldn’t predict anything he was going to do or say. It put you on edge but you loved the thrill of standing there.

“You have to pick the place because you’re the local” Trent’s message read. You smiled, it was sweet and more wholesome than you anticipated. You couldn’t stop trying to read into everything he has said though. Was this a date for him?

“Fine, I’ll be sure to pick something good then. 8:00 pm is okay, yeah?”

“All good. Also 8:00 pm… try 20:00?”

“No no no. None of that. You’re in my city now”

“Yeah? Going to show me a good time in your city”

He sent it and started to regret it. He still questioned if you were as into him as he was into you. He didn’t want to imply he was looking just a quick fuck. He definitely wanted to have sex with you, like embarrassingly so but might actually be a little disappointed in that alone because you peaked his interest. He wanted to listen to you. He wanted to watch your eyes flicker over him. He wanted to hear your accent accentuate words.

Contrary to his beliefs, you felt like you were going to scream. Like you were a 12 year old girl with a boy band obsession. Did he want you like that? What if you read his text with the wrong inflection? You threw caution to the wind at this point and you dove into sending him a response.

“Promise xx. Will see how you are on the date”

“Date, yeah?”

“Oh.. Is it not?” you immediately responded to him. You felt so nervous. Blood rushing to your face embarrassed you had misread everything.

“Nah, it definitely is. Can’t wait to see more of you later 🤤”

His response, especially the emoji, made your mind race with dirty thoughts. You understand he probably just meant ‘seeing’ you as meeting up again but you wanted him to literally see more. You wanted to have him drooling. You wanted his lips on yours. You wanted to have him thinking about you. You just had to get through this date successfully for that to even be an option.

•

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think.

Moving slow but we’re just getting started xx

Next part is up - Chapter 2

[sparklingcid3r]

r u a darry/paul shipper like seemingly the rest of the fandom is becoming (good)? what are ur hc for them?

This is long, bear with me 🙏 I def think there was something going on in high school between those two and you can pry that hc from my cold dead hands. But here’s how I think their relationship goes, for better or worse (particularly, worse):

- They’re hardcore pining for each other in high school but never actually do something about it because it’s the 60s and both of them have reputations, albeit two different ones, to maintain. They aren’t exactly about to out themselves to their seemingly hypermasculine crush/best friend, no matter how attracted they are

- Eventually, though, they get drunk enough at some Soc party and Paul happens to have looser lips than Darry, and lets it slip that if Darry were a girl (a risky statement on its own but inhibitions are out the window atp), he would absolutely kiss him. He actually thinks Darry is real pretty and has always wanted to find out what kissing him is like

- Darry, still having somewhat of a head screwed to his shoulders despite the alcohol, drags Paul to the nearest bathroom with a lock and dunks his head under freezing shower water (not a foolproof cure to intoxication but it helps for clarity ig??). He asks Paul to say what he just said again

- Paul starts apologizing, saying he was drunk and doesn’t know what he was talking about

- Darry’s first kiss with a man is in the pearly white bathroom of a Soc he doesn’t even know the name of, surrounded by more Socs, of whom he only knows half the names of

- They go steady in private of course, but neither of them can shake the knowledge that they have the darkest blackmail on each other, even during their most intimate moments. Although simultaneously there is a sick comfort in knowing “If I go down, you’re going down with me.”

- If that’s the foundation, though, you know it starts to seep through. Paul’s always been a Soc, and what he forgets is that even though Darry can clean up real nice, he’s always been a greaser. When Paul’s laughing with their buddies about how some greaser freshman’s got tape around the toes of his converse, Darry’s silence is so heavy it’s tangible. It just brings the mood down

- What they have I think can only slightly be called love. But who else are they supposed to be in love with? That drunken accident was probably the best moment of their lives, finally realizing that they’re not alone. They have each other and no matter what, for better or for worse, they’ll always have each other.

- The dynamic changes when the Curtis parents die. Paul’s got money and suddenly Darry is poorer than dirt. The money came and went with the funerals, the gravestones, the bills. Suddenly Darry’s dipping into his college fund, then he’s draining it for the sake of keeping his brothers together under his roof. There’s no time for Paul anymore

- Darry knew immediately that he was risking not only his life, but Soda and Pony’s lives just by existing. If he got caught, it’s over. So he breaks it off with Paul, because he was never capable of loving anyone more than he loves his brothers

But honestly that’s just my immediate thoughts about them, I can totally imagine them being pretty happy together in some parallel universe. But the way the story portrays them, they fell apart and ended up on opposite sides of the tracks.

If you want some happy hcs hit me up I gotchu🤙 thanks for the ask! Sorry I went overboard, I got excited lmfao. They mean a lot to me🫶

[happyandticklish]

Dropping the Controversial Tickling Tea~

A list of takes that may be controversial but I no longer care because these issues are argued about far too often not to say anything

It’s okay to have preferences. I feel like we understand this concept on the lee side, but ostracize it on the ler side. If someone doesn’t like being tickled in a certain area, we okay that, but if someone doesn’t like to tickle a certain area, then people become defensive as though it is somehow specifically targeting them. If a ler doesn’t like to tickle feet, understandable! If they exclusively like to tickle feet, ALSO understandable! If a ler doesn’t like to tickle a certain area but the lee loves being tickled there, then that is something to discuss and talk about. Maybe they’re willing to budge on that point, maybe they’re not, but either way, neither side should force the other to do something that makes them uncomfortable. 

The SFW and the NSFW community are not always black and white. Some people view tickling as a kink in certain scenarios, and platonic in others, and that’s fine. Some people don’t view tickling as a sexual act, but enjoy when it’s combined with sex because it makes them feel loved. Some people view tickling as romantic, but not necessarily sexual. It is not simply platonic or sexual, it’s a much larger gray area than people give it credit for. It’s okay to view it as completely non-sexual too, as well as to get off on it. That does not mean you have the right to judge other people for the way they enjoy it. We’re all just trying to get along here. 

Fictional characters are just that—fictional. If you write a fic where Bakugo kills Deku it does not mean you are advocating murder, you are simply exploring a perspective. If you write a fic where Bakugo holds down Deku and tickles him while he begs for it to stop, that is also, technically, okay. Although non-con is a pretty big no-no in real life, fictional characters are an outlet to express... well, pretty much anything. If you write a fic where Levi is tied up against his will and tickled, that’s your prerogative. So long as you are not genuinely inflicting harm on anyone, that’s fine. I personally am not a huge fan of non-con in fics, but you do you boo. Not to mention, sometimes you just want to write fucked up stories. My Gorillaz fic is hella non-consensual in part one because they have a fucked up relationship and I was exploring what would happen if you combined that idea with something like a tickle kink. It does not mean I support it in real life. Stop criminalizing tumblr users as if these fictional characters are real people. 

On that note—non-con is not always bad. I’m not going to get too into this as I’m not the most informed individual on the matter, but CNC does exist, and blends a form of consent and non-consent together, with the victims okaying it upfront and allowing their consent to be overridden later on. So. You know. That exists, so non-con can even be ethical IRL in certain situations. 

If you like feet, that’s okay. This one’s pretty simple. Stop kink-shaming people, guys. If you don’t like feet, cool, don’t be a dick to others about it. Hands are grosser bacteria wise than feet anyway. 

Aging up fictional characters is not morally wrong. This goes back to the fictional characters rule. Sometimes it’s just to explore a different perspective, sometimes it’s because the show freezes with them at like 16 or something so you’ll never have a chance to write about them in an adult context. Again, fictional characters, not real, we could argue the ethics of it all day long, but at the end of the day no IRL minors/adults are being harmed.

You can be an older person writing fanfiction in the tickle community. I’m using the term older broadly to mean anyone between 25-60+ because often it is past 25 once tumblr users start being weird about it. Almost all published writers are adults, if anything it makes more sense to be in your thirties and writing fanfiction, tickling related or otherwise. There is no time limit to existing within the community, so do not bully people for this. 

On that note, I don’t think minors should be ostracized from the community. I understand that we want to protect the innocence of youth, but at the same time it is highly hypocritical to put those expectations on them. I’ve been scrolling tk fics since I was 8 and have been lurking on tumblr since 12, and definitely took in some content that was more,,,, NSFW in nature. Now, whether that was the healthiest way to exist on the internet or not, I don’t know, but the point is that I did it, as have many other people on here. We did not all wait till we were 18 to make accounts on here. 

It is nearly impossible to exclude minors from the kink side of the community. It is both possible and realistic that people will develop a sexuality at an early age, usually around puberty. I don’t think you should be engaging in sex at that age per se, but you are most certainly not blind to the concept. Kinks also tend to develop early on in people, either subconscious or otherwise. For many children, they turn to the internet to try to understand these feelings as they don’t feel like they can confide in their peers. The reality of minors on the internet being exposed to sexual content is a given. You can put up as many DNI or DNF’s as you want, but at the end of the day there is nothing to stop them from lurking. People can also lie about their age just as easily. I’m not saying minors should be involved in the kink community, I’m just saying that, realistically, they are. Not to mention, the term “minor” goes all the way up to 17. So minor does not always mean 9-12 year old's, and that’s important to remember. 

If a content creator is not comfortable with something, don’t push it on them. Like I said, everyone has preferences and if they don’t have theirs listed there’s no real way to help accidentally suggesting a request/commission at some point that makes them uncomfy. The best you can do at that point is respect their opinions and try to think of a different request that they might be more comfortable with. There’s nothing wrong with you for asking it or them for not wanting to do it, so long as both of you are respectful about communicating these things to each other. 

Please, please, please do not be forcing tickling on real life people if they hate it. Fictional characters is one thing, but real people have real feelings and needs that can be seriously hurt if you push their boundaries. This does not apply to playful pokes, a gently tasing someone from behind as that all falls under general friendly rough-housing with friends. But, if a person tells you that they don’t like tickling, do not force it on them. Being tickled is an unbelievably vulnerable situation and it can be traumatizing if you are forced to endure it. Hence why so many adults hate it due to older siblings when they were younger. This falls in with the unspoken don’t be a dick to people rule. 

