#Them as if they were both lost in the sauce outside of the rationality of their peers.

[strewbi]

Last night I was reading a fic that was a beautifully optimistic portrait of someone in agony due to society, shame, and VERY CLEAR gender dysmorphia awakening something divine within themselves—larger than mere gender, as the magic of the world used science as a conduit to repair the truth of their body to more accurately represent their spirit. They came to the realization of the slow transformation they were undergoing mid-orgasm and just before the post nut clarity hit they experienced a total oneness of self. 

so I stop early in the fic, I go to the comments to compliment the author on how beautiful and poetic and surreal their writing is, how thoughtfully their sex scenes were written, but entered a total BIZARRO WORLD where people in the comments were referring to what I’d just read as body horror/ existential horror and the author was agreeing.

Kept calling themselves “like so depraved,” and I could not have been more confused. Were they being ironic in the comments? Do they not know what they tapped into? You can’t imagine how confused I’ve been. 

[neostriatum]

Stamp of Approval

[AO3] [Dreamwidth]

Obi-Wan gets his Master's rank. There's a little more to it than that, though.

-

The blinking cursor on his datapad wasn’t mocking him. No, no it could not – Jedi-issued technology did not mock. Tease, maybe, but not this incessant, flickering tranquility.

It reminded him of Yoda.

He sighed, saving the file once more and shoving it off to the side.

One was not a Master until they completed the Trials, this was true. What the younglings of the Temple didn’t acquire a fine appreciation for until they apprenticed under another Jedi was thesis required to give something back to those that encouraged them on their path.

With the stacks of loaned data-sticks from the library neatly piled in an open container on his desk, Obi-Wan felt another bout of acute sympathy for the university students that accomplished this, seemingly, on the regular. The last time that he had written an essay of such thorough length was after his unconventional knighting.

Groaning, he pulled himself up from his chair, grabbing his empty caff cup and wondering how much of his ration card subsisted off of various low-grade stimulants and whether the healers could sense his blood pressure from across the Temple.

Probably. They were rather good at tracking him down when he skirted the truth on injuries.

Pleasant thoughts in mind, he ran a hand down his beard, peering through the cabinets for something quick to eat. His stomach grumbled for something fresh, but at the moment deadlines prevaricated the need for subsistence from the refectory. A pack of noodles in a vegetable sauce seemed the best compromise, and he filled both bowl and cup with water for the small, counter-top heating unit he had borrowed off of Aayla.

Listening to the unit work, Obi-Wan leaned against the counter, squinting at the table holding an atrocious amount of datapads that encompassed all of the work he had. Hopefully this thesis would be done soon, and then he could get back to his typical load of grading history classes, responding to whatever mechanical manuals Anakin had sent him, and the towering stack of forms Alpha had handed over to him for the running of an army.

Funny sense of humor, that man. He didn’t actually like that much reading, despite the ice-breaker of a quip during one of their first conversations.

Obi-Wan was tempted to blame Yoda. He was sure that would go over well.

Lost in his thoughts and attempting not to nod off on the spot, the ding of his food finishing startled him. He scrubbed a hand at his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and deliberately did not look at the chrono.

Seventeen out of fifty pages. The coffee absolutely did not give the relieving jolt it should have at the knowledge of how many sections left he had to go.

-

Sixty-three out of fifty pages.

Anakin was laughing at him somewhere, probably. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his padawan would likely get a taste of his own medicine, grumbling to himself as he selected another colour to highlight a lengthy section.

When Alpha had inquired as to the status of his thesis, Obi-Wan had been sorely tempted to groan and toss the datapad at him. At least the data-sticks were returned, the rattling of that many crystals upon Jocasta’s service desk haunting him every time his eyes closed. The bastard had definitely laughed at him, swapping out completed requisition forms for new ones with a reminder that even a general needed more sleep.

At this point a Sith would be welcome. Either he wouldn’t have to complete this thesis, or he’d be granted a hefty sum of medical leave to stare at a wall that had nothing to do with his subject of choice.

Why, oh why, did he pick something he was interested in?

-

Sixty-one out of fifty pages.

This time Anakin did laugh at him, but quailed and feigned sympathy at his master’s fatigued scowl. Anakin also has some choice words for his decisions in highlighter colour, but at least the outside perspective was helpful.

Somewhat.

No, Anakin, the perspective of droids on historical Jedi military strategy was not useful. Even if it was interesting.

He bookmarked the links his padawan had left annotated on the thesis. Maybe for some leisure reading later.

-

Fifty-two out of fifty pages.

Well. At least he had a wall in medical to stare at. The trooper who had reviewed his vitals looked bewildered and impressed at how high his blood pressure, apparently, was.

Alpha had cheerfully informed him that minor shrapnel wounds that nicked an artery usually didn’t have such spray characteristics, and outside of the two troopers that had felt a little faint at the sight, the rest were taking bets on his continued medical improbabilities.

This time, at least, the running of an army was shifted onto Alpha’s shoulders. The man was nearly amusingly undeterred at the workload. Obi-Wan had asked him if commanders typically partook of caff, and bribed one of the few troopers willing to come by after that with a caramel candy Mace gifted him at the last war meeting to bring his personal datapad in.

Deadlines waited for no one, and at least the familiar stirrings of contempt at his page count could keep him company.

-

Forty-nine point eight-nine pages out of fifty.

It was his new favourite number.

This time he didn’t feel the need to fling the datapad out into deep space, but that was only because he was frantically double-checking all of his sources to make sure everything was in place.

He took a sip of caff out of habit. Eugh.

-

“Congratulations, Master Kenobi,” Mace said, smiling with his typical levels of compassion and no small amount of personal amusement, “A record of your thesis will join the Archives – it has been a while since we’ve had such an illustrious entry for mastership.”

Obi-Wan, thinking fondly back to the overly-sweet iced caff and triple-decker nerfburger with fries that he had enjoyed at Dex’s in celebration after a twenty-hour nap, frowned, “Master Windu?”

Yoda tapped his cane upon the Council floor, chortling, “Fifty pages, a challenge, it is not! Average, thirty-seven, it is.”

“Why I never-”

-

Author's Notes

For @thenegoteator. Congrats on finishing your thesis!

[hopetofantasy]

Culture, parallels & meta - S3 E3

Zaterdag 08:10

Perfect parallel: An upset Robbe being little spoon to Noor this episode, him being a relaxed little spoon to Sander in the last one.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Moyo has half eaten wafers cookies on his bed. Between the cellphone time and timestamp, it took Robbe five minutes to get dressed and to the beach. The beautiful angel pendant makes its first appearance.

Bonus: This cinematography trick of using a wide shot with nobody else in the sight, makes us actually feel how lonely Robbe actually is. 

°

Zaterdag 08:23

C is for culture: “Vamanos” - As you may have noticed, Flemish has a lot of words that aren’t typically Dutch. These are called ‘leenwoorden’ (= ‘borrowing words’). In some cases, the language has made the word its own, with their conjugation or sound (like barbecue - barbecuet - or e-mail - ge-e-maild), other times the expression is copied completely (like smartphone or laptop). There are various reasons as to why people don’t want to change it: globalization, wanting to be more vague/cool, general laziness, ...

Perfect parallel: 

Sander’s playful “Are you the manager?” and “That’ll be zero stars on Booking.com” to Robbe when they meet in this episode, Sander’s sheepish “Zero stars on Booking.com” and Robbe’s pointed “Where is that manager when you need him?”, when they have their fall-out in a later episode. 

Sander saying “When I booked this room, I explicitly asked for room-service” here and him actually booking a room with room-service for the both of them later on.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jens’ keyboard is lying on top of the closet. Sander grabbing his keys (to his car?).

°

Zaterdag 08:44

C is for culture: The option to use self-scanning is pretty common in Belgian supermarkets, especially in shop-and-go city stores. You pick up the scanner, scan the stuff you buy, go to a counter, pay and walk out with your groceries. A sales assistant is still present to help out with problems or do random routine checks. It’s fast, easy and cost-efficient. The downside? Shoplifting becomes a bit easier this way.

That’s character: Sander is putting up a ‘cool guy, devil may care’ facade. He jokes about not scanning everything, dismisses Amber’s list, whirls the shopping cart around and sings David Bowie to this boy. He wants to make a lasting impression on Robbe. If he’s the most charming, chaotic and adventurous version of himself, then he doesn’t have to think about other stuff like his own crumbling relationship. (Also the reason why he doesn’t answer the question about Amber: they simply met through Britt). As the boxes fall down, so does Sander’s tough exterior, as he never intended to hurt Robbe by playing around in the supermarket.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +3, he almost topples off the cart twice and drops the chocolate bars on the floor. (The crash with Sander isn’t his fault though)

Oopsie: 

Sander is wearing a leather jacket, but we don’t see it in the previous clip. Either he left it in his car or it’s an ‘oopsie’.

When Sander accidentally tosses Robbe into the boxes, we hear glass breaking. However, in the next shot, the boxes seem to empty (and they were supposed to be filled with chips, which don’t make that sound).

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander is wearing black Converse. They bought Jupiler beer. Robbe pulls out ‘Delhaize’ Biscuit chocolate bars and Florentin cookies.

°

Zaterdag 13:13

C is for culture: "Croques” - The word ‘croque’ is an abbreviation for ‘croque monsieur’ (= ‘crunch mister’). These are grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a typical greasy snack at taverns, markets, carnivals, your home, ... Other versions include the ‘croque madame’ topped with a fried egg, ‘croque bolognese’ with bolognese sauce, ‘croque hawai’ with a pineapple slice.

That’s character: It’s clear that Robbe has no idea how to eat properly. All throughout the season he eats unhealthy breakfasts (choco spread with cookies), snacks (chips, cookies) and dinners (Aïki noodles, frozen lasagna). But here we see the reason: he doesn’t seem to know how to cook or work a stove. Exactly why he buys prepackaged or instant food options. So, it’s probably for the best that Zoë helps out his eating habits.

Perfect parallel:

Robbe making an unhealthy breakfast in the previous episode, Sander providing him with an unhealthy snack in this one. (The way to a man’s heart is through the stomach)

Britt’s condescending “Listening to David Bowie again?” in this episode, her calling Robbe his next obsession similar to David Bowie later on. 

Sander’s “Do you know where I can find the coffee?” to Robbe in an earlier scene and his “Was coffee on the list?” to Amber here.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +2, he stumbles backwards after Sander touches his shoulder and burns himself after turning the ‘croque’.

Nod to the OG: This kitchen scene is the equivalent of the ‘5 fine frøkner’ scene, as Sander sings his favorite song to Robbe and makes breakfast, whilst both flirt with each other (subtly).

Oopsie: They supposedly went to ‘Delhaize’ for all their groceries, but the ketchup bottle comes from ‘Carrefour’ and the butter from ‘Colruyt’. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander messes up the first words to ���Under Pressure’ - it’s ‘pressure’ not ‘under pressure’. He mixes the weed with tobacco for his joint. The conflict on Sander’s face at the end.

°

Zondag 16:34

C is for culture: "What kind of shit question is this?” - They’re playing ‘De Slimste Mens ter wereld’ (= ‘The smartest human on earth’), a board game by the popular Flemish television show with the same name. The quiz is very challenging. People have to solve associative, general knowledge and out-of-the-box questions with multiple answers in different rounds. Points are awarded in the form of seconds, which are used during the game. The candidate with time left at the end, wins.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The group is drinking white wine out of plastic cups. Sander studied at ‘de!Kunsthumaniora’, the same school as Noor. Sander’s wearing his combat boots again.

°

Maandag 15:12

C is for culture: Aaron is wearing a bunny costume for the paintball game ‘Hunt the bunny’. This is usually played by people on a bachelor party or a corporate team building (with the groom/boss as the bunny). The goal is simple: the bunny has to cross the field from one corner to another, whilst the hunters shoot as much paintballs as possible to ‘kill’ it. Which is... rather painful, especially at close range. 

Oopsie: What they’re doing is actually illegal or even impossible. People aren’t allowed to play paintball in protected environments, like dunes. Unless they’re doing it with a specialized organization who’s trained for these games (and are present at the time of playing) or have the written permission from the ‘Agency of Nature and Forest’, the police, the city, ... There is a whole heap of permissions, administrative papers and laws to deal with. 

Lost in translation: Britt saying “Doe normaal” (= “Act normal”) has nothing to do with her dismissing Sander’s mental health. This Flemish phrase is often used to calm people down, telling them that they’re acting rather irrationally or childish. It’s an angry way of saying “Can’t you behave yourself? Calm down. What are you doing? Be rational!”. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The blue and red flags tells us that they’re going to play ‘capture the flag’. Some of the ‘pfff’ gun sounds you hear, indicate that the air pressure needs to be checked. Moyo took off his protection mask, which is dangerous and sometimes considered a foul during the game.

°

Dinsdag 20:02

C is for culture: "Do you know how to make s’mores?” - Toasting marshmallows above a campfire, isn’t really a tradition in Belgium. So that’s why the girls don’t know how to make s’mores. 

Lost in translation: ’Smoor’ is a Flemish dialect word for smoke or the act of smoking. It does sound a lot like ‘s’mores’. This is why Luca thinks Aaron wants to hold the marshmallow into the fire. 

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Of course Robbe had nothing to lose with Noor, he wasn’t actually interested in her. With Sander, however, Robbe doesn’t dare to do anything.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Aaron is drinking ‘Bock’ beer. Amber looks at Aaron like she really likes him, when he’s preparing the s’mores.

°

Woensdag 20:42

C is for culture: 

“An old german bunker” - The province of West-Flanders as well as its coast still has a lot of remnants left from WWI. From German bunkers to trench-networks, burial sites and museums, the 'Great war’ left its traces. Unsurprisingly, every year, people still find around 300 tons of (active) bombs underneath the fields.

