#and i feel like it's not helpful to disparage them in order to praise something else y'know?

[seabirdtxt]

@sunnysolaria

re: glitch in irminsul

thanks so much for reading!! i hope you like it so far! 😊🩵

in all fairness, the cult AU is a sub-AU of the larger SAGAU! it has definitely grown in popularity, but it's definitely possible to still find stuff about the general SAGAU as well!

there's a reason why the cult/angst aspect of the AU is so popular, though, and it's a very valid and enjoyable AU if that's your thing! and if it's not there's probably plenty of other fluffy AUs you can check out instead, in case the SAGAU tag is too much of a minefield for you. there's all kinds of content for everybody out there 🤗

[expectingtofly]

Painted Nails and Pride

1.7k

internalized homophobia, john being an a**hole, bisexual dean, found family, happy ending

written for day 7 of @spnprideweek

Music boomed from the park down the street and Dean tried to focus on the newspapers spread out before him, front pages covered with news about a bear attack at a campsite a few miles west. Not actually a bear attack, of course. From the tracks they’d seen when they hiked out there yesterday, Dad's money was on wendigo.

Cheering drew his eyes from the table where he, Sam, and Dad sat outside a restaurant to the people heading down the sidewalk towards the music. Banners on streetlights along the road proclaimed that today marked Roseville's 3rd Annual Pride Parade. His eyes snagged on a group of kids his own age standing on the street corner, hugging and talking excitedly. One boy had painted nails and wore a cropped shirt that exposed his midriff. As he talked with his friends, he looked around, and his eyes met Dean’s. He smiled at him, and Dean ducked his head, face burning.

An announcer’s voice echoed down the street. “Welcome to Pride,” the voice boomed. Dean folded and unfolded the corner of the newspaper, listening to the cheering, rotating the ring on his thumb around and around.

Dad snorted, and Dean glanced up at him. Arms crossed, leaning back in his chair, he watched the proceedings with a scowl on his face. Dean studied the newspapers more intently, underlining words just to look like he was doing something productive. Part of him wanted to go down to the parade, just to see what it was all about, but that was ridiculous. Only affirmed by a derogatory comment Dad made low under his breath about the people in the street.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed verbally, jostling his leg under the table. He glanced sideways at Sam, who was giving Dad a glare. Dean gave him a look that meant, don’t start, but Sam ignored him.

“Don’t say that,” he said, and Dean froze, eyes snapping to their father. Dad pulled his eyes from the street to Sam, giving him a long, steady look.

“What?” he asked after a long moment. “You one of them?”

Sam only held his gaze for a second before it seemed his courage failed. He ducked his head. “No,” he mumbled, kicking at the table leg.

Dad stared at him for another long moment, expressionless, before turning his journal around and dropping it in front of Sam. “Shut up and make yourself useful. Sooner we figure out what’s killing these folks, sooner we can get out of this goddamn town.”

He waved down the waitress for another drink, and Dean glared at Sam, who was absently thumbed through the journal pages. Returning to his own work, he snapped one newspaper closed and opened another, skimmed an article about the victim’s family. The words didn’t really make sense in his head, though, and too soon he found himself watching the people in the street again. The boy who’d smiled at him had disappeared, though, probably watching the parade.

Finding a one-off line in an article about rumors of a strange being haunting the woods, he circled it and handed the newspaper across the table.

“Nice work,” Dad said, taking the paper, but instead of the usual warmth from his praise, Dean only felt sick.

He felt about the same now, standing in Jody’s kitchen—off to the side so he wouldn’t be in the way during the frenzied preparations to attend the Sioux Falls Pride Parade. Music played from Patience’s phone, some song he recognized from Cas constantly turning the radio dial to the pop music station. Sam helped Kaia finish a sign decorated with the lesbian flag, and Eileen signed with Alex who was learning sign language in high school. Claire sat at the table painting Jack’s nails, who wriggled in his seat excitedly.

Catching Dean’s eyes, he held up the hand Claire had finished. “Dean, look!”

Dean forced a smile. “Looks good.”

“Stay still,” Claire ordered, frowning down at Jack’s hand as she painted his pinky.