Recognize the validity of switches. Switches are versatile, yes (I would know, being one ;)), however, they they are not merely puppets to fill whichever role you need them to. If a switch is in a lee mood, do not try to force them into the opposite position, or vice versa. They have no obligation to fit specifically the mood you’re in; they’re people too.

Finally, the Tickle Community is varied! In general, we tend to lump everyone into one large group all centered around one interest—tickling. However, the community is comprised of a variety of different subsets that do not all fit together evenly. There’s people who enjoy it in a fictional sense, people who enjoy it IRL, people who like both, the SFW and NSFW sides of the community, and a million other distinctive groups. It is not fair to try to expect everyone to bend to your particular beliefs around tickling, as we are all just trying to enjoy it in our way. 

[uncannychange]

Jumonjied into "Mystery Date."

When college roommates Todd, James, William, and Bradly discovered, of all things, a silly old girl’s board game from the past called Mystery Date under some loose floorboards in the crusty old house that was home to their fraternity, they decided to play it as a joke.

None of them had even considered the possibility that they would end up being Jumonjied into the game and turned into the red, yellow, blue, and green themed “girl” player characters.

Two had already been dragged off on “Mystery Dates, " but they knew not where. Todd, no matter how hard she fought against it, was taken off on the arm of some '60s Alpha hunk in a white tux jacket that only said “Time for the prom!” as Todd found his female character self suddenly wearing a green gown and blood red corsage and pulled by her date into the outer darkness, her cries of "damn it stop!" and "What is that ahead of us?" fading to silence.

Then worse, after another “knock, knock” sounded on the other side of the door, Bradly said, “Look, if we don’t play, this will never be over.”

He opened the door to find what looked like a cross between a rebel biker and Charles Manson! “We’re going to the drag races in the gravel pit, Babe!” said the uncanny valley apparition as Bradly found herself in leather, fishnets, and way too much makeup compelled to follow. “Help me guys!” yelled the girl of apparently ‘ill repute” that Bradly now was. But there was no helping Bradly, and they went off into the swirling darkness.

Neither James nor William knew what to do next. Then the knocks sounded again.

Who would be the next to open The Door, and what would they find, and how would it all end?

[revasserium]

Can I request prompt 60 with Daichi? Thanks a lot

requests for haikyuu and naruto are open; send me a prompt pls!

60. home

daichi: 1,962 words

00. in this universe, you meet on the last day of summer vacation, across an entire baseball field of untapped potential — him with his friends, you by yourself, but never alone. the volleyball they’re tossing around bumps up against your leg. you look up, squinting against the fierce summer sunlight, pouring down over his back like liquid gold, and for a second, you can’t see his face, only the shape of him — wide shoulders and short hair and —

“hey, sorry —”

you blink, looking down at the brightly covered ball still nestled against your leg. and when you next look up, you find his eyes instead.

someone once said that there are some infinities that are bigger than other infinities.

neither of you knew really what that meant. until now.

“no, it’s okay — here, your ball.”

“ah. thanks. uhm —”

“uh —”

you speak at the same time as you both reach for the ball. your fingers brush; the world pauses, waits, holds its breath.

“daiiichiiii! c’mon! we’re waiting for you!”

he jerks up, blinking as if pulling himself out of a daydream. he looks behind him to his waving friends. when he looks back at you, you’re already turning back to your book, the pages lined and dogearred. something inside him cracks, ever so slightly, as he takes a step back, and then two, clears his throat and dips his head.

“thanks again.”

you chance him another glance as he jogs back to his friends. you look down half a second before he looks back at you.

01. in another universe, you meet over a spilled coffee, the autumn leaves falling around you both, the air just chilly enough to paint your breaths in silvery white, spiraling up towards a gunmetal sky.

“shit — sorry — oh…”

you look up first, sting of the hot coffee still nipping at your fingertips, him reaching out to hand you a wad of crumpled tissue before he realizes and jerks back, his cheeks flushing as he fumbles to grab a fresh piece. you feel the laughter bubbling out of you like freshly poured champagne.

“it’s okay — you can just buy me another.”

it takes him a second to process, and by the time he does, someone else has scoffed and stepped around you both up to the counter to place their order.

“oh. sure, yeah — but i’ve — well —” he glances down at his watch. you feel your heart sink inside you, ever so slightly.

“no, it’s fine. go, i can just get it myself —”

“no! no —” his voice is too loud, making a few people jump as they frown and look over, disapproving and uncertain of the two bumbling, awkward teenagers holding up the line in the middle of the coffee shop.

“please,” he says, “let me buy you another.”

you blush and nod, even as his phone buzzes with some kind of message. he quickly taps out a reply before shoving the phone back into his pocket and joining you.

“yeah, alright.”

02. in another universe, you grow up together, screaming and laughing and crying together, spending every birthday at each other’s house, every win and loss by each other’s side.

“ugh! this is so stupid! why can’t i just ask him out?!” you shove your face into daichi’s pillow, thumping your legs against his bed. it smells like him, you think, this whole place does. but then again, it kind of smells like you too.

daichi sighs, glancing at you from over your problem set, his mechanical pencil poised over the multiple choice answers.

question 4 — if a tree falls in the middle of a forest (if a boy like a girl and never tells), does the falling tree still make a sound? (does the boy still get his heart broken?)

“do you want me to do it for you?”

you turn your head to stare at him, your heart right on the tip of your tongue — what if you asked me out instead?

“no.”

daichi looks back at the problem set, “then, what are you gonna do?”

you lick your lips, “can i… practice?”

“practice what?”

“asking him out.”

daichi slowly circles option d (all of the above) before putting his pencil down and turning to face you.

“sure. why not.”

you grin as hop down onto the floor of his bedroom, the pair of you facing each other. you take a long breath and open your mouth.

03. in another universe, you are both heartbroken people.

“he wasn’t ready.”

“she had… someone else.”

you purse your lips, your cheeks pink from the three shots of shochu you’d just had. outside, the winter storm shows no signs of stopping. beside you, daichi swirls around his second glass of whiskey.

“well, she was an idiot.” you turn to grin at him, your body feeling warm and loose and ready.

he turns to you with glazed over eyes and cold-bitten lips and you feel yourself falling. not for the first time.

“well, he was too.”

the bartender refills both your drinks and you raise your glasses. the shochu stings; the whiskey burns. when you both set down your empty glasses, you cock your head at him and he flashes you a lopsided smile.

“uhm…” he bites his lips, still a bit too shy. you fight the urge to lean forward and bite it for him.

you flash him your most charming smile, “wanna get outta here?”

daichi hiccups, his eyes going wide. a second later, he slams down a bill on the counter and pulls you to him.

“y-yeah. let’s get outta here.”

03. in that universe, you stumble back to your apartment, but by time you get there, you are no longer strangers. his hands are cold, yes — but your skin is hot, and the way he groans against your lips sets your entire soul on fire. he’s a bit too gentle as he undresses you, but you nip at his lips, hiss against his skin, and tell him that you want him to show you everything she never got to see.

he growls in his chest, shoves you back against your bedroom door and tears your underwear from you with his teeth.

he makes you come three times before letting himself go, his forehead pressed to yours, your fingers laced, palm to palm, his hips bruising as he thrusts into you, panting, the moonlight spilling down over his back like liquid silver. and like this, all you can see is the shape of him, his broad shoulders, his short hair —

“d-dai-ichi! please!”

you feel yourself clench around him, the white-hot pleasure punching through you as he fucks you through your release, his breath hot against your shoulder even as you twitch around him.

“f-fuck… nngh —”

you puff out a breath as you feel him jerk against you, his arms shaking as he fights to hold himself up, before you wrap your arms around him and tug him close, grinning into the mess of his hair as he collapses over you.

“so…” you ask, after a few minutes of ragged breaths, a few seconds of collecting the scatted pieces of yourselves from across the twisted bedsheets, “what was she like?”

daichi shakes his head, turning to look at you with a crooked smile, “i… honestly, i don’t remember.”

you grin, turning to face him completely, “good… i don’t remember him either.”

02. in that universe, you sit across from him on his bedroom floor, your fists clenched in your lap, him sitting directly across from you. your multiple choice worksheets lay forgotten on the floor by the foot of the bed. outside, the spring sways on the barely blooming peach blossoms, collecting dew in the warming night air.

“uhm — so, i’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while…” you say, looking anywhere but at daichi’s face.

daichi feels his stomach clench, his heart skitter and thump, a raw, wild, bewildered thing, untamed and untamable as it tumbles inside his chest.

“yes?” he tries to keep his voice steady. he’s not sure if he succeeds.

you force yourself to look up at him, finally. finally.

(if a girl finally, finally, admits her feelings, does she have the power to heal a broken heart?)

“i — i know we’ve grown up together, and we’ve always been best friends —”

“mhm, yeah,” daichi nods, forcing himself through the paces. he has to do this, he has to do this for her. but —

“but if — somewhere along the line… i think — i think i started to have feelings for you — and i know, i know it’s weird — but… i don’t think i could forgive myself if i didn’t… if i didn’t at least try…”

you squeeze your eyes shut and lower your eye, bending at the waist till your nose is three inches from the floor of daichi’s bedroom.

daichi stares, his mind unwilling, perhaps unable, to process everything you’d just said.

(wait, i thought — i thought she was talking about someone else! i thought —)

“daichi… will you go out with me?”

01. in that universe, he writes his number on the coffee slip right before he hands you your brand new drink.

“thanks… you didn’t need to do that,” you blush, taking the coffee, letting it’s warmth seep through your fingers as you both walk to the door.