“Around ‘All Souls’ Day’ they come back to life” - ‘All Souls’ Day’ is a christian holiday on the 2nd of November, on which the dead are commemorated. However, since that day isn’t an official holiday in Belgium, people visit the graves and honor of their loved ones on the 1st of November, ‘All Saint’s Day’. 

The group drinking ‘jenever’ shots - ‘Jenever’ (known in English as ‘Dutch gin’ or ‘genever’) is a traditional liquor in Belgium and the Netherlands. Young people usually drink these colored, high percentage spirits at Christmas markets, pre-drinks or parties when it’s cold outside. Different flavors include vanilla, chocolate, berries, lemon, apple, ...

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The wooden panel behind Jens says ‘Volg de pijlen’ (= ‘Follow the arrows’). Aaron and Amber are holding hands after their fall. Robbe downs a chocolate-cream ‘jenever’ shot at the end. 

°

Woensdag 21:53

Perfect parallel: Robbe lashing out at his friends in this episode - he feels left out and confused about his sexuality - and blames the pranks. Him doing the same in the next - he thinks his friends are hypocrites by saying homophobic comments to him yet defending the gay teacher - and blames the vlogs. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The second living room has a spinning disco light.

°

Donderdag 21:12

C is for culture:

“In dat jeugdhuis” - A ‘jeugdhuis’ (= ‘youth house’) is a meeting place, run by young volunteers. All teens and young adults are welcome to hang out, throw parties, drink at their bar, organize concerts, attend workshops - just making the space their own. 

“He sounded like a begging Romanian” - Luca is referring to Romanian Romani families, who roam around in the streets of Brussels begging for some money. These ethnic groups have a mostly negative image amongst the Europeans. Which is why she states this harsh and hurtful comparison.

Perfect parallel: Noor asking Robbe for a playlist so she can listen to his favorite songs here, Sander actually making a Bowie playlist for Robbe in the next episode.

Lost in translation: Luca is mocking the West-Flemish dialect by copying what the boy said, namely “Moe’en julder ok ‘n flyer ‘ennen?”. This dialect is known for blowing their ‘g’ and ‘h’ so that they sound similar, conjugating their 'yes’ or ‘no’, having double subjects, seemingly swallowing some letters, among other things. It’s one of the most confusing and difficult dialects for the Flemish to understand themselves.

Oopsie: When Aaron asks Amber if she needs a drink, Britt and Sander are dancing right behind him. When she answers and walks away, they’re suddenly gone, only to be seen again when Moyo walks over.

Nod to the OG/Wink to other remakes: The ‘call your girlfriend’ kiss, duh! 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jana is wearing one white contact lens.

°

Vrijdag 08:43

Perfect parallel: 

Sander searching for coffee first thing in the morning earlier this episode and him pouring a cup before any task in this clip.

Sander’s “Maybe I’m scared that I will never find someone” here and Robbe’s multi-layered “I’m so happy that I found you” in the last episode.

Oopsie: When the boys walk to the recycling spot, the lighting changes from sunny to clouded to dark in a matter of seconds.

Funny coincidence: Sander referring to his relationship as ‘ups and downs’, probably similar to his experience with bipolarity.

Wink to other remakes: An almost kiss near trash, remind you of certain Italian boys?

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Amber delegating tasks, but doing nothing herself. Robbe smiles for a few milliseconds, because Sander touched him. The flash of panic in Robbe’s eyes afterwards.

[halfwayinlight]

I wrote a thing today. It was supposed to be for Valentine’s Day

Title: Holding Space Fandom: Star Trek TNG Pairing: Will Riker/Deanna Troi Rating: PG Notes: set between Season 3 episodes The Bonding and The Booby Trap

Commander Will Riker would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was disappointed Deanna had not yet come to the bridge to report she was back on board. It wasn’t an official protocol, but it was a courtesy that the senior staff generally observed. It was, in fact, out of the ordinary that Deanna didn’t report to the bridge officer on duty.

He told himself he would wait a full half hour past her anticipated arrival time to call down to O’Brien. It would be a very long half hour, and he knew that at least some of the bridge crew were very aware he was antsy. So Will had dutifully read through the various daily reports sent in. And he checked the logs three times to make sure there wasn’t some mental health crisis that would’ve pulled her immediately back into work.

Eventually, he’d taken to the ready room, vacant since the captain was off duty at the moment. Catching up on reports was no help in the distraction department because the only remaining reports they were still working on were the reports over the Mintaka III duck blind. It had been an utter failure in all aspects of First Contact. Not that the Enterprise crew had been able to really help it. It was more an Act of Fate.

Privately, though, Will still felt guilty about the whole thing. Guilty for leaving Deanna behind. He knew, rationally, that there was no help for it. Palmer had needed immediate medical care. There had been no reason to think that Deanna wouldn’t be able to slip quietly away and be beamed back on board.

“You’re beating yourself up over it,” she’d observed one night in Ten Forward, about a week ago. Her fingers played with the glass containing her Sumerian sunrise, idly tracing the bands etched around the cup.

He shifted, elbow on the table to lean against it for support, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this evening was taking. Rather than answer immediately, he took a slow inventory of the lounge. It was a slow night, and they were relatively isolated. As his gaze swept the bar, Guinan had given him a long look and a subtle nod. He wasn’t even really sure what the nod meant, except that they would be given some space. “We should’ve come up with a better plan. One that had less risk.”

“We had limited intelligence. Given what we knew at the time, the risks seemed minimal. In retrospect, I don’t see what we could’ve done any differently.  And, Will, I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt.”

He shook his head. “You were almost sacrificed to a non-existent deity,” he ground out, one hand lifting to rub his beard in frustration. “Do you know what it’s like to sit in a meeting with the captain and the current expert in Mintakan culture and hear that under these extraordinary circumstances, they might actually kill someone you care about?”

Deanna was leaning in now, arms resting on the table, hands clasped. He envied her level of calm and acceptance about this. “No, I do not. But,” she quickly added, “I do know what it’s like to sit on the bridge or in meetings and hear about missions where the people that I care deeply about may die. To see you and our friends leave on away teams when there are serious risks. To coordinate evacuations and general quarters, especially sauce separations, that leave me with the low-risk group and people I care for very much on the battle bridge.”

The intensity of her words hit him like a phaser blast, and Will was left speechless for long moments. He’d never taken much time to consider what it looked like from her end of things. And given her sympathetic smile, she realized this.

“It’s the life I chose, Will,” she added quietly after giving him some time to absorb her first statements. “We all signed up for Starfleet understanding the risks. Some of us have already lost loved ones in the line of duty…”

It was the line of duty that was the hardest to absorb. That reminder that her own father had died while serving. Amplified days later when Lieutenant Aster died on the archeological dig. It had impacted the crew, shocked them all because this had seemed like such a routine exploration. Worsened because she left behind Jeremy, now parent-less.

And in the last six days since that incident, Deanna had been on duty, more or less continuously caring for the boy. Worf had wanted to accompany both her and Jeremy to Starbase 24, where they would rendezvous with the boy’s aunt and uncle, but the Enterprise couldn’t spare him long enough. As it was, Deanna would barely make the connection back before they needed to jump to high warp in order to make their next mission. If she was delayed, it would be another week or more before a shuttle or transport would cross their path to bring her back.

In the end, it was O’Brien calling. “Transporter Room 3 to Commander Riker.”

“Riker here,” he replied instantly, straightening in his seat on the couch. He never used the desk in the ready room because it felt too much like the captain’s personal space.

“The counselor is back on board. You can take us to warp now.”

“Acknowledged,” Will replied, feeling a bit silly for not realizing sooner that O’Brien would be aware they were waiting for her arrival before moving on. That he would have anticipated the need to notify the bridge so they could go to warp.

Gathering the PADD he had been using, Will made his way back to the bridge. “Counselor Troi is back on board. Warp eight, on to our next coordinates,” he called to the helm before settling into the captain’s chair. He continued to fight his eagerness to see her back on board for himself. With a few commands from his PADD, he finished the plans he’d settled on the night before in anticipation of her return.

She had sent two communiques to him in as many days. They’d spoken only once through subspace, the first night after Jeremy had fallen asleep in one of the bunks on a small thirty passenger supply ship they’d caught a ride with. Deanna had looked very tired, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep that he hadn’t seen from her in a long time. It had been a rough past few months for her-- the psychological torment on Rana IV, nearly being sacrificed on Mintaka III, and the aftermath of Aster’s death. He’d set a hot bath to run in her quarters and left out some real chocolate that he’d managed to obtain on a recent starbase and kept a secret stash for the rough days when hot chocolate from the replicator wasn’t enough. Will had the sense from their subspace call that this would be one of those days.

And yet the bridge held only the scheduled crew members on a very routine shift. Textbook even. He’d rarely been so glad to hand over command to Data when it finally did end. In reality, he should be finding his way to the mess hall or Ten Forward for a meal. But he was determined not to wait any longer.

It didn’t take long to gain her quarters, and he politely pressed the button to notify her that she had a visitor. They came and went freely from each other’s quarters. They were both visitors with full access at any time. Besides that, as First Officer, he had override access to all parts of the ship. But he was a gentleman and would announce himself.

When there was no answer, he paused for a long moment. A glance up and down the hall confirmed that he was alone for now, and he was grateful. Everyone on board knew they were close. It wouldn't have been the first time either of them had been spotted outside the other’s quarters. Besides, their roles on the ship meant they often worked closely together. But he was also acutely aware that the crew knew their relationship was much more complicated than that.

“Computer, location of Counselor Deanna Troi,” he finally decided to consult on this, instead of simply assuming she was in her quarters. It would be easy enough to gain entry, but he hesitated to simply go in. She might be sleeping. Or she might want to be alone. A few dozen less rational explanations for no answer flitted through his mind, but he dismissed the various scenarios as absurd and unlikely.

“Counselor Deanna Troi is in Commander Riker’s quarters.”

Now that was not something he had not considered. With an about-face, he moved just down the corridor and through his own door. His lounge showed no evidence of a visitor, and he frowned to himself as he scanned the room to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. He gained his room and came to a full halt at the doorway.

There was a Betazoid in his bed. Soundly asleep. In the chair in the corner, her maroon uniform was folded neatly and her boots tucked out of the walkway. He was pretty sure he’d left at least a few articles of clothing on the floor, but it had been cleared out, most likely tossed in the laundry.

But what caught his breath was how small and worn out Deanna looked under the silvery Starfleet-issued blanket. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced in the low light seeping in from the lounge. He wondered if she had even gone to her own quarters at all, and he suspected likely not.

For now, he was too awake to sleep. So he let himself linger for several moments more, absorbing that she was back on board. That she was getting the rest she so clearly needed. There would be time to catch up later. Will finally returned to his lounge and found something in the replicator menu that sounded appetizing and was able to focus enough to wrap up his daily report and close out two older reports before his mind wound down enough that he could think about sleeping, too.

A quick sonic shower relaxed him enough that Will knew meant he could finally get some rest. When he went in search of his usual blue pajamas, he found the top missing but tugged on the trousers and eased in beside Deanna. And he quickly found his missing top, which she had appropriated for her own sleepwear.

That particular realization touched on a mix of new feelings. Attraction. It wouldn't be the first time she had swiped something of his to sleep in. Secretly, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last time, either. And it touched on something tender, which surprised him all the more. That she was tired enough to borrow something, rather than make the effort of going to her own quarters, one room away, for her own things.

“Mmmm,” she murmured now, though Will could tell she remained on the other side of sleep.

“Sssh,” Will soothed, arms banding around her and pulling her closer to him, his body warmer than usual from the sonic shower. She relaxed into the comfort, as he’d hoped she would. “Back to sleep,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” he breathed, thumb pressing at the nape of her neck, seeking those pressure points to soothe and relax her. He rubbed small circles until her breath evened out again, familiar and soothing against the crook of his neck and he followed her into deep sleep.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes

Sorry it’s a few days late. We got a new kitten day before post day and she cuddles. I can’t write and cuddle a kitten AND I will *not* refuse a kitten. Plus, between house viewings for my sister and taking my daughter to hang out with her cousins, my weekend got hijacked. But there IS good news. I’ve got a laptop! So pace should increase and my hope is to be back to a weekly update schedule by Christmas. 

Chapter warnings: Nondetailed talk of death of disabled, elderly, children, toddlers, infants and animals.

Masterlist 

Chapter 33: Town

Clint watched the boy in the rear view mirror. He was long, lanky and far too skinny. With what surely were still trembling hands, the boy gathered what was left to him and walked away, dragging his feet with each step. Part of Clint was angry with himself for giving away valuable supplies to someone he knew was going to more likely than not be dead before spring thaw. It was wasteful in a world that one couldn’t afford to be wasteful in.

What would Dee have done? What would she have said? Would she have given the boy food? Would she have invited him to join them? Would she have hated him if he turned the boy away empty handed?

Clint sighed and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he focused on the positive things. He was alive. Dee was alive and Trust would likely be alright. The sun was shining bright in the sky. It was a beautiful day with only the slightest bite of bitter cold to the air.

Sun filtered through naked tree branches and danced over the glossy green needles of the pine. Something large and brown caught his eye in the distance. It was on the side of the road as the small town gave way to the rural fields that separated the smaller village where Sasha’s clinic sat.

“Are you serious?” Clint couldn’t believe his eyes.

Standing on the side of the road, eating at bushes was a large bull moose. He was standing tall and proud. Clint kept far enough away, not wanting to startle the beast as he grabbed his gun and rolled down the driver’s side window. Icy air rolled inside, purging the heat from the truck faster than he thought possible.

After throwing the heat on full blast, Clint leaned out the window and took aim. The moose wasn’t scared. The beast paid the truck no mind as he raised his massive head and made his way up out of the ditch and onto the road.

Clint waited until he was halfway across before taking the shot. He needed this. They needed this. The sound of the gun echoed through the forest. Birds took flight, startled from where they sat. In the center of the road, the moose went down. Legs kicked twice before going still.

