#and concrete examples on how to better myself

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Richard R John’s “Network Nation”

THIS SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

The telegraph and the telephone have a special place in the history and future of competition and Big Tech. After all, they were the original tech monopolists. Every discussion of tech and monopoly takes place in their shadow.

Back in 2010, Tim Wu published The Master Switch, his bestselling, wildly influential history of "The Bell System" and the struggle to de-monopolize America from its first telecoms barons:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/11/01/the-master-switch-tim-net-neutrality-wu-explains-whats-at-stake-in-the-battle-for-net-freedom/

Wu is a brilliant writer and theoretician. Best known for coining the term "Net Neutrality," Wu went on to serve in both the Obama and Biden administrations as a tech trustbuster. He accomplished much in those years. Most notably, Wu wrote the 2021 executive order on competition, laying out a 72-point program for using existing powers vested in the administrative agencies to break up corporate power and get the monopolist's boot off Americans' necks:

https://www.eff.org/de/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

The Competition EO is basically a checklist, and Biden's agency heads have been racing down it, ticking off box after box on or ahead of schedule, making meaningful technical changes in how companies are allowed to operate, each one designed to make material improvements to the lives of Americans.

A decade and a half after its initial publication, Wu's Master Switch is still considered a canonical account of how the phone monopoly was built – and dismantled.

But somewhat lost in the shadow of The Master Switch is another book, written by the accomplished telecoms historian Richard R John: "Network Nation: Inventing American Telecommunications," published a year after The Master Switch:

https://www.hup.harvard.edu/books/9780674088139

Network Nation flew under my radar until earlier this year, when I found myself speaking at an antitrust conference where both John and Wu were also on the bill:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VNivXjrU3A

During John's panel – "Case Studies: AT&T & IBM" – he took a good-natured dig at Wu's book, claiming that Wu, not being an historian, had been taken in by AT&T's own self-serving lies about its history. Wu – also on the panel – didn't dispute it, either. That was enough to prick my interest. I ordered a copy of Network Nation and put it on my suitcase during my vacation earlier this month.

Network Nation is an extremely important, brilliantly researched, deep history of America's love/hate affair with not just the telephone, but also the telegraph. It is unmistakably as history book, one that aims at a definitive takedown of various neat stories about the history of American telecommunications. As Wu writes in his New Republic review of John's book:

Generally he describes the failure of competition not so much as a failure of a theory, but rather as the more concrete failure of the men running the competitors, many of whom turned out to be incompetent or unlucky. His story is more like a blow-by-blow account of why Germany lost World War II than a grand theory of why democracy is better than fascism.

https://newrepublic.com/article/88640/review-network-nation-richard-john-tim-wu

In other words, John thinks that the monopolies that emerged in the telegraph and then the telephone weren't down to grand forces that made them inevitable, but rather, to the errors made by regulators and the successful gambits of the telecoms barons. At many junctures, things could have gone another way.

So this is a very complicated story, one that uses a series of contrasts to make the point that history is contingent and owes much to a mix of random chance and the actions of flawed human beings, and not merely great economic or historical laws. For example, John contrasts the telegraph with the telephone, posing them against one another as a kind of natural experiment in different business strategies and regulatory responses.

The telegraph's early promoters, including Samuel Morse (as in "Morse code") believed that the natural way to roll out telegraph was via selling the patents to the federal government and having an agency like the post office operate it. There was a widespread view that the post office as a paragon of excellent technical management and a necessity for knitting together the large American nation. Moreover, everyone could see that when the post office partnered with private sector tech companies (like the railroads that became essential to the postal system), the private sector inevitably figured out how to gouge the American public, leading regulators to ever-more extreme measures to rein in the ripoffs.

The telegraph skated close to federalization on several occasions, but kept getting snatched back from the brink, ending up instead as a privately operated system that primarily served deep-pocketed business customers. This meant that telegraph companies were forever jostling to get the right to string wires along railroad tracks and public roads, creating a "political economy" that tried to balance out highway regulators and rail barons (or play them off against each other).

But the leaders of the telegraph companies were largely uninterested in "popularizing" the telegraph – that is, figuring out how ordinary people could use telegraphs in place of the hand-written letters that were the dominant form of long-distance communications at the time. By turning their backs on "popularization," telegraph companies largely freed themselves from municipal oversight, because they didn't need to get permission to string wires into every home in every major city.

When the telephone emerged, its inventors and investors initially conceived of it as a tool for business as well. But while the telegraph had ushered in a boom in instantaneous, long-distance communications (for example, by joining ports and distant cities where financiers bought and sold the ports' cargo), the telephone proved far more popular as a way of linking businesses within a city limits. Brokers and financiers and businesses that were only a few blocks from one another found the telephone to be vastly superior to the system of dispatching young boys to race around urban downtowns with slips bearing messages.

So from the start, the phone was much more bound up in city politics, and that only deepened with popularization, as phones worked their ways into the homes of affluent families and local merchants like druggists, who offered free phone calls to customers as a way of bringing trade through the door. That created a great number of local phone carriers, who had to fend off Bell's federally enforced patents and aldermen and city councilors who solicited bribes and favors.

To make things even more complex, municipal phone companies had to fight with other sectors that wanted to fill the skies over urban streets with their own wires: streetcar lines and electrical lines. The unregulated, breakneck race to install overhead wires led to an epidemic of electrocutions and fires, and also degraded service, with rival wires interfering with phone calls.

City politicians eventually demanded that lines be buried, creating another source of woe for telephone operators, who had to contend with private or quasi-private operators who acquired a monopoly over the "subways" – tunnels where all these wires eventually ended up.

The telegraph system and the telephone system were very different, but both tended to monopoly, often from opposite directions. Regulations that created some competition in telegraphs extinguished competition when applied to telephones. For example, Canada federalized the regulation of telephones, with the perverse effect that everyday telephone users in cities like Toronto had much less chance of influencing telephone service than Chicagoans, whose phone carrier had to keep local politicians happy.

Nominally, the Canadian Members of Parliament who oversaw Toronto's phone network were big leaguers who understood prudent regulation and were insulated from the daily corruption of municipal politics. And Chicago's aldermen were pretty goddamned corrupt. But Bell starved Toronto of phone network upgrades for years, while Chicago's gladhanding political bosses forced Chicago's phone company to build and build, until Chicago had more phone lines than all of France. Canadian MPs might have been more remote from rough-and-tumble politics, but that made them much less responsive to a random Torontonian's bitter complaint about their inability to get a phone installed.

As the Toronto/Chicago story illustrates, the fact that there were so many different approaches to phone service tried in the US and Canada gives John more opportunities to contrast different business-strategies and regulations. Again, we see how there was never one rule that governments could have used if they wanted to ensure that telecoms were well-run, widely accessible, and reasonably priced. Instead, it was always "horses for courses" – different rules to counter different circumstances and gambits from telecoms operators.

As John traces through the decades during which the telegraph and telephone were established in America, he draws heavily on primary sources to trace the ebb and flow of public and elite sentiment towards public ownership, regulation, and trustbusting. In John's hands, we see some of the most spectacular failures as more than a mismatch of regulatory strategy to corporate gambit – but rather as a mismatch of political will and corporate gambit. If a company's power would be best reined in by public ownership, but the political vogue is for regulation, then lawmakers end up trying to make rules for a company they should simply be buying giving to the post office to buy.

This makes John's history into a history of the Gilded Age and trustbusters. Notorious vulture capitalists like Jay Gould shocked the American conscience by declaring that businesses had no allegiance to the public good, and were put on this Earth to make as much money as possible no matter what the consequences. Gould repeated "raided" Western Union, acquiring shares and forcing the company to buy him out at a premium to end his harassment of the board and the company's managers.

By the time the feds were ready to buy out Western Union, Gould was a massive shareholder, meaning that any buyout of the telegraph would make Gould infinitely wealthier, at public expense, in a move that would have been electoral poison for the lawmakers who presided over it. In this highly contingent way, Western Union lived on as a private company.

Americans – including prominent businesspeople who would be considered "conservatives" by today's standards, were deeply divided on the question of monopoly. The big, successful networks of national telegraph lines and urban telephone lines were marvels, and it was easy to see how they benefited from coordinated management. Monopolists and their apologists weaponized this public excitement about telecoms to defend their monopolies, insisting that their achievement owed its existence to the absence of "wasteful competition."

The economics of monopoly were still nascent. Ideas like "network effects" (where the value of a service increases as it adds users) were still controversial, and the bottlenecks posed by telephone switching and human operators meant that the cost of adding new subscribers sometimes went up as the networks grew, in a weird diseconomy of scale.

Patent rights were controversial, especially patents related to natural phenomena like magnetism and electricity, which were viewed as "natural forces" and not "inventions." Business leaders and rabble-rousers alike decried patents as a federal grant of privilege, leading to monopoly and its ills.

Telecoms monopolists – telephone and telegraph alike – had different ways to address this sentiment at different times (for example, the Bell System's much-vaunted commitment to "universal service" was part of a campaign to normalize the idea of federally protected, privately owned monopolies).

Most striking about this book were the parallels to contemporary fights over Big Tech trustbusting, in our new Gilded Age. Many of the apologies offered for Western Union or AT&T's monopoly could have been uttered by the Renfields who carry water for Facebook, Apple and Google. John's book is a powerful and engrossing reminder that variations on these fights have occurred in the not-so-distant past, and that there's much we can learn from them.

Wu isn't wrong to say that John is engaging with a lot of minutae, and that this makes Network Nation a far less breezy read than Master Switch. I get the impression that John is writing first for other historians, and writers of popular history like Wu, in a bid to create the definitive record of all the complexity that is elided when we create tidy narratives of telecoms monopolies, and tech monopolies in general. Bringing Network Nation on my vacation as a beach-read wasn't the best choice – it demands a lot of serious attention. But it amply rewards that attention, too, and makes an indelible mark on the reader.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/18/the-bell-system/#were-the-phone-company-we-dont-have-to-care

[emotionallychargedtowel]

Sand, compulsive caregiver

Something struck me when I was watching episode 5 of Only Friends, and as the show goes on, I can see more and more clearly how significant it was. Like a lot of folks I’ve been discussing the show with and whose posts about it I’ve been reading on here, I had already noticed that Sand was remarkably willing to take care of Ray even though he didn’t offer him much in return. From the first time they met, when he gave him a ride and a safe place to crash so he wouldn’t drive drunk even though he was incredibly belligerent to him, through episode 5 and beyond, Sand has always been ready to rescue Ray at a moment’s notice and asks very little in return. He’s down bad for Ray, certainly, but that doesn’t entirely account for it. And then Sand introduced Ray to his mother and everything clicked.

When Ray first meets Sand’s mom, she sits down with them and takes a big swig of her drink. “Don’t overdo it,” Sand tells her. “The doctor is going to scold you at your health checkup next week.” “You keep nagging at me, you know that?” she responds. “Who between us is the mother, exactly?” My psychology antennae went right up for that. Then Sand’s mom tells Ray, “This guy never stops working. Did you know he sends himself to school? On top of paying the debts I made, that is.” Yep. The ol’ antennae were going off big time by this point.

Later, Ray and Sand are at Sand’s place and Ray remarks, “Your mother is so cool. She seems so understanding.” Sand agrees. “She is. She raised me all by herself. We’re like friends, so I can talk to her about anything.”

That was all the confirmation I needed to feel assured in saying that Sand is a parentified child.

If you aren’t familiar with the term, parentification is a phenomenon in which a child is placed in a parental role or given parental responsibilities that are not age-appropriate. When parentification occurs on a large scale, it’s a form of neglect. Experts divide parentification into two types, which can appear separately or together: emotional parentification and instrumental parentification. Emotional parentification involves meeting the emotional needs of parents (who are often not emotionally available to the child in return), being responsible for the emotional needs of siblings in a parent-like manner, or having inappropriate responsibilities like defusing conflicts and keeping the peace. Instrumental parentification involves being required to help meet more concrete needs. Kids who experience instrumental parentification may have to take care of basic family needs like grocery shopping and cooking or may be given more responsibility for caring for their siblings than is appropriate for their stage of development.

A number of things we know about Sand and his mom show that Sand was parentified. The fact that he has been paying off his mother’s loans while putting himself through school is an example of parentification still occurring in the present. Sometimes a parent isn’t in the position to pay for their child’s education. But having him pay off her debts? At his age? That’s a case of role reversal, and a form of instrumental parentification. It’s unlikely that this is something that only came up when Sand was a young adult. I’d bet he’s been doing important tasks for his mother since he was quite young.

The fact that Sand says his mother is like a friend sounds good on paper. And in some ways it is a good thing. He says he can “talk to her about anything,” which implies he confides in her as well as the other way around. It’s not uncommon for emotionally parentified children to be expected to act as confidantes for their parents while not being able to turn to their parents for the same kind of support in return. (This is a form of parentification I experienced myself.) So Sand is making out better than some parentified kids in that the support goes both ways. But the way he talks about his mother like an equal is still not a great sign, since it suggests that roles in this family-of-two are more permeable than they should be. Parent-child relationships aren’t supposed to be symmetrical, at least not until the child is a full-fledged adult. The child is supposed to be able to expect more emotional support from their parent than they provide in return, and they shouldn’t be asked to provide certain kinds of support at all. And again, this seems like a pattern that was set in place at a time when this expectation was even less age-appropriate than it is at the time of the story.

In addition to the categories of emotional and instrumental parentification, there’s another typology that is based on the kinds of roles that a child may be asked to fill: parent-focused, sibling-focused, and spouse-focused parentification. The parent-focused type involves acting like a surrogate parent for their parent. Sibling-focused refers to acting in a parental role for your siblings. And spouse-focused parentification, sometimes called spousification, involves acting like a spouse for your parent. In my search for information on parentification, I found some cases in which spousification had a seductive, sexualized component in which the child is treated like a spouse in the most inappropriate of ways. But in other cases, it only referred to expecting a child to perform spouse-like functions like emotional support, without involving that seductive aspect.