“yeah, but… i wanted to,” he says, grinning as he turns to look at you, his own cheeks dusted in the color of falling leaves.

“well… i’m glad you did.”

you take a long sip of your coffee, letting the sweet and bitter burn through you, letting the shifting winds blow loose your hair, kiss passed your own insecurities. but daichi’s phone’s already ringing again, and you content yourself with watching him fumble as he answers, stuttering into the receiver.

“suga! i’m coming, i’m coming! i just —” he ducks as he cover his mouth, hissing into the mic something that sounds suspiciously like ‘met a super cute girl and gave her my number’.

you laugh as he raises a hand to wave at you, half-skipping, half-jogging down the street.

“call me, okay?” he shouts, motioning with his hand, miming up to his other ear even as he almost smashes into a couple walking down the street in the other way.

“okay!” you call back, laughing as you look down at the hastily scribbled number on the coffee slip.

00. in this universe, you slam your book shut, jolting to your feet. somewhere in the distance, the cicadas are chirruping loud enough to drown out the rushing tides of destiny.

“u-uhm — sorry, excuse me!” you shout, so loud that he nearly trips over his own feet.

“h-ha?” he looks back at you, all amber eyes and sunset smiles and in the flicker of a moment, both of you wonder if you can see the stray strands of a hundred thousand universes playing out in the spaces between you.

“what’s your name?” you ask, your fingers digging into the flesh of your own palms. and somehow, you already know the answer.

behind him, daichi’s friends hoot and holler.

he blushes, clutching the volleyball to his chest as he takes a breath. he scratches the back of his head as he looks away and looks back.  this time, your eyes catch, perfect, shocking, present tense.

“sawamura… daichi.”

[bittyfromquotev]

Second controversial take of the day, bc apparently we're on a roll

but just with how some of the way y'all be talking, I honest to God don't blame bitty for throwing out the fact that at any point some of you fuckers could be the gore anons (which is never out of the realm of possibility, it's not hard to hide typing quirks or mimic someone else's). you act the Exact same

'bu-bu-but we don't send gore we're just-' white knighting? yeah. exactly my fucking point. the whole, "doing it for the greater good" and speaking over the actual people that want you to shut the fuck up. The Exact. Same. Thing.

With the g-anons, they do it in the name for defending solarmoon shippers by running 'fake queers' off the internet. they speak over other shippers, that explicitly tell them to shut up and fuck off.

And here you are, trying to defend the gore victims by trying to control and criticize how others chose to cope with the situation. Even though Several people including some of the victims want you to shut up and fuck off.

This isn't assumption either, this is fact. Your actions speak loud and clear all on their own, regardless of how you may try to justify them.

Learn to take a hint, that your opinion is neither wanted or asked for. it is not your place to decide what bitty should or shouldn't do. better yet, ✨it's none of your business✨

Congratulations for being a hypocrite btw and contributing to another actual problem in general fandom spaces. I don't even want to acknowledge the toxicity of unsolicited criticism, but you're doing just fine indulging in that topic all on your own aren't you?

[side note: "To that anon? Way to completely not read what I said at all." you sure do like to pick and choose what you read and complain about don't you? awfully convenient to miss the point of the whole paragraph. ironic considering you then go on to complain about bitty not seeing your dozen of points that are explicitly unwelcome on this blog. And that's not ever addressing trying to side with a harasser anon, not a good look. dare I say, blatantly obtuse if not worse.]

Seriously tho bitty, you and anyone else getting this bs (bc I doubt you're the only one rn) really should just block them the next time they try to repeat themselves. Don't matter if it's the same person, or 3 different ones. People like these are the how and why g-anons exist in the first place. This mindset is explicitly Dangerous. Which sounds extreme, but as someone who's been in more than 60+ fandoms for over 7 years, I know wtf I'm talking about. It always ends the same. Twitterhead whiteknights doing bigoted shit in the name of the greater good, no matter how well meaning, is how petty callouts come about. And when it doesn't stop immediately in its track, it snowballs and gets even worse from there - ❄

Thank you so much! Lmao I almost thought you were them because of how this ask started off but I’m glad it’s you :)

Yeah they—

They don’t seem to want to listen to me. They keep telling me the same stuff over and over and it’s funny yet irritating because I’d explained myself already (I know I’ve said this like 15 times but I need to get this point across). I do plan on blocking them if they ever try something though.

But like ❄️ said, I am allowed to cope and react to things however the fuck I want. I do my best to comfort or be there for my friends and those affected more severely, but I’m personally not gonna cry about it.

No one should speak for anyone else. I let the “friend” who abused me for 10 years speak for me a lot and it doesn’t make people feel good. It’s very invalidating and no one wants someone to speak for them.

Once again, thank you so much anon. I greatly appreciate it :)

[creativecuquilu]

HAPPY 60 YEARS OF DOCTOR WHO EVERYONE! I've got into Doctor Who since May 2022. And since I got into Arts Bachillerato, I found my favourite incarnation of the Doctor: Number Three, the talented, snazzy and 725 year old wonder Jon Pertwee. Thanks to him, the TARDIS was painted blue and so was everything around him, and some of his timelord anatomy was brought to light. Althought he was exiled to earth, his stories were very memorable, he had a silky, melodic voice along with frilly snow-white sleeves popping out of his velvety jacket which housed the iconic two tiny drums tapping either side of his chest, and those factions. Neither young nor old. Beautiful, absolutely precious. Snowy hair with hints of gold, forever sparkling eyes of the color of gallium melted under the sun, and a very pointy, very mighty nose top off the face of the third incarnation of Doctor Who, all over a 1,93m stature with long legs at the bottom. Meanwhile Tom Baker is awesome, Peter Davison is neat, Patrick Troughton is cute, Paul McGann is handsome, David Tennant is astonishing and Matt Smith, which was my first Doctor before I even got into Doctor Who, is cool. And because of him, I slowly spiralled into a world full of wholesome british TV and movies - specially the British Broadcasting Corporation, the responsible of the TARDIS' landing! And he makes me appreciate the UK even more. I am really proud of how long he has come. I just hope the Doctor never turns into a mass of energy sparks. By the way, the TARDIS was hard to line up, I had to trace her from a 3D model (not all of it, her doors are made by me). Coloring her was a bit easier though... BUT THE SPACE, WHICH I DREW MYSELF, WAS A BLOODY HELL OF A PAIN. And please no judging about every Doctor's position, specially since I wanted space for the logo and to make it symmetric. At least I won't get attacked for putting Hartnell in the middle... This took me about five hours, so... Hope you like it! Happy 60th anniversary to every Timelord that's ever stepped on Gallifrey! And keep it up, Tennant! We love you, Crowley! Artwork (c) @CreativeCuquiLu Doctor Who (c) BBC WATCH IT - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cle1JK0zMDM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNl2nS1PKX0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWVG2zYUROU&t

[thisbluespirit]

Top 5 ( or 10) period dramas

Thank you! Also so tough! Classic Lit adaptations, general period drama, which period, films, tv series.... /flails about.

OK, so for the purposes of this ask, I'm going for 20th C Brit TV period drama series, so with the caveat that you need to be prepared for the style, pace and other hazards of 1960s-70s TV, I think these five are still unbeatable:

Upstairs Downstairs (ITV 1970s)

Upstairs Downstairs is a brilliant, compelling original drama about one upper class London house and its family and servants, and often a surprisingly hard-hitting examination of the class system, made in an era when they could still make use of living memory to recreate the Edwardian era. (Despite my gif, it is a colour production - a handful of s1 eps were hit by a strike at Thames TV and had to be made in b&w!)

2. The Forsyte Saga (BBC 1967)

The Forsyte Saga is an epic adaptation of Galsworthy's series of novels (covering the story of one middle class family from the late 19thC to the 1920s). It has a truly amazing cast and was a sensation worldwide back in the 60s - and a true passion project for its producer. It's complex, in depth and full of theatrical nuance and was the last hurrah of the Beeb's classic drama in black and white.

These two are probably the biggest Brit TV period dramas of all time. Purely because of the way TV is watched now, you will never get those audiences again - both were popular enough to get remade in the 21st C, but while both of those series are fine, neither can quite match the originals in terms of depth or cultural impact). Definitely not overrated - and the same is true of this next entry:

3. Elizabeth R (BBC 1970)

Glenda Jackson is awesome as Elizabeth I - what more needs to be said? This is another all-time famous BBC production that's stood the test of time.

4. Poldark (BBC 1975-1977)

Even if this weren't purely 20th C shows, I confess I'd have to plump for this adaptation rather than the more recent every time - while s1 makes a few changes to the novels, it consistently 'gets' the books and what Graham is saying in them in a way the 21st C one seems to be deliberately refusing to engage with (despite a very nice cast!) Plus, give me Angharad Rees and Robin Ellis together, Ralph Bates, Judy Geeson in fabulous outfits, Ross's fighter pilot leather jacket (see above re. getting it - even the costume designer got it), actually, everybody's colourful jackets, excellent treatment of class issues involved, Francis generally, and just that bit more fire and bite somehow. (Er. Literally in the case of S1, lol! Watch the 1970s burn down buildings that shouldn't be burnt!)

5. Enemy at the Door (ITV 1978-1980)

A less obvious choice, but this WWII drama set during the Occupation of the Channel Islands is just so well written, with complexity and compassion, exploring all the issues of the situation, with finely drawn regulars on both sides. I've come back to it so many times, and I know that other people who've taken the time to watch it have loved it, too, so it's not just me. It's not an action-drama, like a lot of WWII things - it's a show about people trapped in a situation where action is often limited - but if you like thoughtful and painful exploration of the greyer areas of humanity, it's sadly unfinished, but it's one of the best.