“Fuck yeah.” Clint breathed to himself as he pulled the truck closer. “I don’t know what you’re doing here buddy, but boy am I thankful for seeing you.”

Moose were not common in Missouri. Sure, he’d seen one on occasion wander into the state but they kept more toward the northern border. Whether it was the wacky weather or the simple lack of humans to interfere allowing them to expand their territory, he was thankful.

A deer or elk could feed him and Dee for a week or so. A turkey for a few days. A bull moose would feed them for the month easily while still supplementing the clinic.

After grabbing a large hunting knife out of the glove box, he set to work. It was hard and gory work, but he did it as fast as he could. The contents of the body spilled on the ground around him. Removing the antlers was another task in itself. They were large and at one point he smacked himself in the face with them. Trust would enjoy gnawing on hooves and antlers.

With the innards and head removed, the carcass was a bit lighter. Still, it was a struggle to move it into the truck bed. He had thought of bagging up the innards and taking those with him as well. In the past, he had used innards to bait traps and even fish.

Now, it probably wouldn’t work to trap any predators or scavengers. The simple fact is there was too much dead meat laying around for some moose innards to really be of a notice. In the fall, the meat will have spoiled or been eaten and the scavengers would be hungry. The hunting would be good in the fall.

Clint washed his hands and arms in the powdered snow at the side of the road. Now he was a little less miffed about having given away supplies to the boy. There were large smears of red marring the fresh white of the snow. The layer of fresh snow covering the highway was thinner. The sun baked and melted the exposed ground far better than the forest floor and snow always seemed to melt faster on asphalt.

The warmth from the carcass and the blood worked to melt down the snow on the road. In a few places, the black of the asphalt peeked through where blood soaked away the snow.

Clint knew all it would take was a large blizzard and the road could easily become lost to travelers. Part of him wondered how folks up farther north, into Canada were coping. Was their government more cohesive than America’s? Did they manage to get power restored before people froze to death in the bitter winter?

It would be worth exploring. And unlike many, his truck could tame some unplowed roads and heavy snow drifts. Would Dee be up for it? Exploring and checking on the world? Did he want to? Was it a good idea?

He shelved the thoughts for now as he brought the truck back to life. What mattered right now was that he had a whole moose and a solid meat supply for the near future.

When he approached the turn off for the Clinic, he drove by instead. While he wanted nothing more than to get back and start butchering the moose, he wanted to cover his tracks. The sheer lack of traffic left many roads covered in a undisturbed layer of snow and he needed to disturb it. As it was, almost all the tracks on the road were his. It made it rather obvious that someone was stationed in the clinic.

He drove up the road and pulled into a side street. He followed roads, turning at times and backtracking, beating down snow and making it look more used than it was. He pulled into pristine driveways only to pull out and repeat the process. Occasionally, he would get out and try the doors. Some would be unlocked.

Inside unlocked houses he found pasta, flour and grains that had been left behind when the occupants had turned to dust. There were piles of settled dust around armchairs and dining tables. Sometimes, there were bodies rather than dust. Children who could not fend for themselves and were too young to open doors or think to leave the house.

Toddlers trapped in houses with a toddler proof door. Babies in cribs. Dogs and cats without a way out. Wheelchair bound bodies who perhaps knew better than to try. Elderly without the strength to travel a great ways.

The snap had intended to remove half the life from the universe but it had caused so much more loss of life than that. Clint ignored the frozen bodies, often in varying states of decay based on simply how long they had managed to hold on.

He made note of houses with generators, woodstoves and fireplaces. Later he would come back and drain fuel from generators. Wood stacks sitting out were added to the truck. He didn’t have to worry about heat or power at the farmhouse but Sasha did and would greatly benefit from these supplies.

He had no intention of giving it all to her however. If they made extended trips away from the farmhouse, they would need wood and fuel both. Plus, it was a valuable resource for trading for as long as a barter economy lasted.

He spent over an hour making tracks in the snow and gathering supplies from houses and cabins. Occasionally, eyes 45would peek out at him from windows when he pulled up to a house. On one occasion, a man came out waving a gun.

“I’m armed!” He hollered as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Neat.” Clint answered as he reversed down the driveway only to pull in again. “I’m not going to bother you.”

“What are you doing?” Curiosity won out over caution for the man.

“Making tracks.” Clint answered as he pulled in once again, from a slightly different angle.

“Why?”

“So it looks like a lot of people live here and to hide which houses actually have people.”

“Why?” What was the man, two?

“So people who don’t mean y’all well can’t look at the snow and pinpoint what houses people are still living in to steal supplies.”

“You’re stealing supplies.” The man pointed out as Clint got out of the truck. The man didn’t look ready to follow through with his threats and Clint honestly didn’t fear him.

“From abandoned houses. Need some flour or sugar? Pasta? I hit jackpot in a house down the block.”

“Sarah May’s house.”

“Sure. The woman was dead inside so she’s not using it. There was some water too.”

“Oh. Okay.” The man dumbly caught the box of pasta Clint tossed his way.

“Here, help me make tracks. You should probably start doing this too. I’m not always going to be in the area to cover it. How many of you are in the town?”

“A handful of us.”

“Cool.” Clint handed him a few cans of pasta sauce. “Got a bag?”

“Yeah, I’ll get one.” The man was clearly still very confused on what was happening. Clint didn’t mind parting with supplies now that he had the moose in the back. He could afford it. Plus, these people lived near the Clinic. It would be good to have a relationship with them, even if it was just in passing. Strangers get shot.

It was nearing sunset when he had finally called it a day. Randy, the man who braved going outside had helped him, walking paths between houses and shoveling walkways from houses to the road. Clint didn’t promise Randy much beyond a share of the supplies they found. They waved and smiled at a few faces peering out windows but no one else braved going outside.

Clint left boxes of pasta, flour, sugar and a few cans of food on doorsteps of houses that had faces in the windows. Far more houses were empty than had faces and very few had been broken into. The benefit of being rural was simply the fact that most of these people had emergency rations and could hole up and survive for a while.

How many of them would make it to spring planting, he had no idea.

“Are you with the government?” Randy finally braved asking.

“Nope. But they are working on setting things something close to right again.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I’ve got a friend who’s living near here. And I don’t want people coming and killing her for her supplies.”

“People are doing that?” Randy clearly hadn’t ventured out of this small rural neighborhood.

“Yeah.” Clint answered. “A lot of people are, to be honest. Others are gathering people up and using them as slaves, calling themselves Kings.”

“The government is allowing that?”

“Not really. They’ve retaken control of the east coast and are moving West but it takes time. Half the population just up and vanished. Add in casualties from accidents and stuff- they had to pull bodies from all over to have enough to take back the East Coast. They can only push west so fast, keeping in mind supplies, troops and how much power they can maintain. It’s slow but they are coming.”

“I thought they would never come.” Randy admitted. Clint could understand that. It’d been nearly five months since it had happened. In many ways it felt like yesterday. At the same time it felt like several lifetimes ago.

“They will. Just keep hanging on, gathering supplies and staying warm. If you run out of food or water, you won’t make it long.”

“If I run out of water, I’ll melt down the snow like Cathy down the road has been. Haven’t seen her recently but I haven’t been even looking’ outside much. Only reason I looked today was the sound of the truck.”

“I wouldn’t drink snow water.” Clint said. “There’s ash and dust in it. If you have to, filter it as best you can. I don’t know what drinking the ash that the people turned into will do.”

“Good point.” Clint started the truck and threw it into reverse.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Will- Will you be coming back?”

“With supplies for you?” Clint asked but didn’t give him time to answer. “Probably not. But I may come back to drive around again. I don’t know. Kinda just winging it.”

“I didn’t mean to make you think I wanted to use you for supplies.” Randy stammered. “I just- It’s nice to have interaction with a friendly face. Someone human and real.”

“I know.” Clint said and backed out. There wasn’t really anything left he needed to say.

The drive back to the clinic was as uneventful as the drive out had been. He drove by it a few times, turning around on different driveways and pull offs, making the road look more traveled before finely pulling in. Dee was sure to be worried about him by now.

The sun was hanging low in the sky as the truck rumbled to a stop in front of the secluded clinic, lighting the sky aflame with oranges, pinks and reds. The temperature was quickly dropping from a balmy twenty as the darkness of night encroached. Thick trees surrounded the clinic, shielding it away from eyes and making it seem like its own world.

In the window, he could see Dee’s anxious face looking out and was soon joined by the other two. The wave of relief that passed over her when their eyes connected was visible even from this distance. As he killed the engine and set about unloading the cooler and frozen meat, they were surely inside clearing the door.

A body crashed into his back as he leaned into the truck to grab a tomato plant. Arms wrapped around him and clutched him. Rather than grab the plant, he wrapped his arms around himself, holding her arms to him.

“I was scared.” Dee whispered into his back. Her voice was soft and weak with the relief of a fear unrealized. It instantly made him regret the time he spent covering his tracks and gathering supplies. He should have come back first and let her know what he was doing.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” Clint turned in her arms, wrapping his own around her and holding her tightly to him.

“Where were you?”

“Driving around, covering tracks. It was obvious that someone was coming and going from back here. I didn’t want to lead someone to us.”

“Makes sense” She mumbled into his chest.

“I should have come and told you first.”

“Lovebirds, did you get Trust a cone? He’s been going at his stitches.” Sasha called as she marched up to the truck.

They couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t normal for them to have witnesses to their quiet moments. The tenderness between them usually was private. The intrusion into their moment was enough to snap them back to reality.

“So what did you bring us?” Dee asked.

“First- Cones for Trust. There’s some medications in the bag but I couldn’t find any books that looked useful.”

Sasha took the offered bag from him. “It’s better than nothing.”

“I’ve got some rice, flour, sugar, pasta and canned food too.” Clint added. Sasha nodded and headed inside the house with her bag.

“This is a lot.” Dee said, looking at the pile of bags on the floorboards of the cab.

“It’s not all for her. “Help me unload and we’ll lock what’s going back to the house inside.”

“You don’t trust them?” Dee whispered.

“With food? I don’t trust anyone with food. We’ll leave them more than enough and can even teach them some ways to cook it. But we’re not going to suffer to support them when they won’t put the effort into supporting themselves. I went out. I got the food. I put myself at risk while they sat here safe and sound.”

“I was sitting here safe and sound too though.”

“You’re different. You’re a part of my team. You’re you.”

“And that makes it different?”

“No, I guess not. The fact that I love you makes it different.”

Dee rolled her eyes, the tension leaving her shoulders and a smile creeping up her face. “I love you, too.” she admitted, grabbing boxes and bags of flour, sugar and pasta out.”

“We’ll save about a quarter of the dry stuff for us.” Clint directed.

“Trust is fine. Gave him something for the pain and put the cone on. He should be resting and completing the world’s saddest act.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Dee laughed as Clint shifted, leaning back against the truck’s window, hiding the view into the backseat.

“Start taking things in while we unload.” Clint directed.

“Did you find any formula?” Sasha asked as she bent down and plucked up as many boxes and bags as she could carry.

“I’ve got a few partially used cans and a few unopened ones. Found them in some abandoned houses.”

“Great- the more the better. I’m not sure Rachel’s going to be able to breastfeed nearly enough.”

“She can’t make enough milk?” Clint asked.

“In theory, she could. But it’s complicated. Her heart has to be in it, she has to give it her all and even then. Women’s minds have gotten in the way of their bodies’ doing what is natural for as long as men have been disappointing women.” Dee couldn’t help but laugh at Sasha’s words. It was true and it sucked.

“Ouch.” Clint said, plopping a bag of flour onto the pile in Sasha’s arms.