Sand didn’t have siblings, thankfully. If he had, he probably would have been relied upon to provide a lot of care for them. He may have experienced parent-focused parentification. The way he treats his mother as if he’s her parent, as she herself points out, is an indication of parent-focused parentification. Given the fact that his relationship with his mother seems to be pretty reciprocal, I think there was an aspect that we could call spousification as well, but not in the seductive sense of that term. Rather, his mother seems to have regarded him–indeed, to still regard him in many ways–as a sort of familial life partner.

So what does this mean for Sand as a young adult starting to form relationships? Mostly, it points toward exactly the type of dynamics we’ve already seen come up between him and Ray. John Bowlby, one of the most influential early theorists on attachment, wrote that parentified children often grow up to be “compulsive caregivers.” Sound like anyone we know? Sand starts taking care of Ray almost as soon as he sets eyes on him, then keeps showing up for him again and again. Even after Ray humiliates him at the bar and calls him a whore in the parking lot in episode 6, he still follows him to monitor his safety and, when he gets in a car accident just as Sand feared he would, rescues him and takes him to the hospital. He even takes him home from the hospital and helps him bathe. Compulsive caregiving sounds about right.

There’s a new meta-analysis by Dariotis and colleagues that came out this summer that integrates findings on parentification across 95 studies. It has some interesting things to say about its aftereffects. The strongest finding across studies is that parentification is linked with depressive symptoms and internalizing problems (i.e., problems associated with turning difficult feelings inward). The studies they analyzed also pointed toward a number of factors that could be involved in how and why parentification leads to these outcomes. They include attachment style (parentification is often associated with a lack of secure attachment) and rejection sensitivity. In relationships, they write, “issues of trust and fear” often come up. They note that in one study, adolescents who had been parentified avoided emotional intimacy and had a hard time accepting support from others.

How well does this map onto Sand? Pretty darned well. We don’t know if Sand has depressive tendencies. When it comes to internalizing, most people have a tendency to either internalize more or externalize more, and given the way Sand cultivates a cool, seemingly unaffected demeanor in public and how much punishment he takes from Ray without fighting back, I think Sand tends to internalize more.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Sand had an insecure attachment style. He shows signs of anxious attachment in his pursuit of Ray, but also seems avoidant in some ways, as when he acts like he isn’t getting hung up on Ray when he clearly is. And although, in a similar way, he denies it most of the time, he’s very sensitive to rejection from Ray. Even though Ray usually fails to notice (because he doesn’t attend to Sand’s feelings well in the slightest), viewers get lots of signals that Sand is suffering when Ray pushes him away or minimizes their relationship.

Finally, it would track if Sand avoided emotional intimacy and had a hard time accepting support from others. If so, it would make perfect sense that he’d feel so drawn to Ray, someone who will make achieving emotional intimacy difficult (because he’s unlikely to return his feelings and be demonstrative about it) and who is unlikely to offer support that Sand would have a difficult time receiving. (In this regard, Sand is a classic pursuer–he acts like he wants intimacy but chooses a prospective partner who distances himself, allowing him to continue seeking intimacy without having to face the fears that would come up if he actually received the degree of closeness he claims to want.)

There is some good news for parentified children in Dariotis et al.’s meta-analysis. Positive effects of parentification haven’t been studied much, but when researchers looked for them, they found that it could be linked with greater resilience and positive coping skills. Sand does seem to be good at coping with adversity in some ways. He’s definitely someone you would want to have around in a crisis. He was remarkably level-headed after Ray’s accident. When goaded by Boston, he didn’t respond in an ill-advised combative way, and when Ray impulsively went after Boston, he tried to hold him back.

Sand clearly faced a lot of difficulties to get to the point he has reached at the time of the story. The fact that he has had to put himself through college and pay off his mother’s debts is far from ideal, but the fact that he was able to do this is truly remarkable. One factor linked to positive outcomes for parentified children is praise and validation from parents for their efforts. Sand’s mother seems to recognize all that he has done for her. She praises him when talking to Ray and since this doesn’t seem remarkable to Sand, I’m guessing she does so regularly. This bodes well for Sand’s ability to bounce back from parentification in adulthood.

If Sand can just get past, or at least mitigate, his compulsive caregiving and learn to assert himself–and frankly, kick the habit of falling for guys like Ray–he could look forward to a pretty healthy future. Much more so, certainly, than most of the central Only Friends characters. It depends on whether he’s ready to learn from the events of the show. Time will tell if he manages to do this in the course of the series; if not, we’ll have to hope he does so later on.

A note about cultural context:

Parentification is a Western concept originated by Americans and Europeans and as Dariotis and colleagues point out, more research is needed to understand whether and how it applies to people in other cultural contexts. In the meantime, the construct has been used in studies around the world to (seemingly) good effect.

Cultural factors will definitely impact how this construct takes shape. For example, in cultures that are more collectivist and/or that place a lot of value on filial piety, responsibilities that would constitute parentification in the U.S. or Europe could be commonplace and, as a result, more benign. One risk factor for negative outcomes that Dariotis et al. mention is if the child has a strong sense of having been treated unfairly. This factor is necessarily culture-bound because children’s sense of the fairness of their roles and responsibilities will undoubtedly come largely from comparing themselves to their peers. If a certain role is commonplace in their culture, this sense of unfairness is unlikely to come up and there’ll be a lower risk of negative outcomes.

For the record, I do believe that parentification does cross cultural lines as a phenomenon, despite the different forms it’s bound to take. And I believe that if a definition of parentification was created that was tailored for a Thai cultural context, it would apply to Sand’s situation with his mother.

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

[schizosupport]

Hi I noticed sometimes I can start slipping into something like paranoia or delusions, do you have any resources for getting oneself out of it? I’ve tried looking for advice but mostly it’s the good ol “how to help your loved one” and im like oh lol

Hi there!

I vaguely remember once writing out my personal method of trying to challenge potentially delusional thinking in myself - I want to see if I can find that and reblog it for you.

Overall, for me, I find that when I start to slip, it can help to change gears. If I was gonna go to sleep, I get up, turn on the lights, go to another room, make a little tea. I'm lucky enough that I live with partners who know and understand that I sometimes need support, and so I often seek out company. I try to do it before I get to the point where I'll feel convinced that I shouldn't bother. But I know not everyone has the opportunity to seek out company, I didn't always either.

Try not to argue directly with it, even if it seems silly atm - often arguing about a delusion with yourself or others only makes the delusion MORE concrete .. bc now your brain has to come up with arguments for how this could be real.

I think of my psychosis like a scared little animal that's backed into a corner. And I try to allow it to be there while also keeping track of shared reality, so I don't do something dangerous there.

Personally I think it's ok to do little things that make you feel more safe even if they "lean into a delusion", like holding a magical item of protection. It's very individual whether that's good for a person, so watch out if you start to get obsessive about it. Acting directly on paranoia can often make it worse however, so if you are able not to, it can be better to force yourself to do the thing that scares you. For example my paranoia tells me to hide every part of me under the duvet, and then I'll feel safe. But it's a trap, because once I'm stuck down there I'll become further convinced that if I hadn't done that, I would've become possessed by a spirit. By keeping my head over the duvet the spirit remains a potentiality that has yet to happen. I know similarly if I get anxious about a food once I already started eating it, it's better for me to finish eating it, and that way my paranoia will pass quicker.

This is obviously all very personal, but those were just some thoughts ^^

[janeofcakes]

One Night in Palermo: Chapter 6

Hello, Friends! First, I want to apologize for the extra long wait. I have so many balls in the air right now and more are being added. It's a long chapter, at least. I'll try as hard as I can to post the next one according to schedule, but packing has begun with painting and moving next week. Thanks for your patience and support. 💜

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Anthea? Anthea.

Sherlock rolled the name around in his mind, but the confusion did not abate. He was protecting John, saving him, and she put him right back in danger. He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to carelessly toss John in harm’s way, but not Anthea. Sherlock knew her better than that after the last eighteen months. His brow furrowed before he even finished saying the denial in his head. Anthea was a complicated and very thoughtful woman, and she could be ruthless. Ruthlessly honest was actually how Sherlock thought about it. She was brutally honest with everyone, including herself. If she was really responsible for this, it was for very good reason, and one she believed he would agree with. Sherlock racked his brain for such a motive and could think of nothing. Irked though he was, Sherlock was flummoxed. He needed more data.

“It was all to protect you,” Sherlock said aloud, though more to himself than to John. “Why would she put you in danger? It defeats the whole purpose.”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet and grave. It caught his attention immediately and he fixed his ever-changing eyes on John with intense focus. “How much do you know about that first year you were gone?”

Sherlock drew up to his full sitting height and considered the specifics of the information he had been given. Mycroft had always said John was “coping”, his word for expressing nearly any sentiment. Sherlock had disregarded it out of course. Anthea had informed on John from almost the beginning. As soon as Sherlock asked after his friend, she made a point of telling him about John each time they spoke. However, she did so in very general terms, which had never struck Sherlock as odd. He knew John had struggled, very much so. He knew he had grossly underestimated the effect his death would have on John, but had never pressed Anthea for details. Perhaps he was afraid of what she would say. He felt like a coward now.

“I knew you were deeply hurt,” Sherlock began uncomfortably, resting his hands on the table and averting his eyes. His shame was evident no matter how hard he tried to hide it and he didn’t want to see what John thought of him. His cheeks burned with the beginnings of anger though, anger at himself. He knew he had to face the judgment. He deserved it. Sherlock had hidden for almost two years and he would do it no more, especially from John. He owed John that much for his cowardice.

Sherlock raised his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes and found an overwhelming tenderness that stole the breath from his lungs. John leaned forward a touch.

“Mycroft told you this?” he asked.

“Anthea,” Sherlock corrected.

John said nothing, but a small smile colored his features and he huffed a nearly imperceptible laugh. His blue eyes shifted to the side as he considered this information. Watching silently, Sherlock felt like he should elaborate, but didn’t know what to say. He had no concrete examples, no test results, no real evidence to speak of, and he hadn’t even asked Anthea for any. He had ignored his own nature and manner of conduct because he wanted to hide the truth from his own mind. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly at the weight of it, regret running hot through his veins.

“She didn’t lie,” John’s voice echoed hollowly in the darkness. “It tore me apart and I didn’t know how to put myself back together. I couldn’t.”

Sherlock heard his words, but wasn’t really listening. The growing anger in his heart had suddenly tipped its blade from himself to point directly at Anthea. She cast aside his efforts so easily, never giving him any reason to doubt her. Meanwhile, she pretended to look for the mystery assassin’s identity when she knew all along. Sherlock’s mind, furious and swift, forced memories of their conversations to the forefront. Her accounts of John went from moderately descriptive and saddening to extremely vague and somewhat positive. By the time John was acting as the assassin, she must’ve thanked her lucky stars that Sherlock didn’t ask for more details.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, sharp and piercing. His chin raised defiantly and he glared across the table at John.

“I gave up everything, risked everything, and she knew it was you,” Sherlock snarled, clenching his fists on the table. “She threw you in the fire and played like you were doing better, that you were safe.”

“I was better,” John replied emphatically.

Sherlock stared at him, fury unrelenting, and breathed heavily. John slid to the edge of his seat and leaned over the table until the tips of his fingers were mere millimeters from Sherlock’s fists.

“Tearing apart Moriarty made me feel alive again,” John continued in a measured tone. “It gave me purpose and direction. Everything was so meaningless until then and I felt…good. Ah god, which is not something I want to examine too closely either.”

“You’re not a murderer, John,” Sherlock assured him solemnly.

“Neither are you,” John said with certainty.

They were quiet for a long time, each man lost in his own thoughts. Before Sherlock knew what happened, John’s words had faded away and the fury was back. It darkened his eyes and clouded his mind, bubbling through his body and blood. He had just opened his mouth to curse Anthea’s name when three points of warmth touched the knuckles of his right hand. So angry and used to being alone, he had forgotten someone was in the room with him and froze at the sudden shock of the touch. Eyes wide, Sherlock shifted his gaze down slowly to see the tips of John’s fingers pressed lightly against his own. He swallowed thickly and blinked back up to look at John.

“She did the only thing she could do, Sherlock,” John told him gently. “You’d have had nothing but a grave to come back to if she hadn’t stepped in.”

Sherlock stared into John’s face as the words sank in and the anger faded away. Simultaneously, every conversation with Anthea came back to him as he threw open the door in his mind palace and drank in all the details he had purposefully ignored. The set of her mouth, tone of voice, the look in her eyes and what she hid behind them; every last one spoke to John’s state of mind and her concern for him. Sherlock had been afraid. He hadn’t wanted to see what was right before his eyes.

His hand turned of its own accord and folded over John’s. It felt warm and welcome under Sherlock’s palm. He never wanted to let go and shuddered at the thought that he may have never felt it had Anthea not taken action. Idiot. He was such an idiot.

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock croaked, his voice broken. “If I hadn’t left…If I… She saved you.”

“You both saved me,” John corrected emphatically, turning his hand in Sherlock’s and grasping tightly. He squeezed back just as firmly, but still chastised himself.

“I created the problem,” Sherlock shook his head, eyes glistening.

“You had little choice,” John insisted. “He forced your hand. He is the asshole and you are not to blame.”

His final words were slow and decisive, brooking no argument. Sherlock knew John spoke the truth and vowed to work toward believing it for himself one day. He also noticed John had not said things between them were fine. While that hung heavily on his heart and mind, Sherlock understood. They would revisit the subject in the future, no doubt, but John seemed content to leave it for the time being and Sherlock did not want to press too hard.

John gave Sherlock’s hand one final squeeze before pulling away. He reluctantly let it slip from his fingers and watched John scoot back in his chair.

“We ought to finish before it gets cold,” John said lightly, clearing his throat and nodding down at their plates.

“Right,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Of course.”

The rest of the meal passed in comfortable silence, each man contemplating his own thoughts. Sherlock tried to think about something productive, like how the two of them would get to the next safehouse, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his own long-buried feelings for the man before him. He had never acted upon them, or even let on that he had them. John had always insisted that he was not gay. Didn’t seem much point in trying, but now, with his supposed death behind him and his motivation laid bare, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to come clean.