(And, I know, I know, where's I, Claudius? But it gave me nightmares about Brian Blessed dying, so it's not on my personal list!! ;-p)

[dollarbin]

Nickel Bin #4:

Cat Stevens' Foreigner Suite

Though I'm surely as guilty of practicing it as the next music blogger, I don't know how to spell pretentious without looking it up.

But The Beatles surely entered every new Spelling Bee hoping pretentious would be the first word they were responsible for. They knew the concept all too well. After all, Yoko and John decided his schlong, and nothing else, was a worthy subject for a 40 minute film.

(No, I'm not gonna show you a clip of the movie here; get your mind out of the gutter; and anyway, the film was only ever shown once and is not available anywhere; so no slow-motion image of Lennon's Johnson for you; Yoko said "the critics wouldn't touch it"; neither will this blog...)

Paul meanwhile routinely praised his own music by posing as a nonexistent journalist named Clint Harrigan. And George was inspired to write Try Some, Buy Some to document "his sudden perception of God amid the temptations of the material world" while living in this house:

And Ringo... well you know The Dollar Bin is shy about criticizing Ringo, even if his website just announced a "LANDMARK PHOTOGRAPHY RETROSPECTIVE HARDCOVER “BEATS & THREADS” CHRONICLING OVER 70 YEARS OF HIS LEGENDARY DRUM KITS AND ERA DEFINING FASHIONS."

There is perhaps just one form of late 60s to mid 70s era rock pretension of which the lads from Liverpool never partook: the side-long song. Arthur Lee's Love introduced the idea of one long song filling an entire side of vinyl on their second record, and everyone, including Lee, instantly recognized that doing so was pretentious nonsense.

(By the way, Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands does not count. Why? A) it's only 11 minutes long and takes up a side on its own only because it is at the end of a double album, b) it's too awesome to criticize in any way, and c) cuz I said so.)

Relax: I love Pink Floyd's Echoes (not to mention The Pentangle's Jack Orion) as much as any reasonable white guy, but you've got to admit there is little one can imagine more pretentious than declaring that your music requires listeners to concentrate for 18-23 minutes without pause because you're a big deal artist sent by the gods who cannot be bothered to meet the needs of radio formatting or real people with real responsibilities.

And that brings us to our first ever discussion of one of the Dollar Bin's greatest oddballs, Cat Stevens. It wasn't pretentious enough for Cat to fill the entire A Side of his career cauterizing 73 album Foreigner with one song; he also insisted on calling it a "suite".

The musical term "suite" has its origins in the 1500's and was central to Baroque era music; the idea of a suite was to assemble serious music together for the purpose of serious dancing. Bach wrote a bunch of them; time signatures were to be rigidly followed; everything was either homophonic (not homophobic, ye hasty reader, homophonic: all acceptable music is queer friendly) or polyphonic or, who am I kidding? I have no idea what a song suite actually is; all I can say that it's a serious piece of serious music; in other words it has nothing to do with Jethro Tull.

What I'm trying to say here is that taking three to seven pop songs, smashing them together (with either total or no elegance) and calling it a "suite" is comparable to me wrapping up last Wednesday's spaghetti in a tortilla, adding canned salsa, and declaring my pathetic lunch a Super Deluxe Burrito. Stephen Stills was of course the master of such pretension; see Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. I'll bet he's tucking into a spaghetti burrito as we speak.

Cat Stevens' Foreigner Suite is, admittedly, another totally pretentious addition to this club. And yet, it features everything we love about the Cat Man: sweet harmonies, dense sonic changes, passionate lyrics and his patented I'm-a-grandpa-who-zipped-up-too-fast-and-got-his-hairy-hacky-sack-caught-in-it vocal stylings. Plus he recorded the song while on tax exile in Jamaica and was appropriately enamored with reggae, so the whole thing is a fitting follow up to Paul Simon's Mother and Child Reunion.

My wife bought this record early in our relationship at a Salvation Army without my pretentious approval. I knew Cat Stevens. My long ago friend Thom Moore of Moore Brothers fame had shown us Harold & Maude and I'd been listening to Tea for The Tillerman since middle school.

(My buddy Eric and I once spent all of a sleepover listening to the title track on repeat; when we finally went to bed we turned it down as low as it could go while still remaining audible; therefore we woke up every other minute and a half when everyone belted out HAPPY DAY!; we had no access to, or interest in, drugs, so that was our idea of trippin').

But I'd decided early on that everything after Mona Bone Jakon (now that's a record that deserves a big deal Dollar Bin treatment; it's the overlooked third member of holy, end-of-the-60's, white people music trinity alongside Five Leaves Left and Astral Weeks) was a compromise, and that everything after Teaser and the Firecat was a worthy soundtrack for that film about Lennon's one-eyed monster.

So I turned my pretentious nose up at my lady friend's thrift store find, resumed listening to Daydream Nation, and thereby missed out on Foreigner Suite for the rest of the 90's.

But then we had a kid in 02 it was time to a) rewrite my pretentious first/last novel, b) drink more/cheaper beer, and c) listen to the records in my collection I had previously ignored, all in an effort to prove to myself that I was not simply a middle aged, balding dadman forever more. And that brought me to Foreigner Suite.

Let's listen.

Where to start? I count the soulful main theme (There are no words...) which opens the piece briefly and then comes back for an extended run at the end, then there's another two or three unique melody sections as well as the funk in the middle, and then the whole thing soars away with sweet piano doodling and a chorus that I can't begin to get my head around: heaven, Cat sings, must have programmed you. Is he singing to a 60's era, Warehouse-sized IBM machine? Or to Neil's new robot? Is he inventing the internet years before Al Gore did?

I love this song. I'd play it loud on weekends in our first real home whenever my wife was at work. My infant daughter spent the 8 minutes unpacking all her toys one by one, tasting each of them. And I'd sit on the floor beside her, tasting them too. Then she'd don every costume jewelry necklace in the house and crawl about, dragging bling wherever she went. And I'd sing along with Cat and crawl along after her, marvelling. After all, Heaven had programmed her.

And when she graduates from college this May I'll likely have Cat Stevens in my head:

When you're talking to me And the whirling wind turns to song Why it sets my soul free

Here's to Cat. He wound up donating all the money he saved on his taxes while in Jamaica to UNESCO.

More importantly, here's to Martin Luther King. Today's his day. His words and voice are currently knocking the wind out of my ninth grade students in all the right ways.

And, most importantly, here's to all the unpretentious people who spent today in service to others.

Cheers.

[dont-call-me-william]

Billy shivered as he sound of the metal chair legs dragged across the dirty tile floor of the truck stop. He glanced at his watch, five more minutes till call time. He didn’t dare call early, as an unanswered phone would have sent him into a spiral. It was like this twice a week, and for the next several weeks it would be the only times he’d hear the blonde’s voice.

The partitions between pay phones offered only the illusion of privacy; still far more than the curly haired boy would have had at home. —Not that he dared risk a long distance call to California. He wasn’t sure what was worse; his father assuming he was in contact with her, or the truth. Neither would have ended well, and since his recovery from the massive injuries he sustained at Starcourt had progressed, his fathers temper began to flare again. His chest and ribs still hurt, and he had only in the last couple weeks been able to eat similarly to before. He was in not in any shape to dodge his fathers anger.

Just a few more weeks..

Another glance at the clock, it was almost time. Billy jumped slightly as the bells on the door clattered against the glass when the clerk returned from her smoke break. She was older, possibly mid 60’s though the lines on her face told of more struggles than one deserves for a woman who should be home snuggling grand kids. She flashed the boy a smile, disappearing only to return with a cup of hot chocolate, which she set beside him on the counter without saying a word. It wasn’t the first time. He thanked her quietly before picking up the phone, his knee bouncing nervously and making the thick heel of his boot rhythmically clap the tile.

“Hey baby..”

—Generic words safe to speak even in less than private accommodations. Surroundings melted away hearing the voice of the blonde on the other end of the line. Though hundreds of miles away, for the moment in that dirty little truck stop cubicle it didn’t feel quite so far, at least until the call ended. Long distance calls were expensive, and so was a move across the country.

Saying goodbye was the hardest. There were many things left unsaid screaming in the younger boys mind despite the sweet “I love you’s” and “Yeah I’m ok, I just miss you’s.”

“I’m scared he’s gonna find out.”

“I had that dream again”

“I wish it wasn’t like this”

“Please… please don’t change your mind”

Tears sometimes fell into the calloused hand that concealed his red rimmed baby blues. A quick exit ensured no one saw, but once back in the relative safety of the Camaro the floodgates opened. Of course.. the one person who held his heart would live across the country. Of course.. this person would find him when he felt like a shell of his former self.

Of course… he.

He.

Being anything other than white, religious, and straight was a recipe for disaster in a small midwestern town, and Billy wasn’t sure he would survive yet another disaster.

Just a few weeks..

Again the car rumbled down the highway; a few turns later and he was back at the prison that was the house on Cherry Lane. Xavier had answered, again. For now Billy could breathe. Curled in bed on his side, thick fingers groped for the thin wadded up white tank top, it’s owner hundreds of miles away. Billy tugged it close to his heart as he forced his eyes to close.

@futureinradio

[grumpygreenwitch]

The Fairy and the Prince #17 + #18 + #19

Part 1 - Part 2 - Parts 3 & 4 - Part 5 - Part 6, 7 & 8 - Part 9 & 10 - Part 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 & 16 - Part 17, 18, & 19 - Part 20, 21 & 22 - Part 23, 24, 25 & 26 - Part 27, 28, 29 & 30 - Part 31, 32, 33 & 34 - Part 35, 36 & 37 - Part 38, 39, 40 & 41 - Part 42 & 43 - Part 44 & 45 - Part 46 & 47 - Part 48, 49, 50 & 51 - Part, 52, 53 & 54 - Part 55 & 56 - Part 57, 58, 59 & 60 - Part 61, 62, 63, 64 & 65 - Part 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71 & 72

Originally posted 11/9/2022

Winter came and winter went. Princes went into the woods; some came back. Every now and again one made it into the palace; the occasional nightmare would plague Adam long into the years of his life of Alaric, snatching up a bread knife and rushing at the Dowager during a celebratory breakfast, screaming in a language that hurt the ears and the mind. He found himself in the incredibly odd situation of no longer being the youngest prince, as more boys were sent to the palace by their parents. Most did not want to come, but the lure of the crown, of being named heir, of the wealth and power that would fall upon their families if they should succeed where so many others had failed and died, guaranteed that the Queen Dowager never ran out of potential princes.