As soon as Sasha turned away, he opened the truck door and unloaded everything he was willing to give up before Sasha had a chance to come back out. Sasha returned with Rachel just as they tossed a blanket over what they intended to keep for themselves on the floor and shut the door.

~~~~~<3

@winterisakiller​, @tnystrk-exe​, @nonsensicalobsessions​, @alcoholic-muffin​, @coyotesongwriting​, @usedtobegoodfriend96​, @theoneanna​, @alexakeyloveloki​, @toozmanykids​, @j-u-s-t-4​, @missaphrodite23​, @tinchentitri​, @bambamwolf87​, @queenoftheunderdark​, @xoxabs88xox​, @carissime72​, @myoxisbroken​, @wegingerangelica​, @faemapfae​, @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​

[morethanaprincess-a]

@ultgmrgrl​ said:  do i dare use angst as a way to greet you? mayhaps. do i do the worst possible? [ bluebell ] yes.

Angst Meme: Flowers (selectively accepting)

The glass was a formality, really. Linked to the memory of the girl she used to be when things went wrong, when she sought fuzziness and distraction over clarity and rationality. Nowadays, no one set foot in that part of the resort, especially at night. The other four survivors were dealing with their own regrets, their own demons, and Sonia wasn't about to let her hopeful smile crack and ask for them to listen and support her. Not when they couldn't support themselves.

She hadn't needed to remember that it was how she dealt with her problems before everything went to hell. Before Junko's bitterly sweet, sultry persuasion had sunk their claws deep into her heart and soul, pushing her little by little before she leapt over the edge and fell deep into despair. She'd come across the bottle of cooking wine when she'd tried to cook them dinner and thought it tasted better when drunk as opposed to added to pasta sauce. It had taken her less than a week to venture out to the other islands with a specific location in mind, somewhere where the others would be sure to leave alone: the Titty Typhoon, with its garish lights and unsettling emptiness. In an ideal world, such a venue would nearly be exploding in joy and insatiable energy, with Ibuki and Hiyoko performing while Mahiru documented it all on film. She knew now that feathers and a lambada were far from the norm but the same sense of excitement would still permeate through the speakers, the sticky floor, the shouts of a crowd.

Now all that was left besides a thick layer of dust and cobwebs was the bar. The Future Foundation had left it virtually untouched, leaving it an ideal place for her to disappear every evening. The bottle of amber-colored liquid and a sole clean glass were her only companions as she poured drink after drink, each one both numbing the ache in her heart while allowing memories, each more painful than the next, to surface in her mind. The worst of which being that the entire time in that simulation, her best friend had never really existed.

She'd lived at some point, of course. Alongside the comatose former Remnants, the program's composite had been based off of the living, breathing Chiaki Nanami. As she brought the glass to her lips, Sonia lost count of the drinks she'd had that night and the amount of times the best possible scenario played in her head: if they'd gone on with forming bonds under Monomi's guidance and woke up only to realize that they'd been duped the entire time,  that the Ultimate Gamer would never join them.

Not that she ever told the others about her growing pessimism towards the entire ordeal. It wasn't constructive, and besides, they'd wonder what happened to the former Ultimate Princess, Sonia Nevermind who had declared she'd face the world outside of the Neo World Program no matter what befell her.

She swallowed, setting the empty glass down on the counter. Some sort of mold had grown on the tops of most of the bar stools so Sonia sat right on the counter in her jeans and blouse, both items still smelling of the feeble attempt she'd made at curry that evening at Akane Owari's request. She sighed deeply, legs dangling off the counter as the last bit of rationality she had, speaking with a dead girl's voice, argued with her impulses.

"My friend Sonia-san would never give up! She wouldn't lose, she'd fight until our friends were better and lead her country! Because anything is possible, as long as we believe in ourselves and trust one another."

Sonia exhaled sharply with a frustrated huff. That goddamn voice, the one that seemed to battle Junko's, and Gundham's, and everyone else's in her head. All fighting for dominance to tell Sonia Nevermind precisely who she was and what she needed to do. She had enough of it from the Future Foundation as they outlined their eventual plan for her to repay her debts to society after everyone was revived. Joining them was impossible: her destiny lay in reclaiming, rebuilding, and leading Novoselic.

As a teenage girl, she'd once proclaimed that no one told her what to do, though she couldn't remember if that had even been real. As a woman, broken and battered but still a queen in her own right, that seemed almost laughable. Her days now revolved around what others told her they needed and only at night, in a dusty abandoned bar with a bottle of scotch, did she make her own decisions.

And tonight, like so many before, it involved squashing that kind voice that cheered her on, just like she'd used to a lifetime away. When Nanami became class representative, when she'd brought them together with video games, when she gave them all hope that they had lives and a purpose outside of their talents. Before she stood up for them all, sacrificing herself in the process.

Sonia tipped the last of the bottle's contents into the glass. One more and she'd be lost to a blurry euphoric high, stumbling back to her cabin as if on air before finding herself clutching the toilet. She'd be sick, regurgitating every last bit of her dinner and her feelings before a wash, sleep, and the restoration of the bright, sunny optimism everyone relied upon her for. It was far easier to shut Chiaki away into the depths of her memories than it was to mourn her, after all.

[awkwardnessandbaseball]

This might, honestly, be one of my favorite chapters of this story. It’s very simple and (imho) very sweet :)

Once again, so many thanks to: @cspupstravaganza, @sherlockianwhovian, and @lassluna

Tag list: @quirkykayleetam, @squidvisious, @carpedzem, @kmomof4, @revanmeetra87, @capnjay21 (Message me to be added!)

AO3 if that’s your jam: Prologue | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7

I’d Pick You (and Your Little Dog, Too)

A Captain Swan Pupstravaganza Story

Summary: According to everyone in the known universe, Emma Nolan’s dog is supposed to lead her to her soulmate. But she’s not even sure if she wants that. Soulmates are pretty idealistic, don’t you think?

Chapter Five:

Six Months Later.

It shouldn’t be a surprise when David brings up the topic of his moving out when they meet for lunch, just the two of them. Emma should have seen the conversation coming, really, but she’s been so caught up in her own romance, in having someone to share her innermost thoughts with, in Rascal having a playmate besides Princess… that she’s completely caught off guard.

“Mary Margaret and I are going to move in together,” David tells her, spaghetti sauce lingering in the corners of his lips. Emma opens her mouth to interrupt, but he keeps going before she can. “And we were thinking that maybe we could just… keep doing what we’re doing. I’ll move into the loft, and Killian could move in with you--”

“I’m sorry, what?” Emma nearly yells, but then lowers her voice, remembering that they’re at Granny’s, in the middle of the Saturday lunch rush, in a town full of gossips. “You moving in with Mary Margaret… sucks, if I can be selfish for a second, but... it makes sense. But why would you think Killian and I would move in together?”

David looks at her like she’s grown an extra head.

“Because he spends literally every single night at the apartment with you?” David offers, but Emma sits silently, staring daggers at him, so he continues. “Emma, you spend nearly every waking moment with him. You’re soulmates. It just… makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Emma thinks about it. She tries to remember the last time she slept alone, one side of her bed cold, with only Rascal at her feet instead of the extra weight of a second dog. Or the last time she woke up to the smell of her brother’s burnt coffee (or worse, nothing at all) instead of the delicious pancakes Killian’s taken to cooking for her.

It had happened so naturally that Emma didn’t even notice. One night, she was sleeping alone in her too-large bed, her brother snoring away in the bedroom down the hall, and the next, David was away at Mary Margaret’s and Killian had taken up residence against Emma’s side.

And then it just sort of stayed like that.

More often than not, they fall asleep on the couch, watching movies and old TV shows, Rascal and Procella curled up together in the armchair. Usually, they wake up together and the four of them trudge to the bedroom and resume their snuggling in a much more comfortable way. Occasionally, when Emma’s had a long day or hasn’t been sleeping well, she’ll fall asleep on the couch and wake up in her bed, with no recollection of getting there. Killian blushes whenever she asks him if he’s carried her down the hall, telling her that she just must not remember waking up.

The man carries her to bed.

All told, dating Killian is simple. There’s no grand gestures, which tend to make Emma self-conscious, and there’s no begging for sex, which Neal had done constantly. It’s exactly like it was when they were meeting for lunch every week, except that they’re together almost all the time.

Plus she gets to see a lot more of that chest hair.

It’s actually kind of gross - the sickeningly sweet relationship, not the chest hair - and Emma is constantly surprised at how comfortable she is with it. Must be a soulmate thing.

But still. Moving in together? It just seems so fast.

“I don’t want to scare you, Emma, but you’ve got a really wistful look on your face.” David is smirking now, and Emma knows he’s right, really. That swapping out names on a lease won’t change anything, that they’ve already been practically living together for six months.

At that exact moment, just as she’s weighing her options, debating the fear she’s feeling versus the idea of something more permanent, Killian and Mary Margaret walk in the door of the diner.

Any stress Emma feels completely dissipates when her eyes meet Killian’s, and she knows she’s lost the battle. And she can’t even be that upset about it.

“We’re not here to interrupt,” Mary Margaret chirps, all heart-eyes as she looks at David. “We’re starting our own Saturday tradition, but it also involves Granny’s. So… we’re just taking it to go.” She leans down to give David a chaste kiss, and then looks at him meaningfully. “We’ll let you get back to it.”

Emma watches the two of them, and imagines the conversation they must have had that led them here. Or, more likely, conversations. Plural. Because Emma knows her brother, knows that he knows all of her insecurities and her fears and she’s sure that it would have taken ages for him to work up the courage to talk to her about moving out.

Especially after last time.

But, Emma rationalizes, this time is different. For one, Mary Margaret is clearly David’s soulmate. There’s a reason they’re together all the time, a reason they practically live together. Moving in together isn’t just the logical next step in their relationship: it’s literally the only next step. Emma’s seen David looking at rings online during their many hours of downtime at work. She’s not stupid.

Plus, she thinks to herself, I’m not exactly alone, am I? She looks up at Killian again. At this man who chose to get to know her agonizingly slowly despite knowing full well that they were meant to be. Who’s never pushed her or made her uncomfortable.

Her brother is right.

After an uncomfortable amount of silence and meaningful looks on both sides of the table, Emma rolls her eyes and grabs the end of Killian’s jacket sleeve. He settles in beside her, casually throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“You can join us, Mary Margaret. We’ve already talked,” Emma says.

“We have?” David asks, eyeing his sister carefully.

“Yeah, we have.” She smiles and David seems to catch her meaning because he smiles back, crinkles forming in the corner of his eyes.

************

As Emma climbs into her brother’s truck, she’s struck with the strangest sense of deja vu. She turns around, sees the piles of furniture and boxes tied up in the truck bed, and she realizes that she’s done this before.

She knows, obviously, that her brother moved out before. She’d helped him move. But those memories are so surrounded by darkness, loneliness, and downright sadness that she’s shoved them out of her mind until right this moment. But this time, she feels a little hopeful.

Just a little.

“Ready?” David asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” Emma says, and it’s not a lie.

When they arrive at the loft, Mary Margaret and Killian are waiting outside. Just the sight of him makes Emma smile, which then makes her cringe.

Sickeningly sweet, she thinks to herself. But she can’t bring herself to be upset at the simple happiness she’s feeling. She surprises him -- and herself -- by wrapping her arms around his neck when she steps out of the truck.

“Hi,” she says, followed by a soft kiss on his mouth.

“Well hello, love.” He’s smiling. She smiles back.

“Uh, are we moving today or are we all just making out on the front lawn?” David asks, his arms folded across his chest, but there’s no anger on his face. Just a small smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, Dad,” Emma groans, separating herself from Killian and grabbing a box out of the truck bed.

When it’s all over, and David’s moved into the loft, and Killian’s moved into the apartment, Emma collapses on the couch. Rascal hops up beside her and situates himself with his head in her lap.

“Tired?” Killian asks her.

“Are you not?” Emma knows he must be. Her muscles are screaming, her eyes closing of their own accord.

“Oh, certainly. But I’d hoped we could celebrate.” He pulls out a bottle of wine from behind his back.

“Celebrate what?” Emma snorts. “You know we’ve been doing this for six months now, it’s just that now your stuff is in my closet instead of all the way back at home. You can actually get dressed in fresh clothes in the morning.”

“And that’s not cause for a celebratory glass of wine?” Killian asks, putting the bottle down and walking back to the kitchen to get two glasses.

“One glass, Jones.” She holds up a finger to emphasise her point. “And then you can carry me to bed like the gentleman you are.”

“Oh, I think I can handle that.”

It turns out living together is exactly like practically living together, in almost every conceivable way. Emma has to make room in her closet, but they’ve got a spare room now, so she just moves her shorts and her summer dresses into David’s old closet and leaves her thick coats and heaviest shirts in her own room until the winter chill finally subsides.

There are still pancakes every morning, and most nights they still fall asleep on the couch for a few hours before slowly migrating to their bed.

Their bed.

It’s all very domestic, and Emma slowly stops waiting for the other shoe to drop. She stops waiting for the morning she’ll wake up and there won’t be a handsome Englishman waiting for her, stops hesitating before she opens up the door for fear that his stuff will all be gone.

She stops being afraid.

[catflowerqueen]

While it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong for Darkrai, it can be pretty much be boiled down to three things: people not understanding/liking what his job actually is, the consequences of that whole fiasco with Pupil and her family, and a few lines in the Time Gear Legend.