Sherlock had not realized just how deep in thought he was until John pushed his chair back to rise. Wondering how much time had actually passed, Sherlock cast a look at his plate and found it empty. He cocked a brow. At least he had eaten while his mind was occupied.

“What I can’t figure is, why now?” John said conversationally.

“What?” Sherlock frowned, putting his own thoughts aside. He felt oddly wrong-footed and wondered briefly if he had ignored some previous part of the conversation.

“Why Anthea arranged for us to meet now,” John clarified. “She knew both our assignments. Hell, she probably orchestrated all of our near misses. You can’t tell me it wasn’t all planned down to the letter. The question is why. Why didn’t she just tell me you weren’t dead?”

“Would you have honestly been ready to hear that?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” John admitted.

“I wouldn’t have accepted your being in constant danger like this,” Sherlock stated plainly. 

“Oh, so you’re okay with it now, are you?” John inquired with a grin playing at his lips. “Because I was ready to refuse any drinks to keep from being drugged, never to wake until my arrival at 221B.”

“That does sound like me,” Sherlock couldn’t resist a grin of his own, though it didn’t last long before he sobered, “but knowing what you experienced, how you felt…”

“I needed to heal first,” John said quietly.

“We both did,” Sherlock added. They were silent for a moment before he continued: “Anthea is a very clever woman. I’m sure there is a method to all of this.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” John stood, picking up his plate. “Come on, let’s clean this up.”

Sherlock rose, picking up his dishes as well. They walked to the kitchen island together and wordlessly divided the labor. John transferred leftovers to storage containers and placed them in the refrigerator while Sherlock loaded the dishwasher. Sherlock considered his friend as they worked. There must surely be endless thoughts and emotions hidden under the surface. Much as Sherlock had always railed against sentiment, he was full to bursting with it. He tried to push it aside since Costa’s office, but could not seem to escape the need to express his feelings or the desire to know John’s. Mycroft’s insistence that Sherlock tamp down and ignore his emotions had come to naught, just as Sherlock knew it would. In spite of his best efforts, even since he was a boy, he was simply too human to succeed.

Sherlock stood near the dinner table and watched John walk towards the door to the bedroom. A thousand questions consumed him, the dam threatening to break. He knew John had questions too. He could see it in his posture, hear it in his voice; the barely contained desire to know everything. And yet, here they were, dancing around one another after a night spent jumping from roof to roof.

“John,” Sherlock began, stopping as the man turned to face him. He wore the lopsided half smile Sherlock had oft dreamt of, the one that stole his breath away.

“Yeah?” John replied, the smile fading a bit when Sherlock simply stared back contemplatively. John’s brow furrowed with concern after another moment. “What is it?”

“You have questions,” Sherlock answered without hesitation. If John was surprised, he didn’t show it. He watched Sherlock thoughtfully, as if sizing him up, and pulled his shoulders back minutely. Into battle then.

“True,” John nodded sharply. His voice was tight, but good-natured.

“And you’re angry,” Sherlock continued.

“Also true,” John agreed.

They stood facing one another, neither of them saying a word. Sherlock didn’t know where to begin. He had hoped John would ask him something, anything to get the ball rolling. It appeared he had no intention of making any part of this easy.

“John, I…” Sherlock started, but John swiftly thwarted him.

“We need to get some sleep,” he interrupted, his body tense. “I assume we have a big day ahead. You need to be somewhere else to contact Mycroft, yeah?’

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed weakly.

“Right then,” John gestured back to the door behind his back. “You want the shower first?”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock said and then walked toward the man. “I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

He entered the bedroom and approached a chest of drawers. Opening the third drawer, he pulled out a white tee and a pair of light blue pajama pants.

“The trousers will be too long, but they’ll do,” Sherlock remarked, handing the clothes to John. He gestured to the two smaller drawers that were side by side at the top of the chest. “Pants and socks are here.”

John moved forward and opened a drawer when Sherlock side-stepped out of the way. He shuffled around before selecting a pair of pants and sliding the drawer closed. Sherlock tried pointedly not to look at the garment.

“You should find all you need in the bathroom,” Sherlock told him. “Feel free to search any cupboards and drawers.”

“Thanks,” John said, heading for the ensuite. “I won’t be a minute.”

“Take as long as you need,” Sherlock answered with a wave of his hand. “No rush.”

“Ta,” John gave a half smile before closing the door and leaving Sherlock to stand alone in the bedroom.

Feeling a little awkward, Sherlock left the room and walked to the desk in the flat’s other room. His eyes roved over its spartan contents; a small lamp, desk calendar, and two ballpoint pens positioned neatly to the right of the closed laptop in the center. Fixing his gaze on the laptop, Sherlock bent forward and placed a palm on either side of its smooth surface. Leaning over the desk, his elbows straight and supporting his weight, he blew out a long sigh. He was still torn between berating Anthea and thanking her, though he knew the final decision would be the latter. He owed her so much. To have John back in his life, alive and well, meant everything. Her actions had saved John and brought Sherlock back from the brink. He hadn’t even realized how close he had been to losing himself until he saw John’s eyes glaring at him in Costa’s office. He truly did owe Anthea both their lives.

As his thoughts turned away from Anthea and moved toward John again, Sherlock became aware of a pressing problem he must soon deal with. There was only one bed in the flat. He turned his head slightly and slid his eyes to the rather comfortable-looking couch tucked in the corner with a flat screen. He knew how absurd the thought was, even as he considered sleeping on it alone instead of in the bed with John. It was ridiculous, which John would definitely point out. They had slept in the same bed many times before. Always for a case and usually in a king size bed, however. The queen size he recalled seeing in the next room would make it more difficult to keep from bumping into one another in the night. Not that incidental contact had ever been a problem in the past, but everything felt different. Perhaps because Sherlock rather unintentionally allowed his mind to admit that he loved John, he thought with a derisive snort. He had already known his own feelings long ago, but had stored it away in his mind palace where it wouldn’t cause trouble. It resurfaced now and again, but throwing himself into dismantling Moriarty’s network had occupied his mind for the most part. Sherlock had also never formally thought it out loud and, now that he had, it wouldn’t go away. This new state of mind, of being, was going to make a lot of things more difficult for him. He was just worrying his lower lip over his tendency to flail long limbs across the bed when a voice from behind startled him.

“Sherlock,” came a soothing voice that spun him on his heel. Wide, blue-green eyes fixed on a somewhat rumpled John Watson standing only a few feet away. He had not even heard the man enter the room and scolded himself for being so distracted. The corner of John’s mouth was curled up in amusement and his eyes twinkled as he studied Sherlock’s look of surprise.

“Bathroom’s yours,” John said, quiet laughter in his tone. “You, uh, okay then? You seem a little out of sorts.”

“M’fine,” Sherlock said quickly.

The other side of John’s mouth turned up and a knowing look spread across his face. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. Against his better judgment, he let his eyes run the length of John’s body. His blonde hair was combed, but still wet and ever so slightly tousled. Was that something he had started doing since Sherlock had left London? The t-shirt he wore was just a bit small, stretching across his broad shoulders and clinging in all the best places. Conversely, his pajama bottoms were loose and much too long, pooling around his ankles and leaving only his toes visible beneath. Sexy and adorable. As dichotomous as the man himself and Sherlock absolutely loved it. He loved John. Now that it was out of the closet he had shoved it in, the thought obviously planned on popping up at any moment it saw fit, no matter how inconvenient it was for Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John tested curiously.

“Yes, good,” Sherlock blurted. “Thank you.”

He wove his way around his friend and walked swiftly to the bedroom. He kept glancing at the doorway as he gathered pajamas and pants, expecting John to walk in before he made it to the ensuite. Whether John was giving him some privacy or fetching himself a glass of water, Sherlock did not know. Thankfully, John did not enter until he was safely in the next room.

Sherlock cleaned his teeth first and then stripped down. Reaching past the curtain and flicking on the taps, he glanced in the mirror above the sink and what he saw gave him pause. He looked the same way he had that morning and yet, completely different at the same time. His eyes were brighter and his face less drawn. Everything about his countenance appeared fresher somehow, like someone had given his old black and white a dose of technicolor. John’s influence. It was obvious. His conductor of light. Sherlock had certainly missed him, but had not fully comprehended how much until that moment and he was struck by the enormity of the realization.

Shaking it off, Sherlock stepped into the shower and under its warm spray. The water sluicing down his body felt heavenly, already taking with it the sweat and stress of the day. Sighing deeply, he leaned forward and bent his head directly into its path. He rested both palms on the wall before him, somewhere between the nozzle and taps. With his elbows straight, his body slanted forward, he let the spray pelt his scalp and melt away his thoughts. Warm water ran down the sides of his face and neck. Droplets wound their way down his back and sides, his buttocks and thighs. Their meandering paths almost tickled as they trickled over knees and down his calves.

Sighing, Sherlock turned under the spray and nearly moaned aloud when the force of the water danced along his stiff neck and shoulders. The streams massaged away the tension like skilled fingertips applying delicious pressure to just the right spots. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and allowed his mind to think of John’s clever hands doing the massaging until his cock gave a twitch of interest.

His eyes flew open with a start and Sherlock straightened his spine. He wouldn’t deny that he had touched himself while thinking of John before. He didn’t even feel guilty about it, but he wasn’t about to masturbate to thoughts of John while the man was in the next room.

That firmly decided, Sherlock smoothed back his dark hair and grabbed the shampoo to his left. He lathered and rinsed his hair quickly before applying a thin layer of conditioner to the strands. He ran his fingers over and through it to rinse out the viscous liquid, leaving his wet curls silky and smooth. He picked up a flannel hanging from the rod on the opposite wall of the shower. Obviously built to house a towel while one showered, though he never understood that particular practice. The principle made sense, providing easy access to the towel, but it always got wet when he tried it. Perhaps he was simply too reckless with the water. Wouldn’t be the only situation in which he did not exercise enough caution.

Once the flannel was properly lathered with the sandalwood scented soap, Sherlock washed his body thoroughly and rinsed off the suds. He considered luxuriating under the spray, which was still surprisingly warm after two showers. John’s had been quite fast though, an after-effect of military life. Sherlock himself had no such tendencies. His marathon showers were one of the things John used to tease him about most, in fact, and the memory made Sherlock smile to himself. Despite the temptation to linger, Sherlock turned off the water and pushed the shower curtain aside. If he stayed in much longer with John on his mind, he would risk breaking his earlier resolution not to indulge.

Sherlock reached for a towel as he stepped from the shower and dried himself off quickly. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and blue, striped pajama bottoms in minutes. His did not bunch around his ankles with six inches of extra fabric the way John’s had. A smile unexpectedly spread across his face at the thought of John objecting indignantly to six inches in the legs alone. He laughed quietly to himself and placed his hand on the doorknob, but stopped before turning the cool metal. John was out there in nothing but pajamas, probably in the bed. Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin line and stared at his hand on the spherical knob. His fingers were wet with condensation from the steam in the air. His eyes widened in anticipation of opening the door and seeing the scene beyond. Maybe he would be lucky and John would be asleep already. It was rather late and they both had a stressful day, especially at its close. Either way, Sherlock couldn’t delay any longer. A wakeful John would seek him out and that would be much worse.

Swallowing first, Sherlock turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dim. John had switched off the overhead lights in favor of the two small lamps on either side of the bed. Speaking of which, he was sat on the left side, his legs hidden under the covers. His back and pillow leaned against the headboard, and he looked up from the book in his lap as Sherlock entered.

“Hey,” John greeted softly. “I hope there was enough hot water for you. Forgot you take such long showers.”

“No problem there,” Sherlock shook his head once.

He intended upon moving his feet and approaching the bed, but his legs did not seem willing to lift them. John did not move either, nor did he shift his eyes from Sherlock’s. They simply stared while the air slowly electrified around them. God, Sherlock wanted to touch him. He wanted to press his lips against John’s and sweep his tongue inside when they opened on a moan of his name. John had said his name so many times and in so many ways. How would it sound in a gasp filled with want and need and pleasure?

Sherlock’s crystalline eyes widened and he nearly panicked when his nether regions began to express an interest in his line of thought. He lurched toward the bed suddenly at the first stir and jumped under the duvet, pulling it up to his waist quickly. John almost jumped out of the bed and let out a short laugh at the acrobatic performance. Sherlock stared straight ahead, ignoring him at first, but eventually turned his head to look at the man next to him.

“What?” Sherlock tried to sound irritable in hopes that John would let it go.

“Anxious to get in bed, are we?” John stifled a chuckle without hiding his smile.

Sherlock did not answer. He gave an impatient sigh and rolled his eyes, scooching himself down to lie on his back. He tucked the duvet up under his arms and then bent them to rest his hands on his own chest. He wove his fingers together and cast his eyes to the ceiling. John hadn’t moved and was still looking at him. After a moment, Sherlock turned his head to meet the man’s eyes with an air of annoyance.

“Won’t bother you if I read for a bit, will it?” John lifted the book minutely. He was only a few pages in and must have selected it from the shelves in the next room. “Helps me sleep if I can relax first.”

“Please do,” Sherlock told him. “I go to my mind palace in the same vein.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” John gave a nod and went back to his book.

Sherlock straightened his neck and looked up at the stark, white ceiling once again. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as he released it. Entering his planning room, he began to revise the following day’s travel to Rome to adjust for John’s presence. Given the ferry and train system in Sicily and Italy, it wouldn’t be difficult. The two of them being seen together could be risky, however, and created the need for another disguise. Sherlock had only just begun to sort through this when John’s voice echoed through the palace. While he would normally berate his friend for this, John’s precise choice of words eradicated such a notion.

“Don’t ever leave me again.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, his head turning sharply to look at John. His friend still sat beside him, book in his lap, but his knuckles were white where he held it tightly and his blue eyes were closed. As if feeling Sherlock’s eyes, John opened his own and returned the gaze. His face was full of tension and pain, his jaw clenched and working. His eyes were hard as steel and yet, pleading.

“EVER,” John said loudly, angrily. “Especially like that. I can’t… do that again.”

His voice broke in the middle and Sherlock honestly couldn’t tell if it was from anger or desperation. John was torn between the two and his resolve to hide it was cracking. The tether he had so carefully kept on his emotions was fraying and ready to snap.