No one doubted the curse anymore. Master Leminy’s sparse hair had gone completely white. He refused to train a replacement, though, and Adam found some degree of respect for his old enemy, because the Master of Scions simply refused to drop someone else into the mess, refused to burden anyone with the nightmares he already carried. He alone would bury the princes until he could see a King chosen.

It became impossible for Adam to hide the fact that he had friends no one could find in the palace grounds. On his thirteenth birthday the Dowager kept him for three torturous hours over tea only she drank and cakes neither of them ate, and every question was  a trap. Some were subtle, some were more obvious, but each one begged him to betray Linden. He could scarcely breathe when she at last excused him, her mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval, her blue eyes gone to ice with anger that wouldn’t betray through her gracious tone or her kind words. Adam was told she would write to his parents, asking why no one had come to visit, why no presents were sent for his birthday or for the many holidays, why he was not asked to visit home. After all, he’d made it clear to all and sundry he didn’t wish to become King, did he?

It felt like a threat, and he couldn’t have said why. He spent those blustery, chilly days after his birthday, while he waited for Linden, sneaking around trying to figure out if she’d put someone to follow him. He had far less faith that he could turn an agent of the Dowager to his side.

But she did nothing, and he met his friends when spring at last truly and fully arrived. To them he confided everything as they traded coming-back and waiting-for presents, much to Needlemaw’s amusement, not that she minded the gift of a beautiful pearl and silver button stolen from Arditty. Certainly not from a defeated enemy, but too pretty for her to reject, she’d added it to her girdle. She convinced the others that Adam had a rightful concern; while all their experience might be with their own Royals, there was no reason to believe an old crone perched on a throne and throwing young boys at the woods in the hopes one would stick was any better.

They taught him to disappear. Hiding the prince under a plain woolen shawl, Boulder taught him to become little more than a stone on a field, a tumbled-down wall in the garden, a weathered stump in the woods. While he still couldn’t understand the language of the trees (or even hear it), Linden still taught him to take their hand so they could take him around one vast craggy trunk and out from behind another. They had to be trees that liked him, but then, Linden assured him that most of the trees in the Royal Woods did.

Needlemaw taught him to stalk. To creep up along walls and ceilings, to climb using the most slender of cracks in mortared stone, the finest  of fissures on a beam or a pillar. To turn the tables on anyone who might be following him, to become their shadow instead. She didn’t escalate those teachings to what she actually did when engaged in such sport, but she did let them practice on her. They failed to surprise her every time, and their punishment was usually that of any youngling of her clan: being pinned down and tickled until they could scarce breathe.

She reminded them that growing up didn’t have to be unkind.

For a while everything was as it had always been. The only notable event came when spring and summer hung perfectly in balance against one another. Adam and Linden had gone to check the nests under the many eaves of the palace - there was a cat roaming about, and Linden did not approve. They liked the finches, chatty and fearless, the ferocious sparrows with their chests always puffed out and ready for a fight, the swallows that spoke of distant lands full of strange wonders. When they returned, they were informed that someone had indeed come looking for the young prince, but he’d not seen Boul, and Needle had made pleasant enough conversation with him.

“Nice as bread in milk,” she described him, and Adam had to turn to Linden.

“Bland, she means.”

“Is that… good?” he asked hesitantly.

Needle laughed a little. “Good enough. Bland hardly ever asks questions. Don’t neither of ye worry about it, I’ll be dealing with him if he’s for poking his fine an’ elegant nose in our little pie.”

Adam made his own minor inquiries, through Culli-maid and a few of Arditty’s suitors, with whom he’d made friends after they’d be cast aside by the fickle young woman. He had to, because as summer gained strength they began to see less and less of Needlemaw, and more and more Boul would report that she’d gone off to distract the lurking presence.

Bread in Milk, he found out, was Prince William of Astings, about to become sixteen when autumn arrived that year. He had to agree with Needlemaw’s opinion: William was intelligent enough, smart enough, funny enough, capable enough. He was a whole of ‘enough’ without any single exceptional point to his favor. Even his looks were appealing enough and little else. He welcomed Adam’s overtures of friendship, the younger boy once again having the advantage of being 'safe’; Richard knew he faced no competition for the crown there.

For the life of him Adam couldn’t tell what Needlemaw saw in William that kept her from making the older prince disappear. He didn’t fool himself as to what she was and what she could do; he’d had plenty of time to learn that she was the least patient of them all, and that by a very broad margin. He’d half expected her to come back from one of her forays with William chewing on one of the older prince’s limbs, the rest of him gone into the blackness of the maw beyond the needle-like teeth. But William was alive, and she kept going off with him at least once a week.

They missed her, and Adam was the first to tell her so, just as the first leaves began to turn. It brought the redcap to perfect stillness.

“It’s not in a silly way or anything,” Linden hurried to add as they stood, stalwart as ever, by Adam’s side.

“Very little of what ye all do has ever been silly,” Needle replied, her voice low and full of unknown currents.

“Even the kelpie?”

“Dealing with the kelpie were dangerous,” she replied. “But never silly. If yui’d been silly then, none of us would be here and the water-horse would be awful well fed.” She dropped to a crouch before them; both Linden and Adam were beginning to shoot up, the first more than the latter, day by day growing further away from childhood. But she was still taller than both; only Boul outstripped her in both height and mass. “Why would ye miss me? There’s a handful, a dozen, a hundred like me that could take me place tomorrow if aught came on me head.”

“Yes, but they wouldn’t be you,” Adam replied. “They wouldn’t have come climbing with us, they wouldn’t know the secret ways into the caves, they wouldn’t have done and said and shared all the things we’ve done with you. They wouldn’t be Needlemaw, they’d just be someone else.”

Linden shrugged. “And don’t say they’d be the same if they called themselves Needlemaw. They’d just be someone called Needlemaw, they wouldn’t actually be Needlemaw. Bit confusing, that.”

“In a grove of linden trees I’m nae sure yui’ve a call to be talking about confusing names,” Needle replied, reaching out to ruffle Linden’s gold-tipped hair. “I didnae mean for ye to miss me. I’ve not been missed ever before, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Just hang around a bit. When you can.”

“Adam…” She tugged her cap low, kissed the tips of her fingers and touched their chests. “I’ll do what I can.”

She kept her word. She lingered on long after Linden and Boul couldn’t come, as summer turned to autumn and then to winter, cold and dry, the air crackling with the season. Part of it, Adam guessed, was because she wanted to see William. But she spent a great deal of time in Adam’s quarters as well, much to the initial unease of the young prince’s companions. She charmed Dane by teaching him wrestling moves the masters of the palace didn’t know, and she allowed Beli to teach her letters, though she couldn’t be bothered with numbers, betraying her narrow interest when Adam shared with them both primers on tactics and strategies, and books on battles of yore. But mostly she was found sprawled at Culli-maid’s feet, helping with her knitting and her mending, fascinated by the way thread became fabric became cloth, and making a friend of Culli by her honest admiration.

For a while Adam fretted that someone would barge into his rooms and see her, the conversation with the Dowager looming large in his mind once again. Until Arditty actually did barge in, and Adam realized she couldn’t see Needlemaw. He wasn’t sure what the lady-in-waiting saw, it was a blur, a shadow behind Needle’s real shape, the shape of a big cat or a lanky hound, or something in between. It hurt his head and made his eyes burn if he tried too hard to focus on it.

But eventually she, too, had to leave. “The doors close, Adam. 'Tis the season of parties in the court, and she would have the guts and gizzards of any as didn’t show up. We all throw a party for the twins, each clan and burrow and nest and wee court. They hardly ever show up, but one cain’t risk the time they do decide to come, aye? So there’s parties and competitions and challenges and all sorts of posh and politics…” She stuck out her long black tongue and made a disagreeable sound.

“Will you be alright?” Adam was trying not to feel forlorn, and he knew he wasn’t doing too good a job of it.

She reached out to brush back his hair. “Well as can be. Will ye?”

“I always try to be. Winter seems longer and longer each year.”

“'Tis not,” she assured him. It wasn’t. It was actually growing shorter, because during winter the Folk in the Woods couldn’t have the full measure of their cruel sport. They had been applying a fair measure of their immense power to bridge that gap, and it was beginning to show. “We’ll all be back before ye ken.”

With that, Adam had to be satisfied.

***

It was spring nearly fully fledged the next year when his birthday rolled around again, and once again the Dowager Queen closeted herself up with him. This time there was a parcel from home, a basket of sweets he’d not had since he’d left, and a belt with a silver buckle - gifts for a child. The Dowager pursed her lips, her disapproval mute as she presented the gifts, and Adam found himself torn between his fear of the old woman and her questions, and some measure of appreciation that at least one person knew he was being treated unfairly by his own family.

To be fair, he never really thought of his parents anymore. He seemed to recall his mother had wept when his father had set him in the coach that had brought him to the palace, but it seemed so long ago sometimes that he didn’t trust the memory. It was hard to love people who had forgotten him so thoroughly, who never wrote, who thought he was still nine years old. Even Lemony-Leminy found a more apt peace offering for his vexing charge, gifting him access to the Dowager Queen’s library, which was usually reserved only for those princes sixteen and older. It was given to him under the excuse of saddling him with more studying, but Adam knew that the years had taken a great deal of Leminy’s spite out of him. To some degree, he suspected the Master of Scions was simply glad that Adam had managed to stay alive so long.