This was a bad idea, Dean thought. Jody had invited them for the week, mentioning off-hand that Sioux Fall’s pride events were going on, and Dean had pushed aside the mild panic at that comment, told her they’d come visit. He didn’t know he’d be roped into joining everyone at Pride, but here he was, feeling out of place in the corner of the kitchen. Who knew how he’d feel standing at the parade.

“Want me to do yours?” Claire asked, and Dean snapped his attention back to her. She was holding a bottle of nail polish, others lined up next to her on the table, and he froze, realizing what she was suggesting.

His first instinct was to spit out, “I’m not one of those,” but guilt rushed through him for how harsh the words sounded in his head. Defensive words, unnecessary ones because there was no threat here. He didn't mean them anyway.

Swallowing them down, he glanced around the kitchen for rescue. Cas was helping Donna pack water bottles because “It’s gonna be hot out there,” but he must’ve felt Dean’s gaze because he looked over and gave him a reassuring smile. No judgement in his eyes, or Claire's either, for that matter. He had a feeling he wouldn't find any judgement in this kitchen, which should've been a relief, but he had a hard time trusting it.

“Come on, Dean,” Jack said. “We can match!”

You can do this, Dean told himself. It's just Pride, not an Apocalypse.

He tried to smile. “Sure,” he said, going to the table and sitting down, chest tight.

He chose the color blue because it felt less ostentatious than the pinks and lilacs Claire presented to him. Even so, the color looked strikingly bright in the sunlight as he stood along the street marked off for the parade, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Hey,” Cas said, touching his shoulder. Dean tensed, then felt awful for his reaction, but Cas didn’t move away, only rubbed between his shoulder blades until Dean relaxed marginally. “You okay?”

Dean nodded. “Fine,” he managed. Cas gave him a small smile and leaned his head on Dean’s shoulder.

A float passed with people waving and dancing on top, a banner strung across the front declaring, “Protect Trans Kids.” Jack waved a rainbow flag around, cheering along with the crowd. Claire’s arm was wrapped around Kaia’s shoulders, a smile tugging at her mouth despite her attempts to look unbothered by the proceedings. Dean wished he could feel that nonchalant. Instead, he kept looking over his shoulder. He didn’t know exactly what threat he was looking for, but the press of the growing crowds and the heat and noise, the bright colors and waving flags everywhere he looked was making him nauseous.

Turning back to the parade, he met Sam’s eyes. “Never thought we’d both end up here, right?” Sam asked over the noise, attempting levity, and Dean wondered if he remembered sitting outside near a Pride parade, feeling so unsure. There were plenty of other instances to remember, plenty of times John made disparaging comments that Dean either pretended to not hear or agreed with out of a panic that if he wasn’t careful, they might be directed at him next.

“This is fun,” Sam commented, watching the parade, and Dean wished he could agree.

Easy for you to say, he thought. You have a girlfriend, people’ll assume you’re straight. But he felt bad for thinking it. He didn’t want Cas to move away from him—if anything, wanted him closer, wanted his arm around him. But he felt too tense to move.

A crowd of middle-aged people walked in the parade, t-shirts reading variations of MOM HUGS, DAD HUGS, GRANDPA HUGS. Dean watched as people stepped off the sidewalk and hugged the moms and dads, some crying as soon as arms wrapped around them.

Without his permission, he felt his own eyes growing teary and he ducked his head, scraped his heel on the sidewalk.

“Dammit,” Jody said. “Where can I get one of those t-shirts?”

“We gotta do that next year,” Donna decided, and Jack gave her a hug.

“You can hand out hugs without the t-shirt,” he told her, and she grinned.

“You’re right.” Lifting her arms, she announced, “Free hugs over here!” People around them laughed, and someone took her up on the offer, telling her, “You’ve got a lovely family.”

Donna beamed. “Why yes I do.” She pulled Claire into a half-hug that Claire resisted, protesting the whole time. “Come here, Sam,” she said, yanking Sam into a hug that he had to nearly fold himself in half for. Everyone else got their turn, then she turned to Dean, holding out her arms.