Darkrai’s job: Darkrai has dominion over nightmares. No one likes having nightmares. These are facts. But what are also facts is that your nightmares can tell you a lot about yourself—things you’re scared of, or what you’re worried about. So, having a nightmare can sometimes be considered a trial run for what’s going on—they aren’t real, but if you know what the worst-case scenario is, it helps you to prepare for the real thing. This could involve something like making contingency plans or extra preparations to realizing how absurd your fear actually is. Think of the Krabby Claw story—no one is terrified of it, at all, because how realistic is that scenario, actually? In theory someone could probably hook up some sort of electrical current to make the nerve endings or muscles of a detached claw contract (like those videos of soy sauce and octopi), and its possible that a ghost-type could possess it, sure, but are either of those scenarios likely? No—and even if they did happen, it would involve outside force acting on the claw.

 Darkrai’s job is to cause nightmares in order for people to learn something from them. He can show worst case scenarios, break down barriers of denial, or make up absurdly scary things with bits of symbolism so that when dawn comes and people stop to think things through, they’ll realize how silly the whole thing really is. On the other hand, non-stop nightmares would help no one, and at a certain point they would be more debilitating than helpful. That’s where Cresselia comes in—she can provide the succor of a good dream to help ensure that people get the rest they need or to act as further supplement to hit Darkrai’s lessons home. And afterwards, both are supposed to be available to help talk things through.

 Because the thing is—neither of them are omniscient. Cresselia does not cause every good dream, and Darkrai does not cause every nightmare. So, if they step in, it’s generally because they’re actually needed and so tend to stick around afterwards if someone needs to talk it through. Though, admittedly, that’s typically more necessary in the case of Darkrai’s gifts, since symbolism is confusing and fears—and fear responses—aren’t necessarily rational. And that very irrationality is a problem, because people, as I’ve said before, don’t like nightmares, and typically aren’t very friendly in response to someone deliberately causing them. Ergo, most people do not like Darkrai, and wouldn’t be open to listening to him.

 Darkrai tried his best, for a long, long, time, but it’s understandable that he got disheartened by it all, especially as issues like jealousy and superiority drove a wedge between him and Cresselia. Mind you, it was a slow process, and Darkrai’s issues didn’t hit the rapid deterioration that led to his canon actions until, oh, roughly a thousand years ago.

 Which leads to the second thing—The consequences of the whole Pupil fiasco:

 I’ve already addressed the basics of what went down there in an earlier post, but, to summarize, a thousand years ago there was an incarnation of the Rainbow Child with the nickname Pupil who came to the Pokémon World with her family so that she could have the chance to relax and de-stress before ascending. But her family, and especially her relationship with her siblings, had some major issues and she and her siblings got into a fight which ended with her falling off of a tall cliff and becoming mortally wounded. This was the first time that a Rainbow Child got so close to dying before ascending, and since no one knew what exactly would happen if that were to occur, Relatia got extremely freaked out and decided that from then on, she was no longer going to bring the Rainbow Child for visits to the Pokémon World, nor was she going to go herself unless she was specifically called.

 This was not a good thing for the psyche/morale of many legendaries left behind—Darkrai included. It also dovetails nicely into the final thing: A few lines of the Time Gear Legend.

 The first line of importance is “Many pokémon came to the Beach—where Relatia and her worshippers had first arrived—to see them off, for they would be greatly missed; especially the Rainbow Child, who was beloved of the legendaries.” The legendaries adored the Rainbow Child, completely and absolutely, and Darkrai was no exception—especially since she actually understood him, and what he was supposed to be doing. They had a special relationship, and—unknown to anyone but him, and the first—he helped her to make some big decisions which impacted a lot of how her role was portrayed and evolved during and after that first visit by Relatia. And even though she couldn’t really remember that in subsequent lives, her feelings about him and his job never changed. He was also one of the legendaries that chose to continually seek her out—or at least to not deliberately hide from her if they happened to cross paths—whenever she came to visit. Others (such as Giratina) deliberately hid, in part because she couldn’t remember their meetings between incarnations and it would have hurt them too much to try and re-forge that bond over and over again. But it didn’t bother Darkrai—or at least, not as much—partially because of the aforementioned thing he helped her with and partially because it was actually rather nice to renew his friendship like that and get to savor and compare differences—and to tell her embarrassing stories about her past lives while still treating her as the unique person she became each new incarnation.

 Her renewed support each time also helped to bolster him when the stress of his duties and all the rejection came to be too much. It’s a tough job… but knowing that she cared, and getting those reminders fairly often since she came around semi-frequently (considering the lifespan of a legendary, even if she only came once per incarnation, it still seemed like she was coming, say, every month or so rather than the actual decades to half century-long breaks in between—because when you live that long, time can honestly become rather meaningless, and its pretty easy to lose track of things like dates, or when the last time you left your lake was *cough* looking at you, Uxie *cough*) helped him keep afloat mentally and emotionally.

 But then the aforementioned Pupil fiasco happened and… well.

 At first it wasn’t so bad—there wasn’t really a hard and fast rule about when those traditional visits happened, just that it had been, up until that point, usually at least once per incarnation. But that meant that the gaps between could be anywhere from thirteen to hundreds of years, depending on when in the Rainbow Child’s life, they came, and how synced up Earth’s time was to that of the Pokémon World’s for any given visit. And sometimes they did have to skip an incarnation, for whatever reason, or some incarnations would come more than once. It was really the finality of it all—since Relatia outright made an announcement that this was the last time she was bringing a Rainbow Child (though, admittedly, it wasn’t like it was widespread or anything—she didn’t go out seeking any legendaries besides maybe Dialga and Palkia, so most people only found out via gossip), coupled with the fact that no legendaries even got to see Pupil before she died, and her prior incarnation only visited once, shortly after her own ascension, and then proceeded to live a very long life, that really impacted everyone’s psyches.

 As Azelf told Corphish (and which we can now fully understand given hindsight and knowledge) “Those two (Relatia and the Rainbow Child) left, and then he (the Golden Child/Mason—because celebi are extremely long-lived, despite me having them be only pseudo-legendaries here, so it is entirely possible that it was, indeed, our Mason who was the incarnation of the Golden Child during that period) became depressed, and then everyone sort of… lost contact with each other.”

 He wasn’t just talking about him, his siblings, and Dialga—every legendary (save for those, like Giratina [again] who more or less deliberately kept themselves out of the loop and away from everyone) was hit with the same thing. Those who tried to keep in contact with each other slowly stopped over time, and any sort of support group Darkrai may have had vanished—due to a combination of his grief, their own grief, and the usual issues he had to face given his duties.

 It’s not too surprising, then, that Darkrai would start to spiral and get a little… desperate. Leading us to the other important line in the Time Gear Legend: “But it was then that the Golden Child made a shocking announcement: he would not be returning with Relatia. Instead, he, along with a handful of other servants, would stay behind to ensure that there would be some way of calling upon Relatia for help if ever tragedy struck the world and she was needed. Relatia was reluctant to part with him, but she agreed that it was a wise idea.”

 In short, the legend promised that if Relatia was needed, someone would call her, and she would come help. And given what the whole Time Gear legend is about in the first place… what’s the most likely reason her help would be needed?

 Darkrai’s intent in damaging Temporal Tower was never to create a dark, paralyzed future. He just wanted there to be enough damage that things would start to get a bit wonky and someone would call Relatia for help. Hopefully, that help would entail her bringing the Rainbow Child along—and even if she didn’t, he wasn’t above begging her to please let her come back to their world, or let him visit Earth, just so he could see her at least once more. But for whatever reason… she didn’t come. No one called her. Maybe it was because he overestimated the damage, or because people forgot about the Time Gear’s true job (or assumed that they would be able to recharge Temporal Tower from afar or something), but the end result was the Dark Future.

 Understandably, this did nothing to help with Darkrai’s growing issues and, in fact, actually made them way, way worse. Much of the reason the pokémon in the Dark World went insane as quickly as they did was probably a combination of Darkrai either accidentally lashing out in his own pain and grief, or doing it deliberately. Maybe at some point he’d half convinced himself that this was what he wanted all along, or that it was some sort of revenge—a, “if they want me to be a monster, then why should I refuse them?” sort of deal.

 But that state didn’t last forever, because eventually… he came into contact with Laura. Because that whole “beloved of the legendaries” deal didn’t only apply to him, and, for some reason that would be unfathomable if he hadn’t tried to do the exact same thing (if in a more indirect manner), a fellow legendary (Primal Dialga) had succeeded where he couldn’t, and brought the Rainbow Child back to the world of Pokémon.

 …A world which, upon further reflection, was actually really, really dangerous for her to be in, for a few reasons, one of which being that ordinary pokémon would not care at all that she was a nascent Rainbow Child, and would not hesitate to attack her… or possibly even kill her… and, oh yeah, it was still up in the air what would happen if a Rainbow Child died before ascension and he really, really did not ever want to figure that out. So, after an initial plan to get her back to Earth failed, he decided to do something which some of the more canny readers (*cough* @citrus-chickadee *cough*) have managed to figure out—he joined Team They Didn’t Have One (much to Grovyle’s initial displeasure) in order to fix his mistakes.

 Initially he—like his teammates—didn’t realize that changing the past would make everyone in the current future disappear. But when they all figured it out, he was rather upset. Not because he was worried about himself or Laura—he’d used Dimensional Holes and things to jump around in time a lot during the initial stages of the world’s deterioration trying to figure out why no one was calling Relatia, so he was technically in the same boat Paula was and would be considered a denizen of the past when it all went down, and he’d already figured out that Laura was from Earth—but because he actually got rather close to Grovyle. Also, considering that this whole situation was his own fault in the first place, Darkrai was definitely feeling guilty, and a bit cowardly, and didn’t want to be the one to pull the actual trigger—even though he totally kept secretly following them around at times, at enough of a distance that neither of them would notice.

 But then, he found out that Laura was planning something really, really stupid, dangerous, and self-sacrificing. He really shouldn’t have been surprised… but he also couldn’t let her go through with it—so he attacked her and Grovyle as they were travelling back in time. He wasn’t aiming for the canon result he got, but he figured that the amnesia would be enough to stop her plans so he just let her be after seeing her safely ensconced in the Wigglytuff Guild and then went to shadow (literally) Grovyle for a little bit to make sure that things were on track as far as gathering the Time Gears went. Then he just basically wandered off and tried to decide what to do with his life, and whether or not he could (or should) try to change Laura back into a human after all was said and done and the world was saved.

 He really, really shouldn’t have been surprised when Laura got involved anyways and things went haywire… and yet he was. The world should feel very lucky that he was too numbed with shock and grief to actually do anything for those few months that Laura was MIA, because if he was in full control of his faculties at the time, he probably would have ended up recreating the Dark Future again, but this time deliberately and with much, much worse results.

 As it stands, when she eventually came back he realized that Relatia may have had a point when she decided to keep the Rainbow Child away from the Pokémon World, so he decided that he was going to do something about it. His initial plan to get her back to Earth way back in the Dark Future might have failed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try again. It just meant that he needed to use his own power to do so—or, at the very least, to make enough of a mess of space that someone would actually call Relatia this time and he could basically throw Laura at her and get her to fix things and take her back where it was safe. At least… physically, if not mentally.

 Thus, he concocted his post-game plan, which had multiple different parts and directions he could take things if someone started to foil it.

 Ultimately that all failed… but not because of the reasons one may think. Mainly because when Cresselia gave that speculation about what happened to Darkrai given that Palkia attacked him while time travelling… she was basing her assumptions on Darkrai’s words, and what happened to Laura. But the thing is… he wasn’t being entirely truthful on the matter. Also, Cresselia had no idea at the time that Laura was a nascent Rainbow Child—because that does matter.

 Luckily for everyone, Darkrai ended up right where—and when—he needed to in order to give up those sorts of insane plans.

 …Which isn’t to say that he’s given up plotting entirely, or that he isn’t going to show up again… 

[onwardintolight]

Han x Leia, ESB, Trip to Bespin, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Summary: ESB from Leia's POV. A journey from despair to hope, a blossoming, an opening to vulnerability and love.

Warnings: Deals with some heavy themes, incl. working through trauma, depression, self-harm, attempted sexual assault. Each chapter will be individually warned.

Note: I’m currently in the process of reposting the first nine chapters here in full, since when I first wrote this fic, I only shared links to the chapters on AO3 and FFN. I will try to post at least weekly. In the meantime, if you’d prefer to binge-read it, the entire fic is posted in full on AO3 and FFN.

Part: Masterlist | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Epilogue

Soundtrack