William came to him on a foggy afternoon. The encroaching darkness was warm and full of promise, and Adam felt nearly sure he could hear the whispering of the trees after all, even ensconced in a big chair in the library, a treatise on architecture on his lap. Spring would end winter’s reign that night, and morning would bring his friends back to him.

“Adam,” William’s formality had the younger prince instantly on his guard.

“William.”

“I heard your birthday just passed. Fourteen, is it?” When Adam smiled politely and nodded, the older prince added. “And still standing by your choice?”

“I don’t see that the Queen gets any joy of her crown,” Adam shrugged a little. “I don’t know why anyone should want it so badly when she’s our example.”

At that William did laugh, surprised more than anything. “The things you say!” he chided. He drew a deep breath and looked out the window. “It should be spring proper soon.”

Adam felt even warier. “A day or two.”

William nodded. “I…” He hesitated, and then stretched a hand out to Adam, who nearly threw himself out of the plush chair; just because all the others knew he was no competition didn’t mean he’d not learned to be cautious of them. He stopped when he realized there was a small parcel on the older prince’s hand.

“Just… I mean.” William worked his lips into a thin line. “Would you?”

And Adam understood with a crashing, shocked sort of disbelief. “William.”

“I know it’s not much,” the older prince stumbled hurriedly over his words. “We’re not wealthy, my family. But I wrote them and they know I’m seeing someone and I didn’t… tell them much.” He ran out of words and rocked uncertainly on his feet. “And they didn’t mind.” A little sheepish chuckle escaped him. “They didn’t care. Shows what they think of my chances, ah?”

“William, I’m sure it’s not like that,” Adam protested, because he desperately wanted to believe on William’s behalf that it wasn’t like that, even though he was terribly certain that it absolutely was.

“Anyway!” The older boy rallied. “I just, if you could just… let her know that I think well of her. That I missed her.”

Adam took the small wrapped parcel gingerly, feeling a hard, tiny box inside the fine paper.

“I’m not elf-touched, you know. I went to the priests and checked,” William declared almost defiantly.

“Elf-touched?”

“Yes. When they put their power on you, on your heart, and you can’t think or say or do or breathe anything but them.”

“She wouldn’t,” Adam protested before he knew what he’d done.

William stared at him, then looked away at the world beyond the window. “Well, I suppose you’d know. But I checked. And I’m not. Just in case she’d think the present was for - Anyway. Would you get it to her? Please?”

Adam stared at the little gift, feeling as if something, some immense trap, were hovering over both William and Needlemaw. But he also knew he couldn’t refuse. The choice of what to do with whatever might be inside the little box went only to one being. “I will,” he assured William.

“Thank you.”

***

Against his best judgment, Adam kept his word. The foggy weather turned into pouring rain the next day, but the day after it was a rainbow-kissed drizzle, and he launched himself out to the woods, feeling as if the palace were trying to strangle him. When he met Linden and the others they all fell in a heap of glad laughter under the gracious linden tree, covered in early green buds. They all took time to admire the tiny mushrooms growing out of Boul’s shoulders, a mark that the young troll was, too, leaving childhood behind. They exchanged coming-back and staying-and-waiting presents, much to Needlemaw’s quiet amusement. Adam shared out the candies he’d been given, and they all rolled gleefully on the damp green grass, simply glad to be free of the cold season, glad to be together once again.

Adam almost didn’t give the redcap William’s present, but it would have weighted on him like a knot of briars around his heart. In the end he washed his hands carefully so he could present it without smudging it with mud. “William sent this for you.”

In the silence that descended over them, only the drizzle whispering over the new green could be heard.

“He didn’t,” Needlemaw had gone very still.

“He did. He checked. He’s not charmed or anything. He…” Adam sighed. “He missed you.”

“What a foolish thing it is, to miss the likes of me,” she whispered, picking up the small bundle with the very tips of her black, deadly talons. “To hurt on my behalf.”

“You’re our friend,” Linden replied simply. “It comes with everything, that. The good and the bad and the everything else. Wouldn’t you miss us, if we were gone?”

Needlemaw couldn’t answer. She shouldn’t, she knew. Her people were legion, an uncounted mass, a horde that overran and drowned. No one counted them one by one except their own kind, their own kin.

Except for one young mortal boy, an even younger troll, and a wild fey sapling, first in centuries sprouted by the Green Court.

“What is?” Boul asked.

“Who cares!” Needlemaw declared tartly, and threw the little parcel in her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp and tackling Linden in one arm, Adam in the other, picking them both up and running wild through the woods, howling like a moon-drunk wolf.

It was the longest time she’d spend with them that spring. From then on, nearly as soon as Adam met them she would disappear, returning only when it was time for them to part for the day. Linden could call for her, and she’d always unfailingly come, but it was obvious she didn’t appreciate being summoned so, and Linden grew as loathe of doing it as Boul and Adam were of asking.

They ended up following her, of course. Much later on in life, Adam would nurse a suspicion that they’d only succeeded in the end when the fairy maid had at last become too distracted to balk her pursuers, or when she’d simply stopped caring about hiding from them.

One early summer day, with Boul gone to rest for the day, Linden and Adam caught up with her in a gazebo that sat half over the waters of a still, gracious pond on the older side of the palace grounds. The pond had sat there long enough to grow shallow with the silt of many years, home to the occasional heron and family of swans. An ancient wisteria twinned heavy, powerful vines around the pillars of the gazebo and its deep violet blossoms made a nearly perfect curtain between its occupants and the world. For the first time Adam saw what William saw, a lovely young maid with wild and curly red hair pinned at her back in a rough braid, the predatory yellow of those bright eyes gone to a sharp hazel that seemed dull in comparison, Needlemaw’s mouth small and plain and boring.

He couldn’t look very long; his head began to pound if he did, because flickering under that sight he could still see Needlemaw, deadly and alien and dangerous, even as she combed long black talons through William’s curling brown hair, even as the two shared a bottle of berry cordial and a tray of grapes and cheese tidbits, laughing and speaking in quiet tones he’d grown to recognize from Arditty and her many beaus.

Neither Linden or Adam said anything, of course. They didn’t know what to say. Adam only knew that Linden was upset, and he couldn’t quite figure out how to ask why without asking why. They slipped away to the shady, cool space beneath several rows of ancient peonies and laid down, head to head, backs on the cool dark ground, staring up at the patches and pieces of the pure spring sky.

“It’s not forbidden or anything, is it?” Adam dared at last.

“No,” Linden replied curtly. “But it’s very stupid of her.”

“Oh.” Adam popped his lips soundlessly until Linden smacked his shoulder for it. “They seem to be fine.”

“Adam, do you really think Needle’s for marrying a princely sort?” Linden demanded tartly.

“Well, no. She’d be bored to death five minutes in.”

“Yes.” Linden shifted to rest their weight on their elbows, and Adam canted his head to stare at those angry, shattered, many-colored eyes. “Do you need me to explain what happens when someone like Needlemaw gets bored?”

Adam bit his lip. “Oh.” When he tried to pop his lips again Linden swatted him once more. “Well, she doesn’t look bored is the thing! Maybe William’s nice, maybe she really does like him, and he likes her.”

“Not her. Not the real her.” Linden seemed to think, chewing on their lip, and finally dropped their head to their hands with an impotent, impatient sound.

“Yeah, I’m not telling her, either,” Adam agreed.

[molsons112000]

In one way, it's good for black people, because they get into acting and music. In other places is attention seeking but also they focused on leadership and government, and it was more about fame than it was about doing the job! So, it wasn't really good for them as Thomas. The black economist mentioned seeking political office. Because they weren't seeking it for the best of the community, they were seeking it to fulfill their need for attention. They wanted attention, they wanted power, and they weren't focused on bettering the community.

Reddit · r/psychologystudents

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Human hypocretin and melanin concentrating hormone levels ...

by AM Blouin · 2013 · Cited by 279 — Human hypocretin and melanin concentrating hormone levels are linked to emotion and social interaction

So this has a lot to do with physical violence! We're not all created equal, and you think we should be seen as the same under the eyes of the law and that is untrue!!! And what you've been doing is a travesty of justice to me constantly provoking me, and no I don't react but verbally.... But you keep on thinking I'm going to react the same way a black eye would react to another black guy that is not true!!! A black guy is a more private length to physical violence against another black person!!!! And they have to understand they have a tendency towards being more violent!!!!! And you keep on saying the laws should ignore color it is untrue!!!! This is why when things go wrong, like people riot and destroy and kill and murder and rape and do all kinds of negativity!!!! They don't handle poverty well!!! And they always wanna be in the spotlight and they don't respect, and they do a lot of things, and this is all out of this desire that's built within them that they have to deal with!!! And if they don't start understanding this, it's a previous condition, it'll never solve any of their problems!!!

National Institutes of Health (NIH) (.gov)

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov

Human hypocretin and melanin concentrating hormone levels ...

by AM Blouin · 2013 · Cited by 279 — Human hypocretin and melanin concentrating hormone levels are linked to emotion and social interaction

So we have to understand this, and the law has to stop ignoring that color has certain genetic tendencies that drives certain genetic actions!!!!

So I keep on telling you those liberals 🙄 l g b t q those pro-abortion, those are all satanic people! Either directly working for the devil or indirectly...

So the court has to stop ignoring this and police officers when they respond have to stop ignoring this, knowing that these people are more emotional, and by being more emotional, they're more likely to resist arrest... And this is why black people do what they do and people of color Latinos and so on truly are more prone to violence... What did the Japanese do they blood it out. They did the same thing in ghana, did People that acted out killed them. They needed to do this and then pacify their society.. So it's not that Asians aren't, I think home went and so we're going to nurse the wind speeds a more emotional because of their skin color it's that they breaded out... This is where discipline comes in. And they bred in extreme discipline... Watch shogun...