Dean stepped into it, wrapping his arms around her. A gentler hug, Donna rubbing his back. Dean sunk into the embrace, the chaos around him subsiding for a moment.

“We’re family now, right?” she asked, pulling away to meet his eyes, and Dean nodded. Smiling at him and patting his arm, she turned back to Jody, wrapping an arm around her.

It felt a little easier to breathe now, his chest not so tight. The crowds around them didn’t seem so threatening, just smiling people with their families like he was with his. Eileen cheered as a float passed with an Irish LGBTQ+ coalition, and Dean smiled, easier now, not forced.

Jody pulled Donna in for a kiss that turned into making out. Claire rolled her eyes. “Ew, guys, Gross.” Kaia elbowed her and Claire’s put-on air of displeasure broke into a grin as she elbowed her back. Cas nudged Dean with a small smile when a float of pink, purple, and blue streamers drove past. For a moment, Dean's chest seized, John's voice ringing in his head, but in all the noise around them, it quickly drowned out.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, he took Cas’ hand. Cas interlaced their fingers immediately, squeezing tightly, then lifted their hands and studied Dean’s nails. Dean had let Jack paint a smiley face on his pinky to match the one on Jack’s thumbs. Staring at them, he thought of a boy at Pride with painted nails, his own fears and wants tightening his chest, but then Cas looked up at him with a smile, and the memory faded into a warm glow.

“I like them,” Cas told him.

“Yeah," Dean said. "Me too.”

[calamity-bean]

Also, re: Little Women (2019)... I remember seeing posts (or mentions of posts?) being very upset with Bhaer for criticizing Jo’s writing. And I have feelings about that! I totally understand that we writers are sensitive about our work, about the heart and the effort we’ve put into it, and that we empathize with being defensive about criticism and dismissive of people who critique when they themselves are not writers. I feel that. But honestly, some of Bhaer’s lines during that conversation — “Has no one ever talked to you like this before? Do you have anyone to take you seriously, to talk about your work?” — struck me more than almost any other lines in the film, because they reflect so well what I feel is a good approach to the author–editor dynamic.

I haven’t read the book since I was a kid, so I’m really limited to the newest film for my perspective on him and Jo and how his critique of her writing is handled, and honestly, my thoughts are more on the general concept of editing/critiquing than on their relationship specifically, but... There is a bad critic/editor in this film. It’s not Bhaer. It’s the publisher who clearly does not take Jo seriously as a person/writer and pressures her to heavily alter her style in order to produce work that she knows is not what or how she wants to write, because that’s what he considers marketable. Marketability is not a bad thing in and of itself; popular work, trope-heavy work, mass-market genre novels like romance or cozy mysteries that tend to follow certain plot formulas, these are not bad or unskilled things. Many readers love reading books/genres that get disparaged as “trashy” or “light” or not “serious,” and many writers love writing those things, and that’s great! But in this case, the publisher’s view of what was marketable (which was ultimately proven to be very flawed anyway) pushed Jo to produce work that I think we are to understand she, herself, was not proud of. Proud of being published, yes, but not really proud of the work itself, and clearly not what she wanted to be doing or the best she was capable of. And that, unless I’m missing something, is the work that Bhaer critiqued.

I think editors (and beta readers, critics, etc.) are important. I am an editor, so yeah, I could be biased in that; but I’ve been on the other side of the equation many, many times, too, having my own writing and art critiqued in workshops and competitions and the workplace and etc. The relationship between a creator and the people who help them review, reconsider, and refine their work is important. It can bring valuable insight, experience, and technical skills that can truly transform a manuscript into something so much stronger than it started out as. But the relationship is also complicated. Giving critique that is constructive rather than destructive is a skill that requires empathy and humility as well as intelligence and discernment. Listening to critique and deciding what (if anything) to do with it takes resilience, discernment, and humility as well. And editors are not infallible or one size fits all.