~~~

Author’s note 11/2019: Major spoilers for Solo: A Star Wars Story

Warnings for chapter: none

~~~

It was a relief to relax again; to simply enjoy the feel of each other’s lips and hands on each other for a little while, there in the circuitry bay. Leia tried hard to quiet her worries, and for a moment, she almost succeeded.

That moment was soon interrupted, however. Chewie stuck his head in the door, braying something about it being time for food, with an addendum about how it would be great if they pursued their mating rituals somewhere outside of his sight and hearing.

«Besides,» he noted, «I’ve prepared something special.»

Duly chastised, they made their way to the dejarik table. Emotionally, Leia felt as though she’d just flown through some particularly rough in-air turbulence, and she wasn’t that hungry—at least, not until she caught the scent of whatever was in the bowl Chewie was carrying in. He deposited it on the table in front of them with a flourish.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he disappeared again to the corner of the hold, quickly returning with a large plate of ration sticks and reconstituted Bilbringi pies.

«A feast,» he announced. «I made a sauce to go with the rations. It will make us feel like our feet are rooted to the ground again.» He passed out bowls and utensils, and the three of them eagerly dug in.

Leia dipped a spoon into her sauce-covered Bilbringi pie and lifted it for a taste. Immediately, she closed her eyes, savoring the rich, spicy flavor. “How in the galaxy did you manage this, Chewie?” she asked.

Han cut in between bites. “Oh, he always keeps a bunch of spices and stuff around, just in case.”

«One never knows when they’ll be stuck onboard for three weeks,» explained Chewie. «It’s good to—» here he made a series of sounds Leia wasn’t familiar with, and she looked at Han inquisitively.

“He means it’s nice to have something special to break up the routine.”

“I’ll say,” she replied, taking another bite. It wasn’t just the weeks on the ship; it was the endless cold rations on Hoth, too. When had she last had a proper meal? Ord Mantell, maybe? “Honestly, Chewie,” she said, “this is as good as any royal feast I can remember.”

After their stomachs were suitably stuffed—Leia had only found two Wookiee hairs in her bowl, and the last bite was every bit as mouthwateringly delicious as the first—Han turned on some music and conjured up a sabacc deck and a handful of Corellian ales. Soon the hold rang with laughter. Leia had generally been too caught up in her duties to play the game much, but Han and Chewie, while fiercely competitive towards each other, were rather generous teachers. Soon she was holding her own—which for now, she surmised, meant not losing every hand. She suspected Han was going easy on them.

After a long time the music quieted, the album having played through twice already.

“And… Pure Sabacc.” Han layed out his hand triumphantly. Chewie bellowed, waving his arms in frustration. Leia laid out her cards in defeat—she’d had a good hand this round, but at twenty-one points, it wasn’t nearly enough. She briefly thanked the old gods that they weren’t playing for a sabacc pot; otherwise she might have just lost… a lot.

“You’re watching a master at work,” Han crowed, tipping back his second Corellian ale, and Leia and Chewie both rolled their eyes.

She took a small sip of her own drink. “Where did you learn to play sabacc, Han?”

“Oh… around.” He waved dismissively.

«Han was already a master of it when we met, and he was barely more than a cub in human years, then.»

“So… you learned it on Corellia?”

Han shrugged. “We may have been scrumrats, but we were still kids. It was one of the few ways we had fun.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Do you ever miss your home planet?” Leia asked.

“No,” Han said firmly. There was no hesitation in his voice.

Leia nodded. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, and thought for a moment. She needed to tread this conversation carefully—considering the lightheartedness of the evening and the alcohol Han had consumed, she suspected he might be a little more open than usual to talking, but she still didn’t want to push too hard. “When you finally escaped… how did it feel? Did you feel free, or was it bittersweet?”

Han and Chewie exchanged a brief look. Then Han leaned back in the seat, raking his fingers through his hair. “Uh,” he muttered. “It’s… complicated.”

She nodded, giving him space to go on if he wanted to. After another mouthful of his ale, he did.

“So, uh, there was this girl.”

Leia stiffened a little, but she just as quickly relaxed again. Of course there was a girl, she told herself. There’d been multiple girls; she was already well aware of that. Don’t be silly; listen. She didn’t want to miss out on this part of his story just because of some childish sort of jealousy.

“We tried to escape together,” he continued. “But… I made it; she didn’t. They grabbed her right as we went through the gate at the spaceport, and I couldn’t do a damn thing.” He shrugged. “I spent the next three years in the Imperial Navy planning out how I was gonna buy my own ship and go back to Corellia. To find her. So yeah, as much as I hated Corellia, you wouldn’t’ve believed it back then.”

“Did you do it? Did you go back and find her?”

He took another sip. “Didn’t have to. Turns out, she was sold right after I left—to Crimson Dawn.”

Leia’s breath caught in her throat.

“She was owned by one of the syndicate’s head honchos,” Han continued, “and somehow she managed to work her way up to being his lieutenant. We ran into each other on my first job after the Empire. Chewie n’ I were with a crew doing a job for Crimson Dawn, and she came with us to Kessel.” He face lit up in a grin. “The trip where I made the run—”

“In less than twelve parsecs. We know,” Leia said, rolling her eyes. “So what happened to her? Did she ever get free?”

“She… no, she didn’t. At least I don’t think so. I, uh, thought, at the end, that we had won, and that she was gonna come away with me and Chewie. She killed the guy who owned her. But… I guess she had other ideas.”

Leia frowned, feeling the glimmer of deep pain in Han’s past. “She took his place,” she said, the realization coming as she said the words. She wondered if this girl was still alive… and if she was still at the head of the notorious cartel.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Eh, it was a long time ago. I was a kid, naïve. She’d always been like that; a survivor, a climber. In it for herself, no matter what—or who—was in her way.” His words, even after all these years, sounded bitter.

Leia raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like somebody I once thought I knew.”

Han ignored her comment. “It wouldn’t’ve worked out.”

«Hmm. It wouldn’t have,» Chewie agreed. «But Han was sad for a long time.»

“Thanks, fuzzball,” he retorted. “It’s not like nobody ever broke your heart.”

Chewie chuckled. «There was a young Wookiee before Malla,» he explained, turning to Leia. «I was also sad for a long time when we ended the hunt.» He paused. «These things are hard. But when you meet the right person, the sadness of the past seems very small next to the happiness you’ve found.»

With that, Chewbacca stretched and rose from the dejarik table. «I’m going to leave you two to continue your mating ritual. Just stay away from the number three hold.»

Leia blushed. “Chewie, it’s not—we’re not—”

The Wookiee only laughed, eyes twinkling. «Goodnight, cubs.»

The main hold was quiet for a little while in Chewie’s absence. Then, Han scooted closer to Leia on the bench, putting an arm around her and shifting his ale to his other hand. He massaged her shoulder, looking thoughtful.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of disappointments. A lot of heartache.” He took another sip. “Everyone I’ve ever cared for has either abandoned or betrayed me, the whole lot of ‘em.” He made a scornful sound. “Usually both. And I never… I never took it easy.” He glanced at her. “I’ve had to learn to face the galaxy on my own. Well, not completely—I’ve got Chewie, but you know what I mean. I’ve had to learn not to trust people, not to commit to anything.” He swallowed, looking into her eyes. “I… Leia… I want that to be different, with you.”

Leia opened her mouth to respond, then she closed it again. She wasn’t sure what to say. His words had stirred something deep within her, and her mind was still working through what all it meant. He wants to commit, she thought. He wants a life together. How impossible that would have sounded, once. Still sounded, if she were honest. Was it? All she knew was that she desperately wanted it, too.

“I love you,” he murmured again, and bent down for a lingering kiss. They parted, and she laid her head on his shoulder, nestling into him, wishing she had more to give. Several minutes passed in silence.

And then, finally, she knew what to say, what to do.

She took a deep breath. “On Alderaan,” she began, “women’s hair is regarded as sacred, in a way. There’s all sorts of meaning behind how we wear it.” She paused. “And… there’s a lot of meaning behind who gets to take it down. It’s… incredibly intimate.” She sat up, trembling. Slowly, she drew a pin out of her hair and laid it in his hand. His eyes widened.

She hoped he would understand. It wasn’t a spoken “I love you,” nor was it a lustful consummation. But it was a sign, and, she hoped, a promise of things to come. A powerful act, words without words. Would he hear them? She rotated on the bench, presenting him with the coil of braids that were wrapped around the back of her head.

Slowly, he reached out and touched them. Then he kissed the nape of her neck, making the tiny hairs there stand on end. She let out a shaky breath. He began to search, his fingers wandering over the braids. He pulled out one pin, then another. Every time he removed one, he planted another kiss—this one on her shoulder, that one on her cheek, another one on her neck again.

Finally, the last pin was out and her hair was unraveled. She felt it spilling like a waterfall over her shoulders and back. From behind her, Han made a quiet, agonized sort of sound. She’d never worn her hair down around him before. With reverent care, he dug his fingers into her loose tresses, slowly running through them, gently smoothing out the tangles. “Leia,” he murmured, voice cracking. “It’s… kriff, you’re so beautiful.” He buried his head in it, kissed it.

Once again, Leia didn’t know what to say. A lump had formed in her throat; it seemed to come from a bubble of joy inside her that was growing larger and larger by the second. There were no words for this. She simply turned around to face him, drew his forehead to hers, and then kissed him again, long and deep, while his hands wove through her hair.

[talix18]

November 4

If I could go back in time and tell myself anything useful, #1 would be for gods sake please keep up with guitar lessons. #2 would be something about considering carefully the fact that you're going to live out a few more decades; continuing to blow up relationships will have you living them out mostly alone. #3 would be Absolutely Fill Out the Rhodes Scholarship application, idiot. I know you don't know yet that you want to travel but I promise that the experience you would have going to school overseas would be more than worth putting up with the weather. It's a problem that opportunity arises for some people when they're too young to appreciate it – at least it was a problem for me. So play guitar, sing, write, do all those things in front of people because it can just be fun, you know. Go to school far away. Sit still and let someone love you.

Because there is a distinct possibility that you will never meet someone who you know is The One. I'm pretty sure I thought I'd met The One two or three times. Nobody is going to fit all of your edges without rubbing uncomfortably in a few areas, whether it's their tendency to cut their hair too short or their inability to take on housekeeping duties when you're laid up or their families not being people you'd choose to hang out with. It's nice to have someone to hang out in sweatpants with; it's nice to have someone around who makes you laugh. Love is just as much about action as it is about emotion. It's not just something that happens to you; it's also something that you do.

But the reality is that I did meet someone I had those heart-flips over. We had that connection I'd always hoped to find. And life got in the way. He wasn't willing to make the changes he needed to in order to be with me and I wasn't willing to wait anymore. And I had the one that I was crazy about who just wasn't as crazy about me, and the one that I thought was the Universe actually working in my favor until the long-distance of it all got too much. Maybe I've had my chances.

I just want a life where I can honestly say “I wouldn't change a single second because it got me here.” Is that so much to ask?

Is it terrible if I don't eat anything except cauliflower crust veggie pizza? I mean, if I'm not overdoing the cheese and the veggies are fresh and the sauce doesn't have sugar in it – there's no reason that it's a “bad” idea, is there?

Saturday night I was at a meeting where a friend was celebrating nine years clean. She is hilarious and outgoing and incredibly smart, and she honestly believes that all Muslims are taught to throw acid in the faces of their women. This baffles me. I have this other friend – she's Jewish and also incredibly smart, and helped vote in the current administration because she's anti-reproductive rights. The administration that normalized being a Nazi in the 21st century. I just don't get it. And this is always going to limit the extent to which I'm going to trust someone – if you fundamentally believe that some humans are less deserving of compassion and dignity and self-determination, then I have to wonder what's going to happen if I fall into one of your less deserving categories.

Anyway, what I'm learning is that my mental health depends on being around people – on being part of a community – and I need to tell the truth about myself in safe places. So I'm at a meeting Saturday sharing about how my depression manifests, the specific example being that for most of the almost 15 years I've lived in this house, there has been a dresser drawer on my bedroom floor. It hasn't always been the same drawer – I've fixed at least two or three rails in the time I've owned these IKEA dressers. And it is entirely likely that I wouldn't have this problem if I didn't stuff the drawers beyond their recommended capacity. The point is that this is how I live: walking around the drawer on the floor. I am not going to consider my shit together until there are no drawers on the bedroom floor.

After the meeting, the woman next to me, who is a successful married adult with grown children, leaned over and said “I've never felt so close to you.” And that's what it's about, gang. Those moments when we tell the truth about how we live and other people recognize themselves in it. It's scary sometimes but, for me, it's necessary. And when I have more than one broken dresser drawer, I can ask for help getting rid of the things I don't need and taking the broken things to the dump. Then I can buy a new piece of clothing storage furniture, probably from IKEA, because I'm not made of money, and this one doesn't have drawers.

Last night I drove two hours to Philadelphia to see Fleetwood('s Heartbreakers House) Mac. You have to understand what Stevie Nicks means to me. Yes, I loved “Dreams” when I heard it the first time in someone's apartment in fifth grade where I was playing some version on Spin the Bottle for the first time. (Billy Schoonmaker, where are you now?) I loved the White Winged Dove song that I didn't know the name of until I saw a song I'd never heard of by Stevie on a jukebox and played it. And I remember a cartoon of someone literally dragging a heart behind them that was in the junior high newspaper. But The Moment I got it was when my mother's second husband, who played bass in an actual, playing out band, brought home Stevie's first solo album. I remember seeing her on the cover with white roses and gauzy clothes and a crystal ball and a tambourine and thinking “you mean life can look like that all the time?” My experience of gauzy clothes and crystal balls was limited to the Renaissance Festival that came to town every summer. I don't know why I took that album cover so literally – she could have been dressed that way specifically for those pictures – but in that moment I had permission to make my life look any way I wanted it to.

So Stevie, and by association Fleetwood Mac, have been part of my soul for most of my life, and I've been lucky enough to have seen her solo and with them several times. (Not on the Wild Heart tour, though! Not when Joe Walsh was her opener and Mom refused to sit through him and I was too young to go by myself. [Learning later that Stevie considers Joe the lost love of her life just makes it easier to carry that grudge.]) I've seen them minus Lindsay plus Billy Burnette & Rick Vito, with Lindsay Buckingham but minus Christine McVie (sorry I'm not sorry this is my preferred line-up), and now minus Lindsay plus Mike Campbell and Neil Finn.

I saw them in April and had All The Emotions. All of them. There were the general Stevie emotions, of course. Then there were the Tom Petty emotions, because I'd seen Campbell with Petty and the Heartbreakers the previous summer, on that last tour. Thank god. I don't even know what made me decide to go – I didn't take pictures or buy a shirt like I almost always do – but I was there, and then Tom died. And now Stevie, who adored him, and Mike, who was his musical partner, were on stage together without him.

Then there's Neil Finn, who was? Is? The frontman for Crowded House, who I also love. But more importantly, he was one of the favorites of my friend Andrea, who died of cancer far too young, who lived in Seattle and I made it a point to fly out for her 40th birthday. Who I flew out to sit in the hospital with in the last weeks of her life. Who I met on the Internet of all the ridiculousness, along with an entire group of Webpeeps who I've been lucky enough to ride roller coasters, celebrate weddings, and baptize babies with. Andrea loved Split Enz and Crowded House and made me listen to their catalog beyond “Something So Strong” and “Better Be Home Soon” and find the pop perfection there. There he was, sounding like he was doing Fleetwood Mac karaoke but also sounding like someone I love who is gone.