“Why did you do it?” John’s voice was suddenly deadly quiet and it felt strange in the room after the volume of his previous words. His eyes were closed again and he had turned away as though he would never truly want to look at Sherlock again. “Why did you make me watch?”

Sherlock didn’t know whether John had intended to say fall or not, but he hadn’t needed to. Sherlock heard it anyway and the word echoed through his mind. The pain in John’s voice was unbearable. It broke and shook as he spoke, and he still could not look at the man in the bed next to him. Sherlock felt completely gutted. All the air taken from his lungs and no words to speak. His heart ached for John, his chest clenching painfully around it. He opened his mouth, but his voice died on his lips. How does one explain to the love of his life that he knowingly hurt him deeply without realizing just how deeply the pain would run?

“I… had to,” Sherlock forced the words from his throat. “I’m sorry. I never intended to hurt you so deeply.”

“Had to?” John barked, ignoring the rest. “You had to make me watch you jump off a building?”

John bit out the words, his teeth clicking in fury. His hands closed the book in his lap and placed it on the bedside table, seemingly of their own volition. His eyes had snapped open with his words and he glared at Sherlock coldly.

“You couldn’t just let Greg or some other cop tell me. I had to see it,” John was louder now. The emphasis he put on ‘had to’ spoke of his hatred in the moment. “You fucking called me to say goodbye. Make it worse. Leave a note. God, do you know how long I heard your voice in my dreams? No, not even just then, when I was awake too. I heard it wherever I went. ‘This is what people do’, you said. You listened to me beg.”

“John!” Sherlock pleaded suddenly, grasping the man’s hands. He knew he deserved this. He should have every word hurled right at his head, never to be deleted, but he couldn’t bear even one more. “John, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t touch me!” John jerked his hand away, icy blue eyes boring into Sherlock’s. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re sorry. I want to know why. What twisted reasoning in your mind could possibly justify that?!”

Sherlock stared at him with wide, beseeching eyes. He had recoiled when John tore his hands away and kept his distance, but wanted desperately to take John in his arms and explain. It was all to save their lives; John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock could not live knowing his actions had killed them.

“Don’t,” John ordered suddenly. 

Sherlock felt his body lurch back, away from the man, but he forced himself back. He could not hide behind cowardice and must face John’s ire head-on.

“I know about the threats,” John muttered angrily. “Anthea told me you had to jump to save the three of us. I get that, I do.”

“It had to be you,” Sherlock interrupted. He had to fix this. John needed to understand, he had to. “You wouldn’t have believed otherwise. If you hadn’t seen me fall, hadn’t checked for a pulse and found none… If you hadn’t heard me say the words, you never would’ve believed and you wouldn’t have let it go.”

John glared, never taking his off Sherlock, but he remained silent. Sherlock took it as permission to continue.

“You would have harassed Mycroft, searched for me as best you could, even told the press you didn’t believe I was dead,” Sherlock told him and John finally tore his eyes away. “Moriarty’s men would have killed you. All three of you. You know it’s true.”

John raised a far different gaze to meet Sherlock’s, one that was soft and wet. Sherlock’s heart squeezed in his chest. John understood. He knew Sherlock’s words were true and, much as he may hate what the man did, he understood his decision to do it. Unable to look at John another minute, Sherlock bowed his head and looked down at the duvet. A tear slipped from each eye as he closed them, running down his face to land dark on the light blue blanket.

“I knew it would hurt you,” Sherlock’s normally polished baritone was rough and broke over the last word. He lifted his head to look at John, “but I had no idea it would be so much.”

John’s eyes widened with incredulity and he let out a disbelieving huff that dislodged pooling tears. Wiping them away quickly, John inhaled sharply and held it a moment. He let the air out slowly, trying to calm himself. Sherlock pushed on, not wanting to lose his nerve.

“We were, are friends,” Sherlock continued.

“Best friends,” John corrected with a mutter.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed with solemn trepidation, “but I had no idea that meant you would… I’ve never had that, John. I thought you’d feel it with the same intensity as Greg or Molly or maybe even Hudders. I thought you’d be sad and then move on.”

John visibly bristled at this and lifted his chin defiantly.

“I am a genius, John, but when it comes to emotions, I am severely lacking,” Sherlock admitted mournfully, ashamed at his ignorance. “I severely underestimated our friendship and what it means to you. I was an idiot. I am an idiot.”

John huffed again as tears trickled down his cheeks. These, he did not stop and his mouth curved slowly into a small smile. He reached for Sherlock with his left hand and placed it on his friend’s larger one. His palm was warm and comforting on the back of Sherlock’s.

“You’re my idiot,” was all John said.

The flat was quiet. They watched one another, studying, taking note of every detail. John’s thumb absently stroked Sherlock’s hand with a feather touch. It felt peaceful and affectionate. Sherlock wasn’t even certain that John realized he was doing it. In spite of the calm in the air around them, it also felt heavy and Sherlock could feel the specter of words unsaid. He swallowed and steeled himself for what was to come. If they were going to do this, they had to do it all.

“You have more questions,” Sherlock said quietly, but without hesitation.

John gasped nearly inaudibly, his eyes widening. He watched Sherlock for what seemed like a long time before giving a single, shallow nod. Sherlock placed his free hand over John’s and waited. He knew what John wanted to ask. It was written all over his face, especially since the previous question was washed away and would give rise to more. How did Sherlock come to follow this plan? Why did he do it the way he did? He had one simple answer.

“It was the only way,” Sherlock said and if he thought he had to explain his words to John, he was sadly mistaken.

John’s eyes lit with anger and his features hardened right before Sherlock’s eyes. He did not move his hand from where it was sandwiched between his friend’s, but it stiffened and felt cold now instead of the warm weight it had been.

“Was it?” John queried sarcastically, his temper biting. “And whose brilliant idea was it, this amazing answer to all our problems? Whose choice was it to leave me in the dark again, hm?

“Surely, not Mycroft,” John answered his own questions without pausing. He pulled his hand away and rose from the bed abruptly, tossing the duvet toward Sherlock. He gestured with his hands as paced next to the bed, acting out mock consideration. “You never listen to Mycroft. Unless…”

John spun on his heel to face Sherlock with an accusatory finger. Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely, already anticipating John’s words and hating them. The man really was becoming far too clever for his own good. And how many times had John said that about him? He’s learning from the master, Sherlock, Mycroft’s voice chided in his mind before he silently told him to fuck off.

“You were so overwhelmed that you listened to him,” John accused with unmistakable disgust that immediately raised Sherlock’s hackles.

“I wasn’t overwhelmed, John,” he said defiantly in a loud tone before snapping his mouth shut. Swallowing audibly, he continued: “I was fucking terrified.”

John froze. He could probably count the number of times he had heard Sherlock curse on one hand. Admittedly, the naked honesty of his own words surprised Sherlock as well. It was not what he had planned to say, but it was the truth. Now that he’d said it, there was no turning back.

“I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t lose you, not after you swept into my life and changed it in every way,” Sherlock explained unapologetically. “You were everything. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. My thoughts were so focused on you and my own fear that I agreed with whatever Mycroft proposed. I couldn’t get my brain to think of another way.”

“No?” John snapped, unaffected by Sherlock’s growing desperation. “Because I can think of a few right now. You couldn’t have let me in on it maybe? Given me a say in my own damn life?”

“You’re a terrible actor and have a dreadfully honest face,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. “They wouldn’t have believed your reaction was genuine if you had known.”

John stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“Right. You’re right. ‘Nevermind poor John. He’s too stupid to join the ranks of genius.’, John replied sardonically. “You know, I thought everything we’d done together, all the cases, meant something. I thought you trusted me, but obviously not.”

“No!” Sherlock denied, but John spoke over him.

“Fine. You know what? I couldn’t know. We’ll go with that. Sure,” he fumed. “What about after, hm? You could have told me after the fact. Sent me a message or a clue. I know how you love those.”

“They would have intercepted it,” Sherlock interjected.

“Just one bloody word, Sherlock, is all I would have needed. Anthea could have said something,” John didn’t stop for breath, “or bloody Mycroft could’ve told me, for Christ sake. He came around often enough.”

“If they had any reason to doubt my death, even the slightest, they would have killed you to draw me out, or they would have tortured the information out of you,” Sherlock shot back, jumping to his feet. John glared at him from across the bed. “Both are unacceptable.” 

“But lying to me is fair game, yeah?” John countered. “Damn it, Sherlock, I could’ve left London. I could’ve helped you all this time. We’re at our best when we’re together. We protect each other, help each other. Side by side, the two of us against everything else.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word when John finally ended the diatribe. Both men were breathing heavily, their chests heaving, blood full of adrenaline. John was clearly gearing up for another round, but Sherlock had no desire to join him. The voice of reason shone through John’s shouted words and filled Sherlock’s mind palace with a whole new understanding. It had been right there from the beginning, but his fear had hidden it and no amount of his own searching could dislodge it. John had found it. John had helped him find it. He should have told John everything the minute he suspected Moriarty’s plan.

“You’re right,” Sherlock admitted calmly.

“We’d be in the same place we are right now, taking down Moriarty’s netwo…”John trailed off, his face veiled in confusion. “What?”

“I should have told you,” Sherlock clarified. He dropped his hands to his sides and looked down at John thoughtfully. “If I had brought you into the fold, told you my suspicions, we would have finished this months ago.”

John straightened his spine and rested his hands on his own hips. His rapid breaths slowed as he watched his friend, seemingly unsure of what to say.

“I hurt you so badly and put you in more danger by keeping the secret,” Sherlock continued remorsefully.

“You didn’t know,” John said after a moment, “and don’t give me that ‘I should’ve known’ rubbish. That big brain of yours can’t know everything, even if it seems like it does.”

Sherlock closed his mouth slowly instead of voicing that exact protestation. Contemplating the man before him, he wondered if he had ever given John the credit he deserved. He was brave, intelligent, and strong. Sherlock had always acknowledged some of those characteristics. He supposed two out of three wasn’t bad, but it was not enough.

“We are at our best when we are together,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yeah,” John replied, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Silence filled the room and the two men stood on either side of the bed, watching one another. After a long moment, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that John’s pajama pants rode particularly low on his hips after all the pacing and flailing. Grand arm gesturing had drawn his t-shirt in quite the opposite direction and Sherlock could just see a black waistband peeking from beneath the overly long pajamas. Trying desperately to keep his thoughts in check, Sherlock forced his eyes away and concentrated hard on John’s face.

“I am…” Sherlock began, but shut his mouth with a click when John pulled the hem of his shirt down, a sheepish look on his face. He must have seen Sherlock looking and been offended. Sherlock suppressed a frustrated sigh and cursed himself. Goddammit, he would have to lose himself and make a mistake just when he and John were on good terms, fragile though they may be. He briefly wondered if their friendship would ever again be the way it had been. Sherlock sincerely hoped he had not caused irreparable damage, but before getting far in that line of thought, his mind jumped to another topic. 

When they could finally go home, would John return to 221B or find a flat of his own? Would he want to live with Sherlock again or was their friendship ruined? The thought was soul-crushing. Sherlock could not even imagine the flat without John, even though they had only lived together a few short years. He would rather not go back at all than live alone.

“Hey,” John’s voice said from the void.

Sherlock blinked a few times until he came back into focus. He had not meant to slip into his mind palace and the quick descent must have been truly startling, if John’s worried expression was anything to go by.

“What?” Sherlock spluttered inelegantly.

“Are you okay?” John asked with concern. His blue eyes were soft as they studied Sherlock’s face. “You’re white as a sheet.”

John was standing right in front of him. When had he gotten so close? Sherlock quickly took stock of the situation and did not like what he found. Something was wrong. He felt unsettled and nervous. His skin was tacky with a light sheen of sweat and his pulse was accelerated. He nearly flinched away when John’s hand touched his shoulder gently. 

“Hey,” John said again, his brow furrowing. “Why don’t we sit down? Just right here on the bed.”

Head feeling lighter than normal, Sherlock nodded slowly and allowed John to guide him down onto the edge of the mattress. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled from his mouth, just as John instructed. John’s arm wound around his back and one hand rested on each of his biceps. Sherlock would normally shrug off such coddling, but found John’s touch a grounding comfort. So much so, that he felt rather bereft when John let go after a few long minutes. He felt some measure of satisfaction, however, when John rested his right hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Feeling better?” John asked, already sounding relieved. “Got a bit of your color back.”

“Tired,” Sherlock’s mind provided unhelpfully. For god sake, was this what he had been reduced to? One word responses? He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, just tired.”

“Yeah,” John pressed his lips together into a pensive line and exhaled through his nose, “it has been a long day and will be again tomorrow. You said we need to get to Rome by evening, yeah?”

“Yes, we have plenty of time,” Sherlock answered in an even tone, feeling like himself again. “The ferries and trains take time, but are easy enough to use.”

“That’s an understatement,” John laughed and Sherlock’s heart warmed at hearing it. John’s eyes shifted to the bookcase. “Think Anthea will mind if I grab a couple books for the trip?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock answered with a small smile.

John’s hand was still on Sherlock’s shoulder and he seemed to have no desire to move it. Sherlock didn’t mind, not in the slightest. John could keep it there for the rest of their days. Sherlock would never complain about being permanently attached to a John. They would live side by side, inseparable and content, happy. It sounded perfect to him. It wouldn’t be, of course. They would bicker and argue and disagree. He would still do experiments and John would scold him. The microwave would blow up, but they would be happy. They would love every moment. And each other too? Sherlock wanted that. God, he wanted. He looked into John’s eyes, delighted in the smile on his face, and suddenly it became imperative that John knew everything in Sherlock’s heart.

“I will never leave your side again, John,” was the best Sherlock could do. What he wanted to say was ‘I love you’, but still unsure if it would drive the man away, he settled for this. It expressed the same emotion, just in more abstract terms.

John’s eyes, his entire face, softened and filled with fondness. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment and then lifted his hand. He moved the other one from Sherlock’s shoulder in tandem until they both rested on either side of the man’s face, cupping his cheeks. Sherlock gave an involuntary gasp, his eyes widening. John just gazed at him, tilting his own head thoughtfully. His palms were deliciously warm on Sherlock’s cool skin and he could feel a flush spreading over his face.