I think a vital skill for any writer (any creator, really) is to learn who/what is worth listening to — and who/what is not. We should not take every negative remark from every random reader to heart. Even when it comes to pros, an editor might be very good at working with certain writers and within certain genres but absolutely useless or even harmful when it comes to other writers or genres. Even when we try to be objective, we are human and inevitably bring at least traces of our own biases, interests, and abilities. But from a writer’s perspective, the ideal editor, I think, is not one who tries to force a manuscript into fitting their own idea of what the writing “should be.” The ideal editor is one who makes an effort to understand what the author is trying to do, how they’re trying to do it, and what the manuscript itself is trying to be — and then works to strengthen the manuscript in alignment with those goals, not against them.

And that is why I loved when Bhaer asked Jo, “But do you have anyone to take you seriously, to talk about your work?” Because that’s... what a writer should want. That’s the lead-in to a constructive approach: not blind praise, not flat rejection, not shoehorning the work out of shape to fit a preconceived mold, but someone who wants to talk with and listen to the writer so they can understand them and their work. That quote struck me both as a writer and as an editor. I try to avoid being as subjective as Bhaer is when he leads by simply saying it’s not good and he doesn’t like it; flat, nonspecific statements like that aren’t really helpful. But then again, he’s talking to a friend, someone he feels he can be honest with, and editing does sometimes involve difficult conversations about aspects of the manuscript that are, well... not good. If you’re aiming to be a professional writer, as Jo is, you’re probably going to have to learn to have these difficult conversations, even though they can feel very personal and emotionally charged. Trust me, I get that; I’ve had my own share of raw feelings after having my work critiqued. In some cases, I ultimately decided the criticism was not really relevant and/or merited, and I set it aside unheeded. But in other cases, it proved invaluable in helping me grow.

God, I’ve rambled longer than I meant to, but like, bottom line here: The critique is not unsolicited. He offers to read and review her work, promising upfront to be honest. Jo accepts. And the work he’s so unimpressed with is work that she herself knows is not the sort of thing she wants to write! He recognizes her talent but he also recognizes that this particular work does not truly reflect that talent, and perhaps part of the reason she’s so upset by it is that she herself is not very proud of that work either. Did he start out pretty blunt? Yeah. But I think his overall approach was in service of trying to get to the heart of Jo’s abilities and artistic goals. Support, reassurance, and positive reinforcement are invaluable to any writer, but at certain points of the process, so is critique that forces the creator to really review their own work. At any rate, I don’t think it’s harmful for a critic to treat a professional (or aspiring professional) writer seriously and to encourage honest conversations about what the writer is going for, uncomfortable though those conversations can sometimes be. And just because a lot of us sympathize with being a writer/creator does not mean that giving agreed-upon, solicited criticism makes a character bad.

[angst-fairygodmother]

How about: “I wasn’t lying when I told you I loved you.” + “Who cares what they think?” for Valdo x reader? :3

A/N: A slight tweak of the exact wording of the prompt, but I think you’ll forgive me :) Word Count: 1772 Content Warning: a PG-13 level of swearing (exactly one), self-pity/self-depreciation

“Valdo Marx!” the high, somewhat nasally voice rang out over the banquet hall as some countess you couldn’t name approached. “It’s been so long since you’ve graced us with your presence. There were even rumors that you had died!” Her big, bright blue eyes batted coquettishly at him.

“Well,” he said with a smirk and a chuckle. “How dramatic. As you can see, I am quite alive and well. I simply took some time away from court to chase a particularly…ornery muse and create new material.”

You shot him a playful glare and caught his smirk at the descriptor.

“Will we hear some of it tonight?” she clasped his hand in both of hers and drew it to her chest entreatingly. “It would be oh so grand for you to perform.”

You rolled your eyes from beside him, familiar and bored of this courtly song and dance.

“I’m sure something can be arranged, my lady,” he acquiesced. “Although, I am here as a guest tonight, so I may have to talk it over with my dear Y/N.”

“Oh!” the lady gasped, as if only just noticing you standing there. “Y/N? I’m unfamiliar with the name. Where is your family from?” the cock of her head reminded you of the little spaniels many nobles had recently decided it was fashionable to carry around.

“Nowhere,” you said tersely before smiling coldly. “I got here on my own merit. You’d be surprised the doors that open when you save a queen’s life.”