Not to mention the whole Stevie and Lindsay and will he ever be able to sing again after his throat was injured after his heart surgery and what the hell happened that Stevie decided this was finally a bridge too far to cross with him after everything else they've worked through. I love Stevie but not blindly, and I see Fleetwood Mac touring without two of their three main songwriters but not without her.

All. The. Emotions.

And I went with my grown adopted niece and Stevie sang about children getting older and I was weeping, as I do.

I had decided against buying a shirt, figuring I could make a more rational decision about what I wanted the next day and get it online. And learned to my horror that no, I couldn't, and then the crazy started. The crazy that said “Look! They're going to be in Philly Friday. Get a ticket to that show and buy what you want there. And if you go alone, you can get a more expensive single seat on Mike Campbell's side of the stage and be In It.” I don't remember how long I thought about it. I do know I ran it past my sister, who said she'd done equally as outrageous things, which gave me permission. My sister is one of the sanest people I know and is one of the lines I can never color outside of.

So I bought that Mike Campbell section ticket and reserved a place on the parking lot and vibrated through half a day at work looking forward to it. Until I happened to see something about them canceling the Boston show the night before and looked further and saw that the Philly show had to be postponed due a band member's illness. I was disproportionately devastated. Which is a thing with both addiction and depression – responding to things out of proportion with their actual importance. That disappointment led to a pretty steep downward spiral during which I actually called my sponsor and allowed her to talk me through the insanity maze.

It is recommended that one have a sponsor one trusts and get in the habit of talking to them regularly so that muscle will be exercised when you're feeling crazy or like using or whatever it may be. This is not my way. My traditional way of being a sponsee was crawling through whatever on my own and calling my sponsor to tell her about it afterward, and getting together with her just long enough to work whatever my next step was before my anniversary. Then my very smart Buddhist sponsor with 20 years clean relapsed, and everything changed.

[bastardtravel]

August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about “brewing in New Hampshire“, I learned that there is one beer that stands above all others. It is a Russian imperial stout lovingly handcrafted by an unusually tall hill dwarf, undoubtedly from an ancient recipe that his clan brought from under the mountain untold ages ago.

Wikipedia claims it is “the best beer in America” and also “the most sought-after beer in America”. It’s called Kate the Great, and legend has it that it can only be obtained by locating this master brewer on his home turf, the Portsmouth Brewery, and praying to whatever gods you keep that the stars have aligned and it’s in season.

It was drizzling on Mystery Hill, but it hadn’t quite started to monsoon in Portsmouth yet. Thunderclouds loomed in the sky like hanged men, shrouding the little downtown in portentous darkness. Everyone we encountered hated us. This isn’t altogether foreign to me, I’ve chosen the Bastard moniker for a reason, but the Girl tends toward amicability and we hadn’t done anything yet.

In The Shadow Over Innsmouth, an archaeologist crossing New England in search of genealogical information finds a foggy, derelict port town. He thinks it might be interesting to check out, so he books a room and pokes around. The locals seem to share a common deformity, a scaling skin disease, puffing around the face and eyes, and unusual hydrocephaly. They spurn him outright. We’re talking like, Amish shunning. The inhabitants call him an outsider and refuse to sell him anything. They bar most public places against him, and retreat into their homes if they see him on the street. As the novella goes on, he discovers that the inhabitants of Innsmouth have been interbreeding with a race of cannibal fish-people, the Deep Ones, who conduct grisly rites in worship of a bloodthirsty aquatic god called Dagon.

I thought the parallels were cute at first, but as our time in Portsmouth wore on, they got more distressing. We’d driven across New Hampshire into an HD remaster of Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth.

The Portsmouth Brewery was wall-to-wall with people, easily the most active building in the town. The hostess sneered that the wait for a table would be 20 minutes. The Girl said that would be fine, and asked if we could get a drink while we wait.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We dodged around the teeming masses of people and, for some reason, all their infant children, to get to the bar. When did the bringing babies into bars phenomenon start? And why? Babies don’t go in bars. Babies go in, I don’t know, parks. McDonald’s Playplace.

Eventually, the girl tending came over to us.

“Hey, we’re here treasure hunting,” I said, trying for charming. “Legend has it this is our best shot at getting Kate the Great. Do you have that right now?”

She scoffed. “We’ll never serve THAT beer again.”

I exchanged a glance with the Girl.

“Is this like, a sensitive subject?”

“No,” she said, providing the exposition she really should have led with, “It’s just, the brewer just quit working here, it was this whole big thing, so we don’t have Kate the Great anymore.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He opened his own brewery, Tributary. It’s in Maine. But here, you can see our draft list.”

This was technically true. It was in Maine, across a bridge, an 8 minute drive from our present location. It was also technically true that we could see the draft list. It consisted entirely of IPAs, which would have been clutch if I’d ever liked one.

“Can we have a minute to think about it?” the Girl asked. The bartender nodded and drifted off. We escaped to the place next door, which had a similar draft list, substituting one of the IPAs with Budweiser which it listed as a “light lager”.

“I can’t Yelp,” the Girl said. “This is impossible. Two for two. You do it. I’m losing hope.”

dolphins have had it good for TOO LONG

A few blocks away was a brewery called Earth Eagle, which specialized in a hopless proto-beer called “gruit”. It’s a Danish word, and should be pronounced “gryoo-IT”, but I pronounce it groot and will continue to do so until dead.

We made our way past the cute little technicolor New England cottages to Earth Eagle. Random assignment from day two of any outdoor music festival would give you the clientele. It was also crowded, but not as bad as the Portsmouth Brewery.

“Could we sit outside?” the Girl asked. The waitress glared at us balefully.

“You can if you want,” she said. “But it’s gonna rain.”

“If it starts to get bad, we’ll move back in,” the Girl said.

“You should probably just sit inside.”

The Girl was ready to fight her on this. She was hangry. I’m always hangry, and so I’ve developed a tolerance. I steered her aside.

“Not worth it,” I said. “If we sit outside, no one’s going to come take our order.”

It looked like no one was going to anyway. After a while, one of the Deep Ones waddled over, and we ordered gruit. It tasted like beer-flavored juice. They also played the entirety of Rancid’s “And Out Come the Wolves”. I found that suspicious. Like they were humoring me, and when I left they’d return to their backward recordings of whale song and those high-pitched meditation bowls.

The scene was about to turn. I could hear them sharpening their knives. During the next ponderous waitress’ circuit, we waylaid, paid, and am-scrayed.

“I’m so hungry,” the Girl said. “This is where we die.”

“Very possible. I’ll bet they have a sacrificial table here, too.”

“Bastard, we need to find something,” she said. “I’ll go back in there and eat tofu puffs if I have to.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “Listen. We’ll go back to the pizza place. We don’t need to drink there. We’ll just get a pizza. It’s impossible to ruin pizza.”

She was hesitant, but I kept saying, “Huh? Piiizza?”, and that eventually won her over. That’s a pro strat for you, fellas. No charge. Just remember where you learned it.

They were kinder at the pizza place, probably because it was in a basement full of aquariums, and being below sea level and surrounded by their brethren soothed the agitated merfolk. They had a giant neon sign for RED HOOK, which I presumed to be of “The Horror At” fame, and would have won me a prize had I remembered my Mythos bingo card.

We asked the first pleasant waitress in New Hampshire for garlic and it baffled her.

“Garlic? Like, whole garlic?”

“No, like, powder,” the Girl said. “Or salt, if that’s all you have.”

“We… might have some in the kitchen.”

“That’s only a thing where we’re from,” I told her. “When I went west, none of the pizza places had garlic. A lot of ’em didn’t even have oregano.”

The Girl looked as though she might cry. “But… but why?”

“Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

We were given this.

garçon! a ration of garlic powder, s’il vous plait, and your finest sprinkling fork

We walked back out into the building tempest. The fishfolk were growing stronger as it became soggier. It was like you could hear the Jaws theme playing in the distance.

“We gotta look at the whale wall,” I said. “That’s like the only other attraction. Then we get the hell out of here.”

We looked at the whale wall. It was both.

Then, we scurried back to the car.

mood

Unfortunately, the Deep Ones were lying in wait for us. A supply truck was sitting in the middle of the street, right next to my car, parking us and only us in. I couldn’t get around it, and there wasn’t enough sidewalk for any real desperate escape maneuvers. I waited, crouched in the driver’s seat with a fileting knife clutched to my chest. The Girl sat shotgun, slowly pumping up a super soaker full of tartar sauce.

Some other lost tourist/genealogist had parked in front of us, and finally returned to her car. She got the hell out of my way and we made our daring escape.

We crossed the bridge into Maine. It immediately stopped raining. Whatever ancient cult magic held sway in Portsmouth didn’t extend beyond its borders.

Tributary Brewing Company even had a parking lot for free! It was busy, as one would expect for the chosen brewery of the creator of America’s alleged best beer. We sat on the bench along the wall and had a flight and took in the ambiance, most of which consisted of impressionist paintings of this dude’s face.

Mott the Lesser is what he renamed Kate the Great, presumably in order to avoid legal disputes with Portsmouth Brewing. It wasn’t in season, but that was all right. Ask Tennyson. It was never about the Grail. The quest is all.

The man himself sat at a table, eating his lunch and grinning the grin of a man presently living his dreams. He was surrounded by a squadron of adoring Dads. I will admit the dude had an aura, and his biere de miel and porter were magnificent. The porter tasted like smoked joy.

We went next door to a tasteful mermaid-themed restaurant with walls colored in equally tasteful mermaid tiddy art. In retrospect, I should have photographed that, instead of whatever the hell it was we ate. (I know mine was scallops, and I know they were excellent).

Our next stop, continuing with the supernatural theme along New England’s eldritch ley lines, would lead us to the most haunted restaurant in America.

But that’s a spooky campfire story for another day.

Love,

The Bastard

  The Shadow Over Portsmouth August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about "

[duaneodavila]

Randall Kennedy’s Bold Defense

When an editorial at Harvard’s newspaper, The Crimson, called for law prof Ronald Sullivan’s head, his resignation or dismissal as “faculty dean,” previously known as housemaster before “master” was excised from the language regardless of its reference, the rationale offered a clear vision of how chaos theory trumped attenuation.

Sullivan has failed to address the incongruity of his two roles — defending Weinstein in his role as defense attorney, while simultaneously working to promote a safe and comfortable environment for victims of sexual misconduct and assault in his capacity as faculty dean. We condemn his choice to represent Weinstein and urge him to address the tension between the two roles more directly than he previously has.

As an aside, is the role of faculty dean to “promote a safe and comfortable environment for victims”? This might be taken for granted now, but it’s the sort of rhetorical twist that slips in unnoticed. The post is to be the grown up, the faculty member, to support all students in his care, in Winthrop House. Sullivan’s job wasn’t dedicated to the service of female victimhood.

Sullivan was just as obliged to care for the student accused of committing the sin of “unwelcome conduct of sexual nature” as its “survivor.” They’re both students. The faculty dean is there for both of them, not just the woman. But I digress.

The problem is that to defend Sullivan by pointing out that his service as a lawyer to an accused has nothing to do with his ability to serve the students of Winthrop House does the unthinkable. It disputes the feelings the students who have demonstrated the inability to distinguish entirely unrelated functions.

It’s easy for someone outside to point this out, but then outsiders are easily dismissed, either as misogynists or just incapable of appreciating how horrifying and exhausting it is to be a victim at Harvard. But to defend Sullivan from inside the Academy is to court suicide. The mob of unduly passionate students will ascribe the same claims of fear and loathing that they transferred from Weinstein and Fryer, the sources of their outrage, to Sullivan to his defender. Who would have the boldness, the intellectual honesty, the integrity, to tell these darling, if overly sensitive, students they were wrong, only to have the entitled mob flip on them?

Harvard Law School professor Randall Kennedy has the guts to call bullshit.

A faculty dean is absolutely obligated to do all that he or she reasonably can to promote an environment free of harassment or assault. And anyone in a position of authority on campus is obligated to know that victims of sexual assault have long been cruelly underserved, and that this institutional injustice urgently warrants remedy. But why is it sensible to think that fulfillment of that obligation is compromised because of service as counsel to even a notorious defendant in a prosecution for sex crimes? The position advanced by the editorial board would presumably disqualify any lawyer who represents or has represented people accused of sex offenses.

Forgive him his Gertruding. To suggest otherwise is an impossibility these days, and the students are so inured to tummy rubs that it would be tantamount to promoting rape to point out that the Harvard definition of harassment, whatever a recipient of communication feels it is, whether at the moment of years later, is irreconcilable with any rational notion. Nor could he deny that they are all victims, and that their victimhood is the worst thing ever, notwithstanding that there are people who suffer real harms and then Harvard victims who hear an off-color joke and, at a convenient moment, collapse into self-diagnosed PTSD that will destroy their life.

The Association of Black Harvard Women maintains that Sullivan’s involvement in the Harvey Weinstein case “will only work to embolden rape culture on this campus.” Omitted from this reckless assertion is any theory, much less evidence, supporting it.

Calling out this group invokes the double whammy, race and gender, and that makes one a doubly horrible person. Kennedy points out that this cry is, well, devoid of anything remotely resembling logic. It “emboldens rape culture,” whatever that means, because it does. In the general scheme of Harvard discourse, this is not only good enough, but conclusive when it comes from such an unchallengeable source. Yet, Kennedy challenges them because what they said is inane and baseless.

Kennedy points out Sullivan’s bona fides, both as lawyer and professor, as well as the obvious, yet lost in the outrage sauce, recognition that criminal defense lawyers defend people accused of crimes, as our system mandates. These aren’t really high order arguments. For most of us, they’re too obvious to be worthy of mention, as no rational person can possibly fail to grasp that lawyer isn’t client, that Sullivan is defending the accused, not the crime, that as-yet-unproven crimes by Weinstein aren’t a disease that’s metastasized in Ronald Sullivan’s dark heart.

But for all his needless equivocation, confession of belief in the god rape culture, banality of his points sweetly wrapped in the moderated language of the Academy, Kennedy has done the unthinkable. He has stood up against the mob.

That “progressive” activists could denounce so bitterly a person who has demonstrated so clearly a commitment to inclusive, humane, liberal values and practices is indicative of a concerted illiberalism that is menacing university life. As this controversy unfolds, one can only hope that Harvard authorities will decline to defer to expressions of noisy discomfort and instead adhere to those intellectual and moral tenets that sometimes must bear the uncomfortable burden of complexity. 

It’s more than a hint in his closing paragraph, his mention of “‘progressive’ activists” and their “noisy discomfort,” with their “concerted illiberalism,” that Kennedy has taken the unthinkable risk of defying the sad tears of the most traumatized of humanity, Harvard women, and told them to grow up, to “bear the uncomfortable burden of complexity.”

All this raises one unanswered question: where are all the other academics, from Harvard and every other college and university, standing up for Ronald Sullivan and expecting the unduly passionate and traumatized children in their charge to grow up? Why is Randall Kennedy alone in challenging the simplistic idiocy of the mob?