John blinked slowly and gave Sherlock the barest of smiles. Sherlock was mesmerized. How had he stood to be away from this man for even two minutes, much less eighteen months? Lost in the moment completely, Sherlock would not have noticed that his own lips had parted ever so slightly, except that John’s eyes lowered to track the movement. Sherlock’s heart shuddered to a halt and he could do nothing but stare. They had shared many intense stares in the past, especially on cases. None had ever felt like this one. Any romantic intent was never there, at least not that Sherlock noticed. Looking into John’s face now was a different story. His eyes were black as night, the color nearly overtaken by pupils. He looked wistful, almost dazed, like he was present in the moment and also thinking of something else entirely. 

John’s thumbs were slowly stroking along Sherlock’s cheekbones now and he melted into the touch. His angular brows arched, climbing to his curls as he watched his friend curiously. His hands ached to reach for John and pull him close, but he held back. Hugging was not something they did, even at the worst of times. It was for the better though. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could keep his own emotions separate from affectionate touch and that would not be good for either of them.

They remained frozen in time and quite wordless. John was still gazing at Sherlock warmly, head tilted in thought. Sherlock, on the other hand, held his breath. He had no idea what to do or what would happen next, and he dared not move for fear the spell would break. With a fond smile, John cradled Sherlock’s face gently and shifted the man’s head slightly as he swooped in to press their lips together softly. Sherlock gasped when their lips met, completely undone. Everything was in slow motion. John moved his lips minutely, carefully testing the waters. Sherlock still didn’t know what to do, but found his lips responding of their own volition. It was a sweet, soft kiss, perfect for a first. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed when they parted. His mind was utterly blank. All of the languages he spoke failed him, except one. “Je t’aime.”

He whispered the words against John’s lips before he could think better of it. John said nothing as he pulled back only enough to look into Sherlock’s cerulean eyes. Both men remained silent, just looking at one another, searching and asking, finding answers. John leaned in again and Sherlock welcomed him, responding immediately as their lips met. His hands floated up John’s back, stopping somewhere in the middle and pulling him closer. His whole body was alight with sensation and trepidation. He had dreamt of this for so long and it felt absolutely transcendent, and also tentative. Part of him feared that, at any moment, John would push him away and demand to know what he was on about. That moment never came, much to his relief and delight. Instead, John tilted his head more to deepen the kiss. Sherlock parted his lips slightly to sigh into John’s opening mouth. The kiss was still chaste, even as they panted and breathed each other’s air. John’s left hand slid down to Sherlock’s neck and he couldn’t help but angle it further to increase access, shivering when John’s tongue licked wantonly across his jawline.

Abandoning all of his carefully curated control, Sherlock dove in. He pushed his tongue into John’s mouth and twisted it to reach every possible surface. John responded in kind, licking into Sherlock’s mouth and teasing mercilessly. Sherlock’s right hand came to rest on the back of his neck as they pressed into each other, chests touching as much as their seated positions allowed. Long minutes passed and every one of them was incredible. Their kisses were urgent, but not frantic, growing in intensity with each touch. 

John was the one to break off when he pulled away to kiss Sherlock’s left cheekbone and then circle to his earlobe where he nibbled and sucked. Sherlock gasped in surprise and then moaned, deep and throaty. His hands roamed up and down John’s back, fingertips and palms alternating like a dance. He wanted John. Right now and with all his being. He needed him. He needed to feel him.

John mouthed down Sherlock’s neck. His touch was amazing, both firm and gentle. Even in Sherlock’s most erotic fantasy, he would not have imagined such pleasure as this. He let out a disgruntled growl when John stopped where neck met shoulder and lifted his lips off the warm skin. Before Sherlock could voice his objection, however, John licked the spot so obscenely that Sherlock’s toes curled. His whole body shuddered and John smiled against his skin right before he bit it gently. 

“Oh!” Sherlock cried out, his body tense and his mind whiting out.

“You okay?” John panted, a touch of concern to his voice. One hand came back to cradle Sherlock’s cheek with a caress so soft it eradicated any doubts he may have harbored. With that reassurance, Sherlock let go.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, gripping his hips and squeezing. “I need you. I need to feel you.”

He grabbed a handful of John’s t-shirt hem and pulled up, revealing tanned skin and a navel. Sherlock nearly died on the spot under the force of his desire. He wanted to press his lips against every inch, licking and nipping as he went. John, clever John, understood immediately and lifted his arms so Sherlock could pull the shirt up and off. He threw it to the floor and kissed John again, wrapping his arms around bare flesh. A moment later, he felt a tug at the bottom of his own shirt and eagerly threw up his arms for John. The fabric whisked over his head and landed near the foot of the bed. Sherlock’s hands were everywhere while John slid his up Sherlock’s chest, skimming over flat plains and skirting around nipples. Their lips kissed and mouthed at earlobes and necks, anywhere they could reach until John pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. They both stared from under heavy lids and then John kissed him again, leaning forward as he did, easing Sherlock backwards slowly. Soon he was lying flat on the mattress with John’s body against his from top to bottom.

John pressed his hips hard into Sherlock’s and they both moaned loudly. Sherlock thrust back and John tipped his head back with a gasp on his lips as their cocks touched. That was all it took for their desires to take over. They rutted agaist each other a few more times, quickly finding a rhythm together. The friction was incredible. They were skin to skin from shoulder to waist. Sherlock could feel every muscle, every bead of sweat on John’s body as they moved. 

“Oh god, John,” he gasped, almost unable to believe it was really happening. He had always wanted this and had been certain he would never realize the fantasy, but here they were and nothing could stop them. Heat pooled in his belly and it was so good, just this side of overwhelming and he wanted more. More.

Suddenly, without warning, John stopped. He was still for a moment as though he needed to think. Shit. Shit. John pulled his weight from atop Sherlock, gazing down at him with dark eyes. Sherlock looked at him with lust and worry, holding tightly to his sides, not forcing him to stay, but making it known that he did not want the man to go.

“Wha’s wrong?” The words came out in a rush. Sherlock had to know what was going on. What had stopped John? How could he fix it?

“I jus’ want to…” John didn’t finish, his words cut off by a wanton moan when he aligned their cocks and dropped his hips so they rested on Sherlock’s once more. “Christ.”

“Oh, god,” Sherlock groaned at the same time. “John, you are a goddamn genius.”

His large hands slid to John’s ass, fingers gripping his cheeks firmly. He held fast and thrust up into the man, taking both their breaths away.

“John. John, I need you. Now.”

He was panting and thrusting slowly, torturously. God, it was perfect. Sherlock could already feel his release coiling in his belly, teasing his loins with the most intense pleasure. He would come harder than ever before, he knew, and it was going to happen embarrassingly quickly, but he really didn’t care. He needed this with John, loved him with every fiber. Somewhere in his mind, even in this state, he thanked the fates that John couldn’t speak French because he could not guarantee that he wouldn’t mutter something in the language again.

“John,” he almost pleaded and John nodded his understanding.

“Yes,” the man rasped. “Oh, god.”

Both men thrust at once and paused for just a moment to bask in the spine-tingling pleasure of their groins pressed together. Even the clothing they wore couldn’t dampen the sensation. In an instant, frenzied movement overtook them. John’s hips snapped mercilessly and Sherlock met him thrust for thrust. Their motions soon became erratic, their bodies twitching and lurching as they chased release. Finally, Sherlock could hold back no longer and he jerked up at John, his whole body rigid as wave after wave ripped through him. John’s climax followed as soon as Sherlock’s began, and quite by surprise, if his expression was anything to go by. They both thrust against one another again, but more gently, muttering the other’s name as the ultimate pleasure washed over them. Sherlock’s whole body tingled and his mind went white, floating through every thought and emotion. He cataloged them all.

When the orgasms began to abate, John slowly opened his eyes to look down at Sherlock. He was breathing hard. He wasn’t the only one. John gave the man a smile and collapsed onto his damp chest.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John exclaimed, his breaths coming fast on Sherlock’s left pectoral. “That wa… was incredible, Sherlock.”

He lifted his head, a radiant smile on his lips. Sherlock swallowed with difficulty around his own panting and grinned back. He had absolutely no idea what to say, so he kissed John instead, softly and sweetly. It felt like magic. What happened when their lips parted was unreservedly out of his control. The words tumbled out unbidden.

“Ma vie t’appartient. Je suis et demeurerai à jamais ton époux,” Sherlock blinked his eyes wide in panic as soon as his mind caught up to his mouth. What the hell was he thinking?

“What?” John asked with a laugh. “That sounds beautiful, especially from you. God, your voice is criminal. I’ve no idea what it means though.”

“Flannel,” Sherlock rushed to say, already cursing himself. “We need a flannel.”

“We need much more than that,” John couldn’t stop laughing now. “We need all new pajamas.”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and Sherlock’s bare chest felt bereft in the cool air. He kept his hands on the small of John’s back, having no intention of letting him go. Words in English seemed beyond him after this colossal cock-up. Fortunately, his silence didn’t seem to bother John.

“You want a quick shower first?” he asked brightly.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock managed with a nod towards the bathroom.

“Yeah?” John answered and winked. “Won’t be a minute.”

He rolled off Sherlock and headed for the door. A rather large, wet circle that he made no attempt to hide stained the front of his pajama pants. Sherlock looked down at his own once John was ensconced in the ensuite and saw much the same. Unfazed, he relaxed back into the soft mattress, raising his arms to tuck his hands behind his head. He was so very glad John did not speak French. It was the only thing that saved him this time. He really must investigate his propensity to declare his love to John in French before it got him in trouble, but not now. He had more important matters to attend to at the moment. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace fervently. He wanted to catalog this experience so he would always have it no matter what happened next.

What would happen next? Surely, John would not want a relationship, much as it pained Sherlock to admit. John was not, as he so often pointed out, gay. The question of orientation, however, was unclear. Before disappearing into the bathroom, John did not exhibit any signs of existential crisis of sexual identity. He seemed completely at ease with the situation. Unless, of course, it was happening now behind closed doors. Sherlock huffed in disapproval when he involuntarily hoped that was not the case. Sentiment had begun to weasel its way into his psyche during his absence from John. It was part of him now. He could easily switch it off while on assignment, but was unable to do so reliably when off the clock. He was certain Mycroft knew, though he never said a word. Thank god for small miracles.

What Sherlock found strangest was that sentiment was not the weakness he had been led to believe. In fact, he felt more complete than he had since he was a child. Even when he and John had lived together in 221B, solving crimes and bickering over experiments, Sherlock had not felt at peace with himself. Had something positive actually come out of the fall? Had his brother been wrong all along? The longer he thought, the more he saw no other logical conclusion. Sherlock smirked smugly. He couldn’t wait to share that particular piece of information with Mycroft at their next meeting.

“Hey,” a voice tore Sherlock from his thoughts. His eyes flew open to see John standing next to the bed with his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t remember the best approach. It’s been a while.”

“The best approach?” Sherlock questioned, raising a brow.

“Yeah. When you’re in your mind palace,” John supplied. “I always used to touch you first, I think. I don’t think you really noticed, but it kept you from getting so startled. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, save cocking his brow a fraction more at John’s words. After a few minutes, John shifted and brought his left hand to the back of his own neck.

“Well, uh,” he cleared his throat, abashed, “shower’s yours.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Yes,” he agreed, sitting up. “Yes, of course.”

He stood and walked straight to the chest of drawers for new clothes. Once he had them, he crossed to the bathroom.

“Laters,” Sherlock turned to say with false bravado and then closed the door firmly behind him. He leaned his back against it and sighed, wondering what would happen now. Would John choose to ignore what just happened, and if not, how long would it be before he insisted they talk about it? Sherlock tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He would have known the answers to all his questions with minimal effort before the fall and their time apart, but both he and John were so different now. His past self never would have let this happen no matter how much he wanted it. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to think anymore. He could not discern whether or not his interpretations of John and the situation were leading to the correct deduction or if it was all wrong. Some part of John had honestly, secretly always confounded him and now that part was even larger and harder to deduce. Sherlock certainly knew what he wanted to do in light of this new development, but did John want the same? Would John ever want that? Sherlock just didn’t know.

------------

I know what you're thinking: "Well..... we have but one thing to say to that. SMUT, JANE, BLESSED MFING SMUT!! Thank you so much." But will it happen again? Will they talk about it? Will John come out of the bathroom and insist it was all a big mistake? Who's to say??? The Shadow knows, and by The Shadow, I mean me. Mwahahahaha! Love, Jane

[sleepingdeath-light]

human au + sentient puppet reader hcs ; wally darling

requested by ; suninwalls (14/05/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; wally darling

outline ; “Hello! Unfortunately, I was also tapped in a underground concrete box by those puppets. I can't leave! Can I ask for Human!Wally and puppet!reader (a little switcheroo). How would he deal with a sentient or hunted puppet that he or someone else brought to his house. Have a great day!✴️🌟”

note ; i need to refresh myself on the lore after this, but since this is a complete role shift au it shouldn’t be too badly ooc

warning(s) ; human & puppeteer au, mostly fluff!

though your friendship had started off on a… rough note to say the least, once wally has gotten used to the whole ‘sentient living puppet’ thing, the two of you became as thick as thieves

(after all, puppeteer or not, most people would panic if the puppet they just bought from an auction suddenly sat up and started talking to them of their own accord — arguably, if anything, wally handled the whole thing quite well by pushing through his fear to introduce himself to you and ask you about yourself)

whenever any of your stitching becomes loose or one of your button eyes falls out, wally is always there with a needle and thread to do some last minute repairs — he’s not at poppy’s level of mastery over textiles, but he knows just enough of the basics to keep you healthy

he’s brought you on the ‘welcome home’ set a couple of times when you’ve complained about being bored when he’s left you home alone, and you’ve been incorporated into a couple of episode sketches here and there — typically to teach a lesson about empathy, self acceptance, or something else along those lines to their young audience

(it’s always a good laugh, even if it is a bit strange for you to watch your fellow puppets get human limbs, or whole humans in some cases, shoved inside of them in order to bring them to life — like you know they aren’t alive like you, but it’s still a deeply disturbing thing to witness)

(wally has also had to pretend to be your puppeteer to hide your sentience before, which earned him plenty of praise for his vocal range and a very stern talking to from you about warning you before grabbing you by the hemming — you forgave him, obviously, since he’s your dearest friend and the absolute most, but you’ve never let him live it down)

when he’s not working on set, he’s up in his workshop painting something or another (a trait he shares with his most well known character, which you never fail to joke about) — most of the time he just paints whatever comes to mind, other times he’ll start painting you because your puppet proportions are so unusual to him that he can’t help but try and capture whatever thing you’re doing at that moment

his close friends and fellow puppeteers are the only other people who know the extent of your sentience, and they’ve all readily accepted you into their friend group — for better or for worse

for example, julie and poppy are forever planning and crafting up new outfits for you to wear (including a recreation of the wally puppet’s outfit which everyone seemed to find rather amusing) and making sure all of your materials are well taken care of, whilst barnaby is someone who is quick to rope you in to whatever prank he’s about to pull on your dearest human companion — you never really know what you’re going to experience from one day to the next, but you wouldn’t have it any other way

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

on the subject of Frank, Frank & Julie, and Franklydear 

I used to think that Frank will probably be one of the more skeptical puppets, and prone to being one of the first to see that not all is as it seems. And I think the majority of us think/thought this! 