So the black economist is correct and so is Stevie Wonder, failing to address the internal issues!!!! You need to work in a more disciplined society, so they're trained them harness emotions in the correct avenues. Painting in many other areas they excel....

So, white people, your problem is at times too little emotion.... 🙄 That's why you get the serial killers... That's why Josef Mengele Was able to do these horrible things, because of his lack of compassion!!!! So different races do crimes for different reasons even murder.... 🤔

[deadn30n]

thinking... thinking... more about Sol's jjk verse and how their powers would work bc they don't have a heavenly pact, they're kind of anomaly as the government figured out how to artificially manufacture a curse user / sorcerer. bc Sol wasn't initially born with any type of special power, it was experimented on and then forced into them && because of this they kinda became the exact opposite of what the government wanted

they wanted someone who would be completely obedient. who could even go toe to toe with gojo if it came down to it. but neither of those things happened. they kept shoving Gojo down Sol's throat and they were like 'wow this guy is cool what if i was more like him' in terms of just. not listening and doing their own thing instead LOL

not to mention, they have zero aspirations to be better than anyone, or do to the dirty work of some rotten old rags. they were infused with cursed energy & sorcery and decided to turn that into something that could be used to protect people rather than harm them. and because they possess no natural offensive-type abilities, if they do have to engage in combat, they use a cursed tool called 'the spear of heaven', which is just a gilded, ornate spear imbued with clockwork on it ( the same clockwork that curiously matches the gilded wings they're able to summon in and out of their domain )

my FAVOURITE aspect of Sol's abilities is the 'Empyrean Clockwork' one; which is essentially a summon of a user-chosen amount of pocketwatches. said pocketwatches are infused with Sol's cursed energy and passed off to a person of choosing. the purpose of these pocketwatches ( either on themselves or a person of their choosing ) is to provide absolute protection for exactly one cycle of the secondhand ( or 60 seconds ). you can still be hit and beaten up, but you cannot be killed. once you activate the pocketwatch by pressing the button on the side, you have 60 seconds to find a way to get the upper hand in a fight and win without sustaining lethal damage. once the time is up, the watch breaks and you have to go back to fighting normally, and the hits that normally land on you will go back to hurting like hell. there's a cooldown on this ability too, preventing it from being abused infinitely where -- like Solstice's domain -- it can only be summoned once a day. after that, Solstice has to wait approximately 24 hours before they can summon Empyrean Clockwork and use it again

their abilities are really nifty and eventually ill get into the intricacies of their domain + other abilities after my bf and i finish the rest of the second season tonight

i also gotta figure out how / why they escaped from the government facility keeping them contained and what they plan on doing after theyre free. it's important to note that they have practically no outside world knowledge since they grew up basically in a cold, white room so everything in the outside world is brand new to them.

[horizon-verizon]

Herein lies the problem with liberal reformist feminism following the tradition of bourgeoise white Western women from Mary Wollstonecraft to Hillary Clinton. It mistakes the white bourgeoise woman’s (or upper caste/upper class women in whatever country or culture you’re speaking of) compliance with patriarchal hegemony, especially when compliance means gaining benefits at the expense of the exploited underclasses of working women, oppressed caste women, and racialized/ethnically oppressed women, with how women “in general” resisted patriarchy.

It has never been universally true that because bourgeoise liberal feminism saw compliance with and reform within the system as a way to free women that all women agreed with or continue to agree with this.

I’m Tamil and as far as India and the Indian diaspora goes, oppressed caste Indian women, working class Indian women, Indian Muslim women and other Indian religious minority women, Adivasi women, Indian women victimized by the sex trade, have all followed the traditions of militant feminism and a feminist praxis beyond simple “reform” of the system. This is precisely because they couldn’t succeed in a system built on brutalizing & excluding them. What does succeeding within the Brahminical patriarchal system mean to a Dalit woman, for example ? Such success was impossible.

A bourgeoise’s ability to “succeed within a system” is neither feminist nor any kind of success. Liberal feminism uses woke identity politics to reframe capitalist exploitation. “Succeeding within the system” is no resistance or feminism at all.

It has never been universally true that because bourgeoise liberal feminism saw compliance with and reform within the system as a way to free women that all women agreed with or continue to agree with this.

[...]victimized by the sex trade, have all followed the traditions of militant feminism and a feminist praxis beyond simple “reform” of the system. This is precisely because they couldn’t succeed in a system built on brutalizing & excluding them. What does succeeding within the Brahminical patriarchal system mean to a Dalit woman, for example ?

compliance means gaining benefits at the expense of the exploited underclasses of working women, oppressed caste women, and racialized/ethnically oppressed women

I agree with all of this. Working within the system & complying really only works for the group closest in proximity to the one holding the highest in the hierarchy precisely bc they are the closest and designed to be so. White women, in general, are going to receive more benefits under certain means of compliance that a brown/ black person can never access; white, "middle class" and rich white women have totally different privileges than the brown/black working classed woman; white working class/poor women, bc they are still white have it still better; middle classed white women have their benefits from the exploitation and oppression of brown/black people, but especially women. (Summation and "dumbing down" of anon's thoughts)

It simply doesn't make real sense for a white mid/rich classed woman (really mid-class, rich white women have their own bubble and less care) to think their experience as a woman is exactly the same as that of a PoC woman when some of their suburban/municipal neighborhoods do not come with many PoC folk or as many interracial/nonwhite pairings. This alone should clue one into something being fishy but then there is already an acknowledged Black culture/ethnicity in the U.S., which denotes a separation of experiences between white men vs Black men AS WELL AS white women vs black women. But again, when you don't have to think actively about how your race bars you from even being treated humanely AND you grew up thinking racial violence ended back in the 60s...., well.

I mean, it also serves white women to offer up the bone of being on the same side or to make an exact likeness between themselves and PoC women bc then they can ideologically claim themselves separate enough from white men that white men are the only person that should and could be held accountable, not them. It removes nuance so they can borrow the victimization they believe PoC people and women are playacting to draw sympathy just as some people claim the Palestinians are performing their own genocide, inadvertently revealing their own projection and means of generating power (hopefully) against white men and (surely) against PoCs who argue against their privilege. It is playacting or exaggeration to these people because: it is not their world, so they cannot imagine the depth of their own privilege; they beleive that these people are never really on their level of emotional/psychological clarity, or were "built"/predisposed for labor directed to them by higher-classed white people; white communities (mostly mid-upper class and at least in the U.S.) already have a culture of repressing their own emotions (ironically) that partially gives them the belief that this makes their emotions that much more strong or "real" & guides them to think the more expressive cultures lack self-control to direct their own emotions bc apparently showing emotion or passion implies exposure to licensed condemnation or the ambition of other "competitiors". Comes from the Puritans and their interpretation of what a "relationship" is with the silent, superior God AND the ideological separation/rivalry of body & soul. you prostrate yourself to God and to no other "man", but contradictorily, obedience to an earthly superior still matters bc it "proves" you using your free will to do the "right" thing of obedience to a force outside yourself without much contemplation outside of "perfectly" purging yourself of the contaminants of earthly pleasures, things you don't need to survive.

That element of self-prostration to the community/God is seen as a sign of strength bc you are acting against the body's desire which tries to negate your soul's likeness to the pure God. So to make yourself a victim or a beleaguered dependent is to prove yourself "noble" after all. What better way than to borrow from actual beleaguered or to align yourself with them?

Being perceived as helpless women without actually eschewing their whiteness, though, means they could always rely on white men to see them as their living property and therefore "defend" them against PoC attackers, to demonstrate/reaffirm their power over both white women and PoC people simultaneously (some crying rape when caught with a PoC man being the starkest and most violent example). White women, more than any PoC woman, can rely on their perfect victim status bc their whiteness allows them at least the security of being the white man's natural "helpmeet" (Genesis reference). And when it comes to class, it's pretty much similar but unique when factoring in race: white people gaining together to protect their resources and assets against those that outnumber them so they can pass on their wealth or whatever to self-sustain.

Momentarily, they try to suspend their whiteness for the woman-ness of that particular game of victimization.

[blue-opossum]

Library Visit, Floating to the Ceiling, Bumping my Head

        Library Visit, Floating to the Ceiling, Bumping My Head

        Friday morning, 1 September 2023

        2 minutes and 30 seconds to read.

        Dream #20,710-03.

        Sleep Proxy Casting and Staging:

        I am in La Crosse in the King Street mansion on the second floor, standing in the first bedroom on the west side, looking out the window. I never occupied this room in real life, which may be why the sleep proxy (Leonard S. modeling my sleeping position) appears outside on the ground below, as minimal current real-world recall integrates ambiguously into this segment. Because of natural virtual amnesia while not being conscious, the narrative does not make any sense. I perceive a false "realization" that appears as text, which I see and read within my mind. It says, "Leonard has replaced Crystal at the View." My dream self neither recalls that Leonard had died nor that Crystal has no association with America. The name of the newspaper that Crystal worked at was not called The View. Meanwhile, my dream self has no other associations with Australia, even though I have lived here since 1994. Leonard would have never had a job because of his microcephaly.

        Proto-Cognizant Casting and Staging (with the "Paper Technology" Fallacy):

        I am sitting at a round table in an unknown library, looking at a dream-related site on the Internet. The "Internet" is one sheet of A4 paper that I hold in my hands. The printed text (which is all the paper features) changes a few times when I rub my finger over the paper to "go to a different page" (even though it otherwise remains the same sheet of white paper). I cannot find any dream content. The "website" reports that they no longer have dream-related user content. The back of the sheet of paper is blank. I feel cheerful during this segment, not annoyed.