Randall Kennedy’s Bold Defense republished via Simple Justice

[gendermesenpai-blog]

8:50 pm

Okay, Firefox just fucking crashed and I lost like 3000 words that I just wrote. Fuck I am angry now. I was already having a shitty day and I am angry now.

I am going to angrily try to write what I remember from the post I was working on just now. Holy fuck this is frustrating and it makes me want to just go to bed and not even post anything. This shit is too much effort fuck

OK.

First of all, my medication costs almost nothing now. My prescription doubled this month and I am paying $2. Turns out there is actually pretty decent public healthcare here in this state.

This morning started normal enough, it was my first day on the new doseages and I am using an app now called Medisafe to track my schedule. This is because I was already missing doses before and now I have 3 a day. I went to work and they told us we were going to be doing more zipcodes. These are jobs we have been doing recently involving photographing properties where the owner owes money to the city. Our clients are interested in purchasing this debt. I don’t like it. It’s unethical, it makes me feel unsafe. I am a trans woman, I should not be running around in random neighborhoods putting a target on my back doing these zipcode jobs. And yet I am the one who has to map everything because no one else in the company knows how to use the internet and shit. I have done hundreds of these houses, they keep telling me to do it because I’m good at it. It feels like being punished. Oh, good job with these pictures, here’s a bunch more. I am getting into altercations with people, with drivers. I got chased off one block by a car today. I only got away because I can bunny hop speed bumps, he would have destroyed his car trying to follow me at that speed.

Anyway, I don’t like it. I had to change a flat out there today. I went to a church and changed it on the steps. I felt like that was the best I could do for my safety. I explained how I felt about this better in the post that Firefox crashed and destroyed. But anyway it sucks. At least there was another courier from my company doing a nearby section of houses and we rode out there together, met back up and smoked etc. Rode back together. I like him, he’s cool. Maybe I have a little crush or whatever. Nothing can be done. He’s not queer at all and I’ll probably never pass to any of these people because they know me too well in the male persona. Maybe I’ll look back at that and laugh one day when I have less beard shadow.

Anyway, rode back, they had pizza for us. I ate a lot. I could’ve eaten more. Haven’t been eating much lately because of money problems. I’ve gotten called in my last 2 off days. The last 2 Tuesdays. So no Uber except when I can sneak in a run or two, or after my regular shift when I’m already beat, or on weekends. Uber sucks anyway, I keep handing people bags of spilled shit. There is nothing special or weird about my bag. I have to imagine this is just what happens to every courier who uses a backpack to transport food. Things spill occasionally. Sometimes it’s like every fucking day though. I had to clean so much Tika Masala sauce out of my bag the other day. I’m about to just start carrying all food bags in my hand. I can control my speed with one hand on the bars now, either bar, no braking whatsoever except my legs. I can control my speed to a limited extent with no hands. Just noticed that one recently, it was something I suddenly learned, having gained awareness of by doing it.

OK but anyway, so I’m already pissed off from the zipcode shit, and they send me out to a drop near my house, so I hit my house, smoke, then cut down to the coffee place to take some coffee to go downtown. A week ago or a couple weeks ago or something, one of our drivers got into an altercation with a woman who works at this coffee place and happens to be a trans person of color. Apparently, something he said set her off and she shut down the shop, saying something about “fuck white people.” I think this is awesome. Everyone at my company thinks it is ridiculous and keep talking about her in a demeaning way. So I have already heard this story multiple times, and every time it’s told, even by our female dispatcher, it is always “trans woman.” They say it every single time, never just woman, never woman of color. Always “this trans woman at the coffee place.” But anyway, I hadn’t heard the driver himself talking about until today, and he managed to piss me off so quick, holy shit. He was basically asking who did the coffee run today, does *SHE* still work there, and he said she super sarcastically or like in an intentionally derogatory or insincere way. Of course, I did the coffee run, but I have no interest in talking about the fact that I saw the woman there, waved, and she didn’t acknowledge me, because that would just support their narrative about this crazy *trans* woman who hates white people and has it out for our tiny random delivery company. Also, right before he walked in and started talking about this, we had been trying to smoke a blunt outside and our two main office people, the guy who started the company and his weird pseudo girlfriend who lives above the office and is basically our main dispatcher, the two of them, started yelling about how we can’t smoke weed because the people across the street said something blah blah I don’t know, it’s fucking infantile, so I walked away to smoke around the corner and she followed us to like, scold us and say no we can’t smoke there either, only in the back yard or blah blah and I’m going like, wow, really, you’re my fucking mom and you’re going to tell me what to do now? We were going behind our work van, no one could’ve seen us. I should’ve told her to fuck off, she was being paranoid and we weren’t doing anything wrong. But anyway, so I was on edge from that and already thinking about leaving, and this guy starts talking about this trans woman this and trans woman that and emphaszing *SHE* and *HER* everytime he said it, and then I hear him go “yeah shes a tranny” and I’m just like oh wow ok. This is the reality of my life. I work at a company where people get to use slurs against me in my own office, and I can’t say anything because no one knows I am trans. So i nudged the only guy there who knows, and I was like, do you hear this? And he hadn’t been paying attention. And then I left. It was starting to rain so I just went to 7/11 and bought a burrito and took 5 bucks cash back out to pay my roommate for bud. And I’ve just been here since then, kind of hating myself and my life. Even though I live in this great rowhome, my medication costs $2 a month, I get high all the time and ride bikes for money, yadad ada.

Also, and this is almost certainly related, my self esteem is directly inversly proportional to the visibility of my beard shadow. No shadow, high esteem. Big shadow, low esteem. And I haven’t shaved in like 2 days or something. I just didn’t have time this morning. I hate it I hate it I hate it why can’t I burn it all off I hate it fucking dysphoria fucking fucking fucking shit

I get paid tomorrow. I am expecting maybe $700. I will have to pay one of my drug dealers $70, another $110. Then I have to pay at least $150 on my Paypal Credit. I owed them $400 in March and now it’s up to like $550 from fees. So $150 to put it back where it was. Then I need a new Boombotix because the charging port fell into the casing of my last one. Considering just jumping into the minirigs but $115 is a lot for a speaker during a month like this when the Boombotix is only $20. Then I need to buy razors, new shorts, maybe new Sidis if I can find them for less than $100. Some new furniture for my room, a dresser at least. And a chair. Time Atac pedals so I can stop popping out during skids. A fresh gatorskin since mine is very badly worn out. From skidding.

On the upside, I am getting really good at skids now. Probably doesn’t justify $60/mo on tires, but yeah.My desktop and laptop are both pretty fucked up right now, might need to look into some possibilities there.

I’m straight up alternating eating peanut butter and drinking water right now. Now I’m laying down. I have to stay up until like 11pm to take my 3rd dose. 8am, 3:30pm, 11pm. It’s 9:30 now.I still haven’t watched the show footage. I feel very cringy about that. It is over and done with, I should just watch the footage and laugh and move on. But I haven’t watched any of it. The dude still hasn’t sent me everything he has, but I haven’t even watched the 2 videos he did send.

I feel disgusting

dysphoria fuck u

laser hair removal is far too expensive

shaving is too tedious

waxing seems terrifying in a way I can’t rationally explain

how do I just

ugh

thank u for reading my poem

[bastardtravel]

August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about “brewing in New Hampshire“, I learned that there is one beer that stands above all others. It is a Russian imperial stout lovingly handcrafted by an unusually tall dwarven man straight out of Lord of the Rings, undoubtedly from an ancient recipe that his clan brought from under the mountain untold ages ago.

Wikipedia claims it is “the best beer in America” and also “the most sought-after beer in America”. It’s called Kate the Great, and legend has it that it can only be obtained by locating this master brewer on his home turf, the Portsmouth Brewery, and praying to whatever gods you keep that the stars have aligned and it’s in season.

It was drizzling on Mystery Hill, but it hadn’t quite started to monsoon in Portsmouth yet. Thunderclouds loomed in the sky like hanged men, shrouding the little downtown in portentous darkness. Everyone we encountered hated us. This isn’t altogether foreign to me, I’ve chosen the Bastard moniker for a reason, but the Girl tends toward amicability and we hadn’t done anything yet.

In The Shadow Over Innsmouth, an archaeologist crossing New England in search of genealogical information finds a foggy, derelict port town. He thinks it might be interesting to check out, so he books a room and pokes around. The locals seem to share a common deformity, a scaling skin disease, puffing around the face and eyes, and unusual hydrocephaly. They spurn him outright. We’re talking like, Amish shunning. The inhabitants call him an outsider and refuse to sell him anything. They bar most public places against him, and retreat into their homes if they see him on the street. As the novella goes on, he discovers that the inhabitants of Innsmouth have been interbreeding with a race of cannibal fish-people, the Deep Ones, who conduct grisly rites in worship of a bloodthirsty aquatic god called Dagon.

I thought the parallels were cute at first, but as our time in Portsmouth wore on, they got more distressing. We’d driven across New Hampshire into an HD remaster of Call of Cthulhu: Dark Corners of the Earth.

The Portsmouth Brewery was wall-to-wall with people, easily the most active building in the town. The hostess sneered that the wait for a table would be 20 minutes. The Girl said that would be fine, and asked if we could get a drink while we wait.

“Yeah, I guess.”

We dodged around the teeming masses of people and, for some reason, all their infant children, to get to the bar. When did the bringing babies into bars phenomenon start? And why? Babies don’t go in bars. Babies go in, I don’t know, parks. McDonald’s Playplace.

Eventually, the girl tending came over to us.

“Hey, we’re here treasure hunting,” I said, trying for charming. “Legend has it this is our best shot at getting Kate the Great. Do you have that right now?”

She scoffed. “We’ll never serve THAT beer again.”

I exchanged a glance with the Girl.

“Is this like, a sensitive subject?”

“No,” she said, providing the exposition she really should have led with, “It’s just, the brewer just quit working here, it was this whole big thing, so we don’t have Kate the Great anymore.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He opened his own brewery, Tributary. It’s in Maine. But here, you can see our draft list.”

This was technically true. It was in Maine, across a bridge, an 8 minute drive from our present location. It was also technically true that we could see the draft list. It consisted entirely of IPAs, which would have been clutch if I’d ever liked one.

“Can we have a minute to think about it?” the Girl asked. The bartender nodded and drifted off. We escaped to the place next door, which had a similar draft list, substituting one of the IPAs with Budweiser which it listed as a “light lager”.

“I can’t Yelp,” the Girl said. “This is impossible. Two for two. You do it. I’m losing hope.”

dolphins have had it good for TOO LONG

A few blocks away was a brewery called Earth Eagle, which specialized in a hopless proto-beer called “gruit”. It’s a Danish word, and should be pronounced “gryoo-IT”, but I pronounce it groot and will continue to do so until dead.

We made our way past the cute little technicolor New England cottages to Earth Eagle. Random assignment from day two of any outdoor music festival would give you the clientele. It was also crowded, but not as bad as the Portsmouth Brewery.

“Could we sit outside?” the Girl asked. The waitress glared at us balefully.

“You can if you want,” she said. “But it’s gonna rain.”

“If it starts to get bad, we’ll move back in,” the Girl said.

“You should probably just sit inside.”

The Girl was ready to fight her on this. She was hangry. I’m always hangry, and so I’ve developed a tolerance. I steered her aside.

“Not worth it,” I said. “If we sit outside, no one’s going to come take our order.”

It looked like no one was going to anyway. After a while, one of the Deep Ones waddled over, and we ordered gruit. It tasted like beer-flavored juice. They also played the entirety of Rancid’s “And Out Come the Wolves”. I found that suspicious. Like they were humoring me, and when I left they’d return to their backward recordings of whale song and those high-pitched meditation bowls.

The scene was about to turn. I could hear them sharpening their knives. During the next ponderous waitress’ circuit, we waylaid, paid, and am-scrayed.

“I’m so hungry,” the Girl said. “This is where we die.”

“Very possible. I’ll bet they have a sacrificial table here, too.”

“Bastard, we need to find something,” she said. “I’ll go back in there and eat tofu puffs if I have to.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “Listen. We’ll go back to the pizza place. We don’t need to drink there. We’ll just get a pizza. It’s impossible to ruin pizza.”

She was hesitant, but I kept saying, “Huh? Piiizza?”, and that eventually won her over. That’s a pro strat for you, fellas. No charge. Just remember where you learned it.

They were kinder at the pizza place, probably because it was in a basement full of aquariums, and being below sea level and surrounded by their brethren soothed the agitated merfolk. They had a giant neon sign for RED HOOK, which I presumed to be of “The Horror At” fame, and would have won me a prize had I remembered my Mythos bingo card.

We asked the first pleasant waitress in New Hampshire for garlic and it baffled her.

“Garlic? Like, whole garlic?”

“No, like, powder,” the Girl said. “Or salt, if that’s all you have.”

“We… might have some in the kitchen.”

“That’s only a thing where we’re from,” I told her. “When I went west, none of the pizza places had garlic. A lot of ’em didn’t even have oregano.”

The Girl looked as though she might cry. “But… but why?”

“Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

We were given this.

garçon! a ration of garlic powder, s’il vous plait, and your finest sprinkling fork

We walked back out into the building tempest. The fishfolk were growing stronger as it became soggier. It was like you could hear the Jaws theme playing in the distance.

“We gotta look at the whale wall,” I said. “That’s like the only other attraction. Then we get the hell out of here.”

We looked at the whale wall. It was both.

Then, we scurried back to the car.

mood

Unfortunately, the Deep Ones were lying in wait for us. A supply truck was sitting in the middle of the street, right next to my car, parking us and only us in. I couldn’t get around it, and there wasn’t enough sidewalk for any real desperate escape maneuvers. I waited, crouched in the driver’s seat with a fileting knife clutched to my chest. The Girl sat shotgun, slowly pumping up a super soaker full of tartar sauce.

Some other lost tourist/genealogist had parked in front of us, and finally returned to her car. She got the hell out of my way and we made our daring escape.

We crossed the bridge into Maine. It immediately stopped raining. Whatever ancient cult magic held sway in Portsmouth didn’t extend beyond its borders.

Tributary Brewing Company even had a parking lot for free! It was busy, as one would expect for the chosen brewery of the creator of America’s alleged best beer. We sat on the bench along the wall and had a flight and took in the ambiance, most of which consisted of impressionist paintings of this dude’s face.

Mott the Lesser is what he renamed Kate the Great, presumably in order to avoid legal disputes with Portsmouth Brewing. It wasn’t in season, but that was all right. Ask Tennyson. It was never about the Grail. The quest is all.

The man himself sat at a table, eating his lunch and grinning the grin of a man presently living his dreams. He was surrounded by a squadron of adoring Dads. I will admit the dude had an aura, and his biere de miel and porter were magnificent. The porter tasted like smoked joy.

We went next door to a tasteful mermaid-themed restaurant with walls colored in equally tasteful mermaid tiddy art. In retrospect, I should have photographed that, instead of whatever the hell it was we ate. (I know mine was scallops, and I know they were excellent).

Our next stop, continuing with the supernatural theme along New England’s eldritch ley lines, would lead us to the most haunted restaurant in America.

But that’s a spooky campfire story for another day.

Love,

The Bastard

  The Shadow Over Portsmouth August 11, 2018. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In the deepest hidden recesses of the internet, on a vague Wikipedia page about "