But thanks to Riv i have entirely changed my tune. I think Frank will actively be avoiding the truth & clinging to the illusion. Here’s why!

Frank is portrayed as the most “rigid” neighbor - hell, it’s even part of his design! He likes routine, rules, for things to be ‘just so’ in his eyes. He doesn’t seem to like it when things stray from how they’re supposed to be. Everything has a time and a place. 

(and this might be mildly insane but blame Riv not me bc they said it, but in Just So Frank says “i like it best when red goes in front of the rest”, and if red is Wally… dot dot dot…) 

Then there’s how Frank will very likely be trying extremely hard to be something he’s not. And this is part of his design, too - he’s the only one in the cast without a natural blush. Yes, we’ve seen art where he can blush, but that’s in specific situations. In the bio images Frank is the only one without that little extra bit of color to his cheeks - he has two huge red splotches on him instead. Fake blush. Big and bright and impossible to ignore. 

And I’m gonna be diving a bit into Franklydear & Frank’s relationship with Julie because it’s important to this. 

I have also changed my tune on Franklydear - slightly. Welcome Home seems to be an example of nonlinear storytelling, as we’ve been getting bits and pieces from all over the place. The Live Interview from the early days, WHRP & Wally’s secret vinyl audios from “now”, the bug audios from an indeterminate time… so while I do think Franklydear is “already happening” within the main meat of the “past”, we will likely also get a chance to see before and after. And I do think there will be an after.

But I’m getting ahead of myself! Why do I think we’re going to see an established Franklydear? I’m going to be honest. A kofi post that I accidentally saw when a friend was sharing their screen with me and didn’t notice until it was too late </3 I should have looked away! But I didn’t, and that’s on me! I won’t say what I saw (it would be a theory anyways, nothing explicit or concrete in the evidence!) but it immediately convinced me that Frank & Eddie are in a secret relationship. I want to say more very badly, but if i’m proven right in tonight’s stream then I will be sharing Why I’m right. 

More reasoning that is obvious with this context - the whole “Mr. Dear / Frank- i mean Mr. Frankly!” thing might be part of this fabricated distance. I would completely believe you if you told me that Frank had them both refer to each other professionally to keep up the facade that they’re nothing but neighbors, nothing going on here nosiree. They definitely don’t meet in the woods to be romantic! That added with how unusually playful Frank is with Eddie in 8-14 is interesting… though I can also believe that those audios are from “before” their relationship, given that Frank seems to be dropping a hint with the whole “ You don’t need to be that familiar with them in order to get to know them better!” line. I don’t know - there are a bunch of contradictions that could be them acting, could be differences in the timeline, who’s to say yet! 

Anyway, so Franklydear is likely in a secret relationship, but I think Frank is going to get scared, call it off, and try to force a relationship with Julie. As in lying to her and everyone that he has feelings for her, and fulfilling their “destiny” in becoming a couple. I think Frank is where a lot of the internalized homophobia is going to come in.

In most of the Franklydear art we’ve seen from Clown, Frank seems to be very nervous and flustered around Eddie while Eddie seems to be more calm and forward. Frank has already proven to have a bit of a nervous disposition - he’s certainly high strung. That combined with his rigidity, the airs he puts on, and just… everything about him really, I don’t think he’ll be able to handle the pressure. 

(side note: the way that Clown said that he wishes they hadn’t let everyone know about Franklydear, it’s ok because it’s “not a major spoiler” has been fucking me up a little. Wym it’s not a Major spoiler? It’s so funny… we’ve all been like “Franklydear will be Thee relationship and a big thing-” and then it’s Not. lmao) 

Then there’s the song Clown associates with Franklydear, “Esperar pra ver”. @/Theneighborhoodwatch gave a translation/interpretation of the lyrics - cannot for the life of me find the og ask/post to link, but (if I’m remembering correctly) it was essentially said that the song is about love that doesn’t last / lost love. My friend Akemi (@/akemima <3) provided an alternate interpretation - to quote:

“...to me, it speaks about how they’re both Unable to speak up about their love? and the “wait and see” part is most likely them waiting for the other to make a first step or like. something Hopeful yknow?”

As both a tragedy enjoyer and a happy-end enjoyer, I wouldn’t mind either interpretation being accurate, personally! So Akemi has given us a sprinkle of hope for Franklydear! I think that both interpretations have merit, and hey, they can coexist. We might have them together, then Frank getting scared and calling it off, and then a “third arc” of them wanting to be back together but unable to (yet). Who’s to say! 

ON TO THE JULIE PORTION.

For a while I thought that Julie might be the one to pursue a relationship with Frank - both because of the subconscious influence of her “Role” & that she’s bi while Frank is gay. On surface level she would be the most likely of the two to get the wrong/mixed signals and Go For It.

However. Nothing about this project is surface level. 

I’ve already mentioned that I think Frank is going to try very hard to be something he isn’t. And this is backed by how his relationship with Julie is portrayed (another thank you to Riv for pointing a lot of this out & smacking some sense into me <3) 

Frank is all about rules and matching. Julie is all about improv and independence. Riv pointed out that in “Just So” the audio distorts when Frank is changing bowties and Julie asks if it “really matters”. They also pointed out that, apparently in the Halloween outfit references, Frank’s notes indicate that he’s matching with Julie - but Julie doesn’t have any reciprocating notes. It implies that she was doing her own thing and Frank adjusted himself accordingly. Julie goes along with Frank sometimes, but it seems that it’s usually Frank scrambling to go along with Julie. She’s been described as independent and stubborn. Frank is a bit more of a conforming pushover (no offense Frankie, love ya to bits <3). 

Frank is the straightman to Julie’s… I can’t reference the bios anymore but you know! He might be her straightman in more ways than just “he takes things seriously.” 

And really. Frank likes routine, he likes things to be consistent. He’s been with Julie as her best friend / “partner” for so long that I’m not sure if he can easily break away from that - I think a change as big as getting romantically involved with Eddie would terrify him. It might be thrilling for a moment, but then the fear will set in. 

I thought Julie would be the one clinging to Frank, but it’s the other way around isn’t it? 

Frank gets scared & then leads Julie on because he’s trying to act “normal”, the way that’s expected of him. And it fits. One of WH’s themes is the fear of being shunned for / perceived as different by others. Once they know what you are, will they treat you the same? 

And I don’t think Julie would be entirely opposed, either. I wouldn’t blame her for developing a crush on Frank. I mean, it might turn out that she’s “just going along with it” because she feels the same pressure and fear, but hm… I’m not convinced of that given what we know about her character. But if Julie has a little crush on Frank, I wouldn’t be surprised if when he forces himself to like her & initiates a relationship, she either realizes that it really was just a crush, or she’ll pick up on how Frank doesn’t actually have feelings & act accordingly. This option has more merit in my eyes. I think it would also reflect on the “love” theme of her house - I’ve speculated since pretty much day one that she’ll have an arc around realizing that she doesn’t need a relationship or even really want one at present, going against what Playfellow likely wanted from her. 

(and then I start thinking about the whole livestream trivia thing of Julie maybe falling down a hole or into some abyss… and the concept art of her shoes where she’s standing at the edge of a dark abyss… does she fall, does she jump, or is she pushed? If she winds up being pushed, who does it? Barnaby (milk theory babey!) or perhaps she’ll get in a fight with Frank and in the heat of the moment he accidentally causes her to fall, either by pushing or making her lose awareness of her surroundings (backing off of the edge?). I’m aware that this paragraph is a stretch all around! Don’t take it too seriously! A pinch of salt, people!)

There’s not much else to be said so, in conclusion:

Welcome Home’s storytelling is likely on a nonlinear timeline, Franklydear is established but won’t last, and Frank/Julie is probably going to become a temporary thing

[rederiswrites]

I don't see how trump turning America into a christofacsist state is any different than the norm? like it's been like that for native and black people since it's creation like we inspired the nazis in the first place so like what the point? oh trumps gonna kill everyone who isn't a white cis male! and? that's what america's best quality since day one

Okay I'm actually going to respond to this Edgelord Supreme bullshit, because as absurd as it looks written out like this, I actually do think a lot of people are feeling some half-articulated version of this despair and cynicism. Let's kick that in the ass.

First, let's get one thing straight. History has been terrible awful bad always and forever. There have been a thousand genocides and a million wars and a billion brutal, inhuman war crimes. Back in the days of the earliest civilizations, wiping out entire cities when you defeated them was basically just how things were done for many societies. The fact that we have international laws and international bodies of justice, however obviously toothless they remain, is the result of thousands of years of extremely mixed progress.

So at this point, you pretty much have to say either that a) humans are an incurable blight and don't deserve to live, or b) that we've done amazing, beautiful things and experienced billions of moments of happiness and created art and fallen in love despite all this, so we're still worth working on. Personally, I am very strongly in camp b. I see things worth living for a hundred times a day. There's really no comparison.

Second, the USA is not uniquely bad. It is terribly damaging to people both within its borders and all over the world. It is build on genocide and slavery. Many of its foundational institutions are deeply corrupted by these things. And guess what, that's uh....pretty common. No, really. The US is currently a big fucking problem. It's our turn with the big stick, for sure. But even then, we're not alone.

So how the fuck is this encouraging? It isn't. I'm not encouraging you, I'm telling you to fucking GET GOOD, because when you say shit like the above, what I hear is "Oh I SEE, I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON I guess I should just kill myself to make your life easier." I hear someone who would rather give up and call their country morally bankrupt and irredeemable than to PUT IN SOME FUCKING WORK.

Cynicism is so comfortable. It doesn't ask anything of you. "It's always been like this," it says. "Nothing's going to change."

Except things do change, and things have changed, and your entire premise is in fact absolute dogshit. The two presidential candidates are not remotely the same, and we are not, yet, a Christofascist nation. I could, as many before me already have, enumerate the million concrete ways in which your premise is just not true, but honestly I won't bother, because it's not a premise in good faith. What I mean by that is that even a cursory examination of the actual facts would totally trash your expressed beliefs, so you're not really interested in the facts.

Change for the better can happen. Change for the better has happened. It's just not as EASY as you want it to be. There are more steps. For example, you can't have viable independent candidates until you have campaign finance and voting reform. So you have to push for those things. For years, probably decades. Many people have died without seeing the realization of things they fought for, and yet those things have come to pass. You may die fighting the good fight and not see the victory. I may too. Meanwhile, you make the choices that will hopefully get the fewest people killed.

So stop acting like we're all just too shitty to bother about, and put in some fucking work.

[dianels]

Willow 2022 In Memoriam (for now)

Willow 2022 is no longer available for legal viewing in any format, anywhere. We hope it will be resurrected at some point, somehow, but TPTB at Disney have given us no concrete reason or timeline to expect its return. (Jon Kasdan, the show runner, has tweeted cryptic messages but is not in a position to make key decisions, nor to share details.)

First and foremost, I grieve for kids who now will not have the chance to stumble upon this wonderful show with a diverse/queer cast on a platform with the reach of Disney+. I can’t express in words how much I appreciated being able to watch this show with my enby 11-yo kid. Of course I also regret losing the opportunity to build the fandom over time with new viewers, as the Princess Bride did after a lackluster box-office opening in 1987, and I feel so angry on behalf of the creatives who poured their efforts and craft into this project. But I grieve even more the potentially life-saving representation that young people might have benefited from, and I fear for the chilling effect Disney’s decision might have on greenlighting queer/diverse projects aimed at younger audiences in the foreseeable future.

On a personal note: Actor Erin Kellyman has mentioned in interviews that playing the role of Jade Claymore helped her work on childhood issues, and I feel similarly about what watching the show has done for me. I was raised in central Kansas in the 1970s and 80s, a gender-non-normative “tomboy” lacking any mainstream queer representation. I don’t recall even learning the words “gay” and “lesbian” in the queer context until high school, and of course when I did, they were corrupted by ridicule and shame. Fortunately, I had a very strong sense of self and managed to survive and to thrive as a lesbian as soon as I went elsewhere for college.

I grew up as a fan of all the Lucasfilm franchises (including the original movie Willow, released in 1988). While I identified with both Leia and Han to a degree (and shipped them), something always felt off. There was something lacking in that magical Lucasfilm world. It was not just overt queer and diverse representation; it’s also the case, for example, that the entire original Star Wars trilogy does not pass the Bechdel-Wallace test. The original Indiana Jones trilogy barely does. (Criteria: there must be at least two named women who talk to each another about something besides a man.) Willow 1988 is the rare exception in early Lucasfilm that satisfies the Bechdel-Wallace test without our having to squint. As a fan of the original Willow, I found that Willow 2022 matched its spirit brilliantly and expanded its potential in such interesting directions.