        Vestibular and Kinesthetic Casting and Staging:

        I walk through another part of the library with Zsuzsanna. My vestibular response to REM atonia occurs while I walk, and as a result, I allow myself to slowly fly into the air (as in every sleep cycle for 60 years). I play around with my natural and predictable cortical responses to dreaming by deliberately rising higher to bump my head on the ceiling. I cast another dream character to look up from his book and to find my antics amusing. I indulge in this silliness until my vestibular response to sleep subsides.

        Combined Somatosensory and Proto-Cognizant Casting and Staging with Personified Protoconsciousness:

        I want to find some books about dreaming. I recall that the Dewey Decimal System would place them in class 100 (which is correct in real-world terms). At this point, I am wearing a shiny copper jacket, otherwise in the style of Willy Wonka. My pants are also elaborate. I squeeze past a man sitting at a table and apologize for bumping him. I squeeze past a second man and reach a corner where I can only find class 400 books on all the rows. However, the implication (unlike my recall of class 100) is invalid, as they all relate to African history and geography, which, by real-world categorization, would be class 900. (It may be a vague but ambiguous correlation since this seems to be the last section of books, which class 900 would represent in real-world terms.)

        I continue to read the spines of various books as I sit in the corner on the floor on my knees, but they are all class 400. Protoconsciousness (including this dream's first auditory response) is an unknown black male sitting at the table close by, cheerfully talking to me about the books on African history, which he shows me pages from until my dream fades.

[cyberbenb]

National Military Manpower Breakpoints

Supporters on social media from both sides widely claim that the war is being waged “to the last Ukrainian” or “to the last Russian.” True, looking at the initial manpower strength of both militaries on the eve of the invasion and combining them with some of the more outlandish casualty estimates, it would seem that both militaries have been destroyed several times over. Yet, the same units continue to reappear…as do many new ones. The historical parallel that comes to mind is when Germany accounted for roughly 200 Soviet divisions in 1941; after two months, their intelligence had counted 360. 1

There are various examples in history in which a nation-state is considered to be “bled white” of its military-aged manpower, losing so many of its men that society losses its cohesion, industry no longer functions efficiently, and the demographical impact is felt for generations. For this exercise, I will call this a national military manpower “breakpoint” and I have selected four examples of when this point has been potentially reached, though even that is debatable. Is either Ukraine or Russia close to this hypothetical breaking point? Looking at the historical record, the answer seems to be a resounding no. Let’s explore why this is.

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For practical purposes, the mobilized military population for full-scale war tends to be about 18 to 60-year-old men. There is, of course, some variability in this. If a war lasts three years, those who were 15 at the outset would be 18 at the end of it. In some desperate cases, young boys, older men, and women are drafted. The prime military age is towards the younger end of the 18 to 60 age bracket; both the Ukrainian and Russian militaries are noted to be older than what might be typical in other countries.

In future analysis, it might be better to look at the 18 to 40 bracket specifically. Historic demographic data is not always available, especially during wars. There will be some variability in the exact age brackets I use in the below examples, but I tried to keep it roughly from 18 to 60. Additionally, not all men will be qualified for military service. Again for simplicity, I did not take this into account and assumed a roughly similar percentage will not be qualified in different modern conflicts. Anecdotally, I know that fewer men percentage-wise are technically qualified for service now than in previous major conflicts.

Current population estimates for Ukraine vary significantly due to the large number of refugees. Roughly 10 million men were in the 18 to 60 age bracket before 2022.2 Approximately 250,000 men turn 18 annually.3 There were also about 50,000 to 60,000 women in the Ukrainian military as of last year, so for every 10 or so males, there is about one female. This raises what we might consider being available for full mobilization to be around 11 million. There are approximately 8 million Ukrainians that have fled the country: about 90% of those are reported to be women and children. Russia’s male 18 to 60 age bracket is about 40 million4 and approximately 700,000 men turn 18 annually.5 Note that Russia’s male military-aged population is about four times as large as Ukraine.

At the high end of estimates for military deaths, you have people like Colonel (ret.) Douglas Macgregor, who is often cited in pro-Russian circles as being “authoritative,” claimed 300,000 Ukrainian servicemembers had been killed as of May.6 If we want to round that estimate up to 350,000 to take an additional month into account, we can. Without getting too side-tracked Colonel (ret.) Macgregor has claimed Ukraine has been on the brink of collapse since the war began so I do not think he is an authoritative source. Neither is Scott Ritter. Both of these figures have a certain target audience in the United States and their innate political biases result in flawed analysis. In the actual Russian pro-war community outside of the United States, there is a growing realization of this. There are only so many times you can claim Russia is about to finish Ukraine off any day now and still be taken seriously.

For Ukrainian estimates of Russian losses, we have their General Staff updates, which claim 220,000 “liquidated.” I have had many conversations about what exactly “liquidated” means. Most tend to think it does mean killed, so that’s how I will use it here. If that number included killed *and* wounded, I think it would actually be fairly close to accurate. In my opinion, the actual number of Russian war dead is probably around 60,000 (including DPR and LPR) while the Ukrainian number is perhaps somewhat less, but not decisively so, especially taking into account the population advantage Russia has. I’m definitely less confident about Ukrainian losses than I am about Russian losses.

Going into the first of our historical examples, we have the Confederacy (generally referred to as the South) in the American Civil War. The American Civil War is still the bloodiest in our nation’s history. The general historical consensus is that the South never had a real chance at winning due to its huge disadvantage in terms of industrial might and manpower. Almost the entire white Southern male population was mobilized, but it still could not hope to match the North’s manpower. If you have any male ancestors from the South during this time period in American history, they were almost certainly in the Confederate Army. Coincidently, I have ancestors from both sides, as most American families do that came to the United States prior to the war. A 2019 academic paper estimated the Confederacy’s white male population in the 20 to 54 age bracket to be about 1,052,000.7 About 290,000 Confederate soldiers died during the war, although more recent estimates put this number higher. This means about 28% of the military-age male population available died during the war.

For our second example, we have the two most heavily engaged European powers in World War Two, Germany, and the Soviet Union. Both nations struggled with manpower issues towards the end of the war. In 1939, Germany’s male population aged 15 to 65 numbered about 25 million.8 German military deaths in World War II estimates vary from 5.5 to about 7 million. This results in a figure ranging from 22% to 28% of the military-aged male population being killed, remarkably similar to the Confederacy’s figure. For the Soviet Union, the male population aged 15 to 65 numbered 52 million in 1941.9 Soviet military death estimates vary tremendously, most estimates seem to be around 9 million. The resulting figure of 17% is slightly less than the German and Confederacy numbers.

Our last example is the most recent I could think of in which a nation, by and large, fully mobilized its manpower and economy, and was reported to be suffering manpower shortages: North Vietnam in the Vietnamese War. A declassified CIA document estimated the male population of North Vietnam aged 15 to 64 was 4.9 million in 1968.10 Vietnam estimated the number of dead North Vietnamese and Viet Cong soldiers at 1.1 million.11 This yields a figure of 22%, although many of the Viet Cong members were likely from South Vietnam.

These historical examples result in a plausible manpower breakpoint at something around 17% to 28%. Assuming the worst case for both Ukraine and Russia, neither is close to this number. 350,000/11,000,000 = 3% and 220,000/40,000,000 = 0.55%. When you take into account that the worst case is likely highly inflated for political purposes, it's even further away from the breakpoint range. Linear growth would result in Ukraine reaching the manpower breakpoint in 5 or more years in the worst-case scenario, or indefinitely if it’s closer to my estimates. It likely not be linear, however.

Are modern societies less able to sustain the manpower loss rates that occurred in 20th-century high-intensity conflicts? Perhaps. There are signs both Ukraine and Russia are casualty adverse and trying to maintain some level of normalcy that countries in World War 2 for example did not. Currently, I think if either one was faced with strategic collapse, such as the loss of Crimea for Russia, or the loss of Kyiv for Ukraine, they would go to a full wartime societal footing, much as their 20th-century ancestors did in the Great Patriotic War.

To summarize, if the war ends in less than five years, I do not think manpower shortage will be the critical factor per se, it will be the lack of availability of that manpower to fill critical roles within the military, or something else entirely, like supplies or political will. Russian units appear to be undermanned, but the analysis above suggests they *should* have manpower available. Are they simply not trained yet, or is Russia so far unwilling to pull from its major cities significantly? If both Russia and Ukraine are not able to employ all of their theoretically available military manpower in war both claim is pivotal to its future existence, what does that say about other conflicts that might occur in the near future? How much of its manpower might China or the United States be able to employ for Taiwan? Questions for others or another time. As always, these posts are just as much to generate thoughts as provide definitive answers.

1

The German Campaign in Russia, p. 63. https://history.army.mil/html/books/104/104-21/cmhPub_104-21.pdf

2

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1006655/ukraine-population-by-age-group/#:~:text=Out%20of%20a%20total%20population,aged%2060%20years%20and%20older.

3

https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2023/04/10/ukraine-draft-troops-reinforcements-training/

4

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1005416/population-russia-gender-age-group/

5

https://www.indexmundi.com/g/r.aspx?v=130&t=100

6

https://tass.ru/mezhdunarodnaya-panorama/17709383

7

https://journals.upress.ufl.edu/jpms/article/view/977

8

https://www.feldgrau.com/ww2-germany-statistics-and-numbers/

9

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1260605/soviet-population-changes-wwii-gender-age/#:~:text=Russian%20estimates%20suggest%20that%20the,of%20the%20Second%20World%20War.

10

https://www.intelligence.gov/assets/documents/tet-documents/cia/THE%20MANPOWER%20SITUATION%20IN_15472910_.pdf

11

https://www.britannica.com/question/How-many-people-died-in-the-Vietnam-War#:~:text=In%201995%20Vietnam%20released%20its,250%2C000%20South%20Vietnamese%20soldiers%20died.