I can’t begin to say how much it would have meant to me growing up to have had Willow 2022 within the Lucasfilm universe, for all these reasons. I really believe that a series like this would have changed the whole trajectory of my life - I am turning 50 soon - even when I count myself so very lucky to have had a supportive family and a strong sense of self. I am grateful that the first season of Willow 2022 exists at all, and it truly has propelled me to do a lot of important healing work around the childhood trauma of growing up queer at a time and place that was totally lacking in positive mainstream representation.

But it’s not enough: Willow 2022 should be made available for legal viewing in some form as soon as possible to keep saving lives and changing lives for the better.

[vaspider]

Yo, so this is less so a specific ask and more me having the need to verbalize some stuff with the option of getting input from someone with a more knowledgable perspective. I have been thinking a fair bit about Judaism and dabbling with the idea of converting to it. I don’t think it’s something for me, but I am tentatively thinking about the option.

The thing is. I assume you’re familiar with the difference between hard magic and soft magic systems in writing. (If not, the tldr is hard magic is defined with hard rules and limitations and soft magic is more ambiguous and fluid.) And I think my basic thing is that I am very open to what you could call soft spirituality and faith, but unable to jell with any hard beliefs.

For example I can never get myself to really entertain the idea of an afterlife being set up in a very specific way with specific rules and where you know what is happening and why. But I saw that tweet that went around a while ago that was like “I hope that death is like being a child at a party and falling asleep, so somebody carries you to bed and I hope when I die I can still hear the laughter from the other room” and that fucked me up beyond words.

I have gone through a couple religions and beliefs over my life and never found a framework that really fit with me, but in the past couple of years I have developed a lot and realized I have a yearning for spiritual things. My current view could probably best be described as a pantheist leaning agnostic enamored with the idea of belief and experience shaping purpose and giving structure… sort of. As well as the power of belief and to change the way you see the world for the better. It’s hard to explain specifically the angle I like.

The reason I am caught up on Judaism rn is that in a lot of ways it seems to be based around a lot of soft spirituality. I am absolutely in love with the idea that god, or the divine, or spirit, whatever one may call it is not something concrete, not one existence, but more of a force like the laws of physics, or the rules of math. I adore the idea of little rituals and rules to bring god into your life and through that connecting you to culture and history and people and community and spirituality. I love the idea you talked about some time in the past of the four kinds of jews, based on studying the scriptures and following the rules, and that even those who do neither are still a vital part of the jewish people and are needed for it to be whole. There’s so many little details that appeal to me so strongly, because they’re exactly the kind of stuff I am yearning for.

But I feel like the hard aspects keep me away. I love the idea of rules and rituals to shape your life, but I don’t think I could follow the rules of Judaism, because having a preset set of rules feels too hard for me. Similarly I love the idea of studying the texts and the never ending pursuit of decifering the meaning and arguing about it, but I don’t think I could get interested in ever doing it, because having a specific text to do it with is too hard.

So I feel very conflicted, because the way Judaism feels to me from the outside, it shows me both the soft aspects of spirituality I absolutely adore and yearn for, and at the same time the hard aspects that keep me away from religion. And they feel very connected and interwoven.

And it feels like especially as a convert being a part of it is connected with a huge amount of the hard aspects and a lot of work that goes into those. I’d have to first figure out if there is even any jewish denominations (is that the right word?) near where I live that don’t do circumcision and that aren’t on the conservative side (I have no idea how the situation is where I live) and then do all the studies and the entire process involved in converting (which I admittedly don’t know very much about either, so I might be overstating this) to be part of something I would immediately take a half step away from because I’m only really interested in the ideas behind the actual elements of it and not as much the elements themselves if that makes sense?

I guess this is pretty rambly, but maybe you have some input, or something smart to say and if not I hope I’m not coming across as this guy right now:

I think that in the process of writing this ask, you seem to have figured out that this isn't for you right now. If you get to a point where all of those things aren't standing in your way but are a to-do list, that will be when you know it's for you.

And they're generally called movements, not denominations.

[morlock-holmes]

I found it surprising to be told that the trans feeling described as "gender euphoria" is a feeling that happens independently of other people and is almost wholly unrelated to the responses of others people to your gender expression; first, on the grounds that a lot of the trans acceptance movement focuses on changing the image that cis people have of trans people, but more importantly, on the grounds that the cis, heterosexual conception of gender heavily involves other people validating your own conception of your gender, and complements involving masculinity or femininity are highly sought after and cherished by your typical cis het person.

Of course the flip side is that cis people also vigorously deny that their own gender expression is in any way based on outside validation, even though I am incredibly confident, based on everything I have ever seen, that getting outside validation is tremendously important to the whole thing.

In fact, validation might be the wrong word here.

I have a profound, boiling anger at the current dominant conceptions of human nature in the US, which I would sum up as something like this:

"Each person has, inside them, a true identity. The goal of a humane society should be to remove restraints and allow them to express this pre-existing identity, rather than forcing them to conform to the expectations of outsiders."

And what I've observed in amazement is the way that, in a world of nearly 8 billion people, each profoundly different and mysteriously remote from the rest, the vast majority of true inner natures just happen to express themselves as fairly homogenous clusters of culturally legible "types" who tend to act with a great deal of agreement both with each other and with certain dominant social movements.

After talking with a lot of people I have found that the consensus is that this is simply a bizarre and wholly inexplicable coincidence that has no particular meaning.

The problem I have with this world-view is not that it is conformist; in fact my frustration is almost the opposite:

Because the idea of communication is reduced down to the idea of expression, the question of "How do I communicate better?" becomes very nearly completely incomprehensible to the people around you.

Communication is just a happy side effect of the fact that our true inner selves are so legible and easy to categorize. You express your true self according to your own inner sense, and this makes you inherently legible to others.

In concrete terms, I spent probably decades trying to feel more confident about my profound aversion to eye contact before I realized that people respond better to people who look them in the eyes while feeling deeply uncomfortable then they do to people who are super confident that eye contact is just not for them.

In broader terms, most autistic people have a great deal of trouble figuring out how to have a "filter" without feeling like filthy liars.

And in a certain way this is the problem that our society in flux faces:

How do I make myself legible to others without feeling like I have betrayed my own inner feelings by subordinating them to the wishes and needs of others?

And the broad answer is to conceive of that process of making yourself legible as a natural part of your true inner nature.

My true inner nature is to not tell my friend point blank that her new haircut looks way worse than the old one. This diplomacy is the instinctive expression of my inner nature and whether or not it makes it easier or harder to make friends is, of course, completely incidental.

So you can't tell people how they "ought" to talk if they want to be understood, because being understood is not a goal that people pursue; it is an incidental side-effect of expression.

Here's where I'm starting to wear out intellectually but my experience has been that in practice this does not make communication easier or less fraught but in fact in many ways has the exact opposite effect.

Well, here is one example, which is the focus on eliminating "stigma" as one of the most important social goals. To live in a society that neither stigmatizes nor understands you is a profoundly, crushingly lonely experience.*

This also creates in society an autistic sense that taking joy from getting people to respond to you in a certain way by tempering your internal self to make it more legible to others would be monstrous or manipulative, rather than (in certain cases) admirable.

To go back to trans politics, this has created a political climate where the idea that certain people might find it easier or more fulfilling to live as a different gender is considered obviously incorrect and borderline offensive (Again, flashbacks to my tremendous frustration with "born that way" narratives); that a person might learn to be another gender and that this might not be a revelation of a pre-existing nature but instead might be a becoming or act of self-creation is outside the mainstream:

Transphobes and Republicans actually take it for granted that one might, in fact, learn to be trans, but the only conclusion that they can draw is that this learning would be a deeply negative thing; they openly conceive of it as society imposing a role on vulnerable people who must instead be allowed to express the innately cis nature that the Republicans are certain lurks in literally every autistic child (And their stated belief that gender dysphoria exists but absolutely never co-exists with autism continues to perplex me).

In response to this, the dominant counter-narrative is that, in fact, the vast vast majority of trans people are, in fact, correctly expressing their innate inner natures and must be allowed to do so.

And I'm really not sure to what extent this is correct.

Nietzsche, at least in Beyond Good and Evil does not concretely define "power". The will to power is the desire to have "power" but this is not understood as simply a domineering impulse to use force to make people do things against their will; to convince people is, I am fairly certain, also an expression of the will to power (And I'm even more certain that kvetching about my own loneliness is also an expression of the will to power).

So when I wonder if trans expression can be understood through the will to power I mean that, to a certain extent, to be comparable to my own efforts to explain myself and the pleasure I will feel if others understand or are intellectually stimulated by what I am saying here, contrasted to the profound frustration I will feel if people do not understand. * this loneliness is almost impossible to explain to people, because the dominant idea is that understanding is the inevitable result of a society that has eliminated "stigma" and allowed people to express themselves freely.

[aquatark]

Can I ask your opinion on Endless Ocean Luminous?

Thanks for the ask anon! :D

I've been trying to get my thoughts on this game together into something that makes sense for a while now, but no better time than the present!

tldr: I seem to like it more than most people! I think this game is alright though it's still very flawed, and I'm still enjoying myself with it, but it seems very clearly rushed and it shows. I'm still very happy that the series has a third entry at all, and am looking forward to the future of the series after this game!

...okay, now I'm gonna aimlessly ramble for wayyy too long lmao (spoilers under the cut if you haven't played)

So, to get a few of my biggest gripes out of the way:

Having completed it... the plot is god awful (esp the ending, iykyk). I think I would have preferred having none at all, but Daniel is cool

The English voice of Sera isn't ideal, though this is an issue other languages (like Japanese, French) don't seem to have

The setting, character development, and lore is much more shallow, uninteresting, and poorly-explored through gameplay than any other diving game Arika has made, which is saying a lot bc EO1's plot was invented pretty close to release, and is known for also not being great

The game doesn't run as smoothly as I'd like. maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I remember a time when devs didn't feel like they could release their game if it crashes as often online as this game does

Some of this game's creature textures are far less polished than they ought to be for a Switch game. Surprisingly, most of the ones ported from Arika's defunct mobile fishing game are fine! It's stuff like the megamouth shark and bigfin reef squid that really stand out to me as sub-par

I'm not as bothered about this as some ppl seem to be, but I would have liked a little more customization freedom, ala EO2's suit cuts

Many creature descriptions are copied verbatim from EO2, which I really dislike. wasted a perfect opportunity to highlight different aspects of creatures, not rehash the same tired and basic facts

Though I love the concept of dynamic time of day underwater, it's executed very poorly imo. Could have done with some more fine-tuning (something that could be said abt... a lot of this game lol)

All of this however only detracts a little from my enjoyment of the game overall.

The fact that something like the story can be shipped in the final product with a dev team that shares many many people with the original EO games (seriously, compare the staff lists on the wiki, I genuinely teared up seeing so many familiar faces again)... suggests to me that this game was subjected to crazy time constraints, though I don't have any concrete proof. Nintendo has been known recently to be anti-crunch with some of its biggest IPs, so maybe an Arika problem? Regardless, this game shouldn't have released in the condition it's in, and definitely should not be the price it is.

I really don't like being too negative though, so I won't be! After all, and this may be controversial coming from an EO blog... but the various flaws of Arika's previous diving games made this not be the biggest surprise to me. I mean, I 100%ed EO1, including collecting every salvage and getting all gear/hairstyles! Do you have any idea how hellish that is? I eat slop for breakfast!!

I've still been playing a lot of this game with my dear friend MDB (us pictured below), and there are a lot of things I like about it!

I will, for example, drool all over this game's sound design till the day my son "dies" in a tragic submarine accident. Ayako Saso (main talent behind Everblue 1/2, EO1/2, and Luminous' original compositions and sound in general) knocked it out of the park as usual, with the menu sfx feeling really Everblue reminiscent in a way I adore, and the music easily being some of the best in the series. I know many fans are disappointed by there being no vocal tracks, but honestly? While I like the fact EO1 and 2 had them, they simply wouldn't have fit in this game. So I'm chill about it.

I think the random generation and focus on multiplayer are fun and fresh for the series! I have EO1 and 2 when I want polished singleplayer gameplay, and this game when I feel like something else. EO1 and 2's multiplayer objectively sucked, so it's a really interesting angle to take. The gameplay loop is entertaining enough for me - I like salvaging, scanning creatures, collecting tags, and hunting orbs, both in solo and shared dives. The framework is solid, but could use a little more meat.

The fact they were finally able to realize the "Ancient Sea" concept that had been thrown around during development since EO1 is lovely. Despite having been a dinosaur kid, I'm not really knowledgeable on any of the species depicted in-game, so their designs don't bother me... I'm just a sucker for human ruins overrun by prehistoric life!

Though there are some categories of sea creature that I'm a little sad not to see anymore, like seadragons, sea slugs, and many marine mammals... I don't mind this game's different roster. I like the creature variety, because imo, it would have been a little boring and predictable to have the roster just be every creature that was previously in EO, plus some new ones. This system avoids the kind of problem Pokémon games are currently having, where they have so many critters that they can't possibly put them all in one game, but fans are upset not to have the entire dex ported, y'know? It's like playing EO for the first time again!

I've seen several people theorize that the series was "intentionally sabotaged with a bad new game, so that they have an excuse not to make any more EO games", and... I mean... all I'll say about that is that there's no use killing something that's already dead lol. There'd been no games for over a decade, and very little demand for one - why would a game company looking to make money put so much effort and money into marketing, development, pre-order bonuses, and My Nintendo rewards in order to create hype for a game that's bad on purpose... when they could have kept the series dead for free? Nintendo clearly believe the concept of diving games has legs (or fins ig), with a staff team who love the ocean and dive irl, and are trying new things to see if it sticks better than the previous four games they've made, which collectively sold worse than Luminous did.

It may not all be great, or even good, but experimentation and trying unconventional things is what made EO such a special series in the first place baybee! We just remember the parts of it we liked, and forget the really dumb stuff. The EO team has never been perfect, and I can see their smudgy fingerprints all over this game... I mean, these are the same devs who didn't notice a crash so bad it had their game recalled, and repeatedly yoinked copyrighted material without permission to use in their games... but that's a long post for another day lol.

Soooo yeah! Those are some of my thoughts! Feel free to express your own thoughts on the game here - I'd be curious what other people think, and I'd be more than happy to answer more asks on specific elements of the game, or just getting me talkin' about this game, or any other game in the series for that matter! Any EO questions at all, ask away~!

Thanks for reading, hehe! >( ')

[littlemissmanga]

Y'all.

Not to get too into it, but I've had A YEAR. My depression has kicked my ass this year. And my physical health hasn't been much better.

Now, I'm on vacation. The first one in a year where I've actually felt myself actually relax. Be at peace. I even had a creative thought the other day and felt like writing for the first time in MONTHS.

So to finally be able to come back to Tumblr, to my Clone Wars community, and see a dear friend and someone whose kindness and support has been a lifeline in this tough year be dragged through the mud?

Unacceptable.

Look, this isn't the Girl/Boy Scouts. Not everyone will get along or agree. But I've never met someone as genuinely concerned with the well-being and comfort of others as anxiouspinnapple (Pina for the rest of this post) is. Even in disagreements, I've seen her put literally everyone's feelings before her own. She is not the type of person to spend her energy or time hurting others. If you've been told otherwise, you've been lied to.

In this age where jumping to conclusions is easy, I sincerely ask members of this community to resist the temptation of the easy response. It feels good to protect your friends, but attacking or even blocking/condemning without proof doesn't make you righteous. It means you were easily played.

Don't be. Talk to people for yourself. Judge their character for yourself. Ask for concrete evidence. Support your friends without going on the offensive without evidence.

As for me, I'll continue to support and love on Pina. Even though her account here is gone - and considering how proactive and supportive she was to all of us, I believe we are worse off for it - I hope she has inspired more of us to follow her example to support one another.

And if anything I said above is a problem for you, cultivate your own online experience and block me. Don't worry, I'm a big girl. It won't hurt my feelings.

[dearweirdme]

Would you mind if I genuinely ask something?

Why are Tae and Jimin considered as soulmates? Can anyone tell me some concrete examples with an explanation what does the word of soulmate means to you or anyone who sees them as soulmates? Because to my understanding of "soulmate", they really aren’t and it is OK. They have completely different characters, different friend circles both inside and outside of bts, different world views, different styles etc etc.

I have been following them since 2017, Tae and Yoongi as my biases. I appreciate all of them and their different personalities. As far as I have observed so far, I can say that there seems to be closer bandmates than Vmin. Tae is closer to JK and Hobi. Jimin is also closer to Hobi and Yoongi. I can remember many instances where i can see those are have closer bonds, like casually mentioning each other or know random details about each other lives etc. It is just apparent that they spend time together, you know? Because for example, I believe that my two biases Tae and Yoongi, are not that close either (and that is ok too. That doesn’t mean that I cannot appreciate their bond which I find very honest and touching.) but I think even Yoongi has a better understanding of Tae than Jimin in some aspects. Same with… say… Hobi and Jimin… they were roommates for years, Jimin literally worships Hobi, yet they are not the soulmates. Why? Just because vmin are the same age? Is that it? I am genuinely confused for years😅

Of course vmin love each other deeply, they know each other very well because they spend 10+ years in the same band, they went through a lot together so there is a bond which will not broken for life and that should be more than enough to appreciate their relationship. It should be enough, imo. But when one say "oh they are soulmates!", it is just not it. Sorry if this might sound harsh (that is really not my intention) but I think this soulmate thing is one of the army’s myths which starts to be harmful. Because it is unfair to both of them to expect something from them which isn’t there. Because when they do or say smt that doesn’t fit in that narrative, both get so much unfair criticism which simply wouldn’t happen if we can just let that soulmate thing go.

Hi anon!

I think this is a question only Tae and Jm can actually answer, but let me take a shot. I did use to struggle with this myself at one point, for the same reasons as you.

So, to my knowledge.. (and I wasn’t in fandom at the time, so this is stuff I read and it can be false.. this fandom is madness) Tae and Jm themselves answered they are soulmates at a fansign (a fan had them pick options to describe their friendship or something). They ofcourse sing about it in Friends, and I think have mentioned it more often. I think they have consistently talked about their friendship in a way that shows how important they are to each other. I understand that some see the fanservice value of this, but I think it’s very possible that they actually do feel this way about each other. I think bonds between BTS members are real and strong, I don’t think they lie about those.. I don’t think there’s a need to embellish Tae and Jm’s relationship with the title of soulmate, best friends would have sufficed to get the message across I think.

It does all depend on what you feel the definition of soulmate is. There is not really one definition to be found though. A search on google will rather give you several definitions and there are certainly those that I feel would fit Jm and Tae. In truth, to understand why Tae and Jm have mentioned being soulmates, you’d have to know their definition of the word.. or at least the most common use of the word in South Korea. It’s very possible to have more than one soulmate, it’s certainly special.. but you can for instance feel that someone is your romantic soulmate, and for someone else to be a platonic soulmate.

What I have found as some sort of common descriptive though.. is that soulmates are those who feel like there’s an automatic mutual understanding and support. A feeling of belonging perhaps, or of acceptance and safety. I do feel Tae and Jm have that. I think they know the other will always be there for them, no matter how often or how little they talk or meet. Them hugging at Jin’s release to me was very significant of how much they mean to each other.

Having said that, I agree that Tae seems closer to at least Jk. And I feel strongly that Jm’s bond is stronger to both Hobi and Yoongi. But I think if you let go of the idea that soulmates have to be closest, I think those things are all able to exist at the same time. I think when we talk about Jm and Tae being soulmates, it’s about the trust and understanding they have in/of each other due to having walked the same path, due to being same age (which allowed them to be more frank), and due to having witnessed what the other went through and understanding why they are who they are.

This is something that is debated about a lot I think. I have seen the topic come around several times already. I can see how some think it’s a construct. I mean, it is showbiz.. things are embellished a lot. I definitely think BH used it to their benefit, as they do with many things. But I think Tae and Jm’s strong friendship is undeniable, so the possibility of them actually seeing themselves as soulmates certainly is there imo.

[mariequitecontrary]

2024 TF Reverse Mini Bang Memories Part 1

With the @tf-bigbang discord server closing today, I thought I'd share just a few of my favorite memories during my first community fandom event :)

Not to be dramatic, but this event changed the trajectory of my part in the transformers community for the better. It felt like I was at a 4 month long summer camp! I had so much fun talking to everyone and making so many precious, precious friends that I truly hope to stay in touch with.

So buckle in and grab some boba or your preferred drink of choice, because this is going to be long and sentimental.

A Welcoming Start

I joined at the beginning of April, due to someone reposting the Big Bang's twitter post about how writers were still welcome to join. I thought, "Only 5k word requirement over the course of a few months? Yeah sure. I can do that." Little did I know I'd actually committed to writing a fic almost 5 times that length

The vibes in the discord server started out with a bang (heh). Everyone was immediately kind and welcoming to one another. It was an immediate safe space to be excited, let loose and show our freak XD I loved how ferally affectionate we were with bringing new friends into the fold.

A sketch by @nepetacataria-art perfectly shows this I think XD

The Support and Love Shared

The sheer amount of love, comradery, and support shared with one another was astounding. Almost 200 writers and artists shared tips and tricks and offered advice and encouragement to each other! It was unreal and I learned so much. It truly encouraged me to improve in my craft and even inspired me to want to learn how to draw again!

Oh, and the RECS everyone shared!!! Everyone shared so many fics and art pieces that I am now obsessed with! I have been blessed with a LOT of quality, amazing content that I never would have seen otherwise! My tbr list grew from large to neverending haha <3

Teasing the Artists Before Match Ups

I'm ngl, I had WAY too much fun once the sketches were released to the writers and the secret-authors-corner channel was made. We all OBSESSED over all of the art and fangirled over each one! But we also talked, and talked, and talked. And dropping out of context messages into the public channels for the artists to see was too much fun!

Talking Transformers

IT WAS THE BEST THING EVEERRRRRR!!!!! WOWOWOWOWOW! I loved raving about characters and lore, both canon and fanon! Even when I wasn't a part of the conversation, just lurking and reading what people talked about whether it was AUs, comics, shows, character breakdowns, brainstorming ideas...it was all so cool and so fun. Everyone is so creative and thinking about the sheer amount of fun we all had makes me tear up.

Like, SO MANY plot bunnies were made with everyone! Myself included! Sometimes people would just say a random ass thing and then five others would hop on, riffing against each other and developing that little idea into something concrete and so so JUICY.

Two out of many MANY conversations that I personally loved were the video games x transformers ideas and talking tentacles and transformers in the nsfw channel XD

Writers Panicking, As We Do

It was all in fun, but it was very entertaining and validating to be in a space where we can all stress about our writing, our fics, and approaching deadlines.

The mods clearly enjoyed adding endless fuel to the fire and (lovingly) watched us all scream and run around in a fiery chaotic panic over every little thing.

Streaming

I didn't get to join many, but it was always so cool watching artists draw! I also had a lot of fun streaming Hades 2 with a few friends with it was first released :)

Team 0 - A King Julien Starscream Fic

It all started when Writer's Choice Period began...and the example inspired many of us writers to obsess over this...I'll let the screenshots tell you XD

A King Julien Starscream fic just WORKS and you can't tell me otherwise! @mendely's sketch REALLY sold it to me as a thing that's GOTTA happen.

Madagascar AU FTW

AND THEN THE MODS MADE IT A THING THING

@useless19's king julienscream puppet owns my soul and their little vid is possibly the finest piece of silent cinema I've ever watched in my entire life. I was ENRAPTURED.

@sxpaiscia's art KILLS ME. PUTS MY HEART IN A CHOKEHOLD. Julienscream lives in my head rent free and 50% of it is imagined with their art in mind.

The sad end to the story is...the Team 0's fic wasn't completed within the time requirements to be posted with the rest of the Mini Bang's fics :( Do we still plan on continuing and finishing it? HELL YEAH WE ARE!

To Be Continued...

Did you know that there is a limit to the amount of images you can share in one post? SMH.

Link to Part 2!

[hankcon-bingo]

Interest Check Summary

Hello, Hemlock here!

Once more, thank you to everyone interested in signing up for Hankcon Bingo! I appreciate the time in filling and sharing the Interest Check form. 💙💙💙

The total interest checks received were 27! 🥳 (One shy away from 28, an important number in DBH 😉)

In summary, here is a short breakdown:

💙 A Hankcon Bingo event running from October to the end of December (with January as a catch up month.)

💙 Mini prompt fests outside the main Bingo with generic or themed prompts. No sign-up required.

💙 3x3 (Nine square) bingo cards with the option to request second cards for extra inspiration and badges.

💙 An A03 collection and hashtags on Tumblr and Twitter will be highlighted to make works easier to find and share.

Please let me know your thoughts or any feedback you have. I am hoping to post a concrete schedule in the coming week for a Hankcon Bingo as well as prompt surveys for both this and prompt fests that could take place this year. 💙

Please find enclosed below the percentage breakdown for each question, followed by summaries on how this can work towards the Hankcon Bingo event.

Q1. Are you interested in participating in the bingo?

66.7% - Yes

25.9% - Yes, I just don’t know if I’ll be able to sign-up.

7.4% - I want to do a fest indeed!

0% - No, but I’m interested in the content.

Q2. What size bingo card would you prefer?

63% - 3x3 (Nine squares per card)

33.3% - 5x5 (Twenty-five squares per card)

3.7% - N/A - I want to do a fest!

Q3. When would you like the event to start?

81.5% - October

55.6% - November

51.9% - December

40.7% - September

29.6% - Sometime early in 2025 (Either February or March)

18.5% - August

Q4. How long would you like the event to run?

59.3% - 3 months

40.7% - 6 months

Q5. Where do you prefer to post Hankcon content?

92.6% - A03

63% - Tumblr

33.3% - Twitter

Based on this feedback, there is a preference for:

💙 A Hankcon Bingo event over a prompt fest 💙

As expected, the thirst for a Hankcon Bingo is still strong! Consider a 2024 Hankcon Bingo event officially set in stone!

There was a smaller mixed response between those wanting to take part but being unsure if they will sign-up, and wanting to do a fest instead.

With this in mind and further clarification from the OG Mod, I have been considering running mini prompt fests outside of the main Hankcon bingo. They would be something fun to do, and be an alternative option for those who are unsure or unable to commit to a full event (but bingo participants are more than welcome to do both, of course.)

These would be week long fests at different times of the year, a prompt a day, that can be generic or themed. Themed examples:

💙 Seasonal like Summer, Fall, Halloween, Winter, Valentines, etc.

💙 DBH anniversaries like the official game release, THE HUG, Connor or Hank’s birthday, etc.

💙 Tropes like AU, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, etc.

No sign-up would be required to take part in prompt fests, just create something if one or more prompts speak to you, and enjoy. ☺️

Depending on the bingo start date, we could try a small fest beforehand. Would that be something that you all would be interested in?

💙 3x3 (Nine square) square bingo cards 💙

There was a majority preference for 3x3 square bingo cards. As clarified in later section, smaller cards might work better if the event runs for 3 months as opposed to 6 months.

Participants will be more than welcome to request second cards if they finish the first cards, and are hungry to create more Hankcon content! There are extra badges for second bingo card achievements too!

💙 October starting period 💙

The majority of responses preferred an October start date for a Hankcon Bingo event. This actually works out in getting everything ready as well as for those of you (myself included!) creating for the DBHRBB which should have wrapped up posting by the time the bingo begins.

💙 3 month event 💙

A bingo running for three months was preferred, meaning that with an October starting month, the event should run from October until the end of December.

January could be a grace month for last minute posts, etc, as December can be a busy month for a lot of people with holidays and the sort.

💙 Posting on A03 💙

A03 is the preferred place to post Hankcon content with decent numbers for Tumblr and Twitter.

There will be a Hankcon Bingo collection available on A03 if you would like to add your works (art very much welcome!)

Anything posted to Tumblr will be reblogged, and hashtags will be shared nearer the time to make finding content easier on both Tumblr or Twitter.

I understand this is a lot to take in, so I appreciate your patience for reading this far. 😅

Thank you very much for your time, and I look forward to any feedback or comments everyone has on the direction of thr Hankcon Bingo this year. 💙