Valdo beamed proudly by your shoulder as the lady stammered and floundered for how to respond. It was true that you had been invited to court for as long as you wished to stay, and promised any number of lavish rewards after your quick thinking had halted an assassination attempt in the market earlier that day. And most of the court had been smart enough to catch the gossip quickly and pay you due respect.

“Yes, it was a quite the sight to witness,” he purred. “Had I more time before tonight, I would surely have crafted my greatest ballad yet about their daring rescue. And done without ever so much as a hair out of place. Such a clever thing, my Y/N. Nearly as clever as beautiful. I am so lucky to love them, and hardly deserving of it.”

You preened under his praise and the lady murmured some excuse to duck away, flushed with embarrassment.

“There was no need to tease her like that,” you scolded playfully as soon as she was out of earshot.

“Who was teasing, love? I meant every word of it. And she was the one who didn’t know who you were.”

“None of them actually know. Or care. I am a merely the newest, shiny little toy. Like the lapdogs. By next week, I’ll be back in the kennels, muzzled and forgotten in favor of something else when the novelty wears off.”

‘It’ll wear off for him to,’ a treacherous voice whispered in the back of your mind. ‘How long do you really think you can carry on this charade before Valdo Marx finds something prettier and more agreeable?’

“Muzzled? Now there’s a thought…” his eyebrows wagged salaciously and you slapped his chest just hard enough to make him gasp out a breath.

“Don’t you start, Valdo Marx,” you threatened, a finger pointed into his face.

“Oh, pearl of my heart, but it is so much fun to tease you.”

“I want to get through tonight with a modicum of dignity. And I’m frankly surprised that you don’t.”

“Dignity is all in the presentation, darling.”

“Speaking of,” you sighed and dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That very large and imposing looking man in armor is staring at us pointedly. I think it’s time to go meet the royals.”

~

Your face burned with humiliation. The queen had been kind enough as you stumbled through appropriate courtly greetings, the motions and words feeling stiff and unfamiliar, disjointed, like a puppet with tangled strings. And the king had, perhaps even more blessedly, been aloof. But the crown prince – a skinny, pimply, young monster not yet through puberty – had brayed like a donkey and called the attention of a half-dozen courtiers to your every error, and they all tittered behind handkerchiefs and fans and gloved fingers. You had stared down at your own, exposed in all their calloused, bitten-nailed glory. For some reason, that small difference had been enough to spur tears in your eyes and, mumbling an apology and a thanks for their graciousness, you had fled.

Valdo found you, leaning with a white knuckled grip, on one of the balconies far from the throne room.

“If you’re planning to vault yourself over the edge and escape into the lawns as your pose suggests,” he called softly as he approached. “I would point out that not only are we on the second story, but there are rose bushes right below us and I would hate to see the most wonderful face on the continent so torn up.”

His arm slid around your waist, pulling you close so that he could press a kiss to your temple just in time to hear you mutter “idiot, absolute idiot.”

“The prince? Absolutely,” he answered, trying to pretend you were doing anything other than disparaging yourself. “But he’s young, there’s still a chance he’ll grow out of it before he takes the throne. Or someone will beat it out of him.”

“No,” you scoffed. “Me. I was a fool to think I could even remotely fit in here, even with your tutelage this afternoon.”

“In your defense, I wasn’t the best instructor, but I was…distracted.” He pressed another kiss to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “Horribly distracted.”

“I’m serious Valdo,” you tried to pull away from him, but he kept his hold firm. “I’m a joke. They’re all in there laughing at this idiotic country bumpkin playing at courtier. I wanted to belong, for you, so that you weren’t so embarrassed to bring me to functions and could go back to performing in palaces and grand estates where you belong but I just can’t. I was stupid to think I could.”

“Stop.” He moved his hands to rest firmly on your shoulders. “Y/N, listen to me.”

He ducked his head to force you to look in his eyes, and though you tried not to, you gravitated naturally to meet his emerald gaze, a natural sense of calm flooding over you at the tenderness you found there. “Are you listening, dearest?”

You nodded meekly.

“Good. Because what I’m about to say is very profound and important. Ready?”

You nodded again, fighting a smile at his dramatics.

“Fuck ‘em.” He whispered, leaning close so that the words, and his facial hair, brushed against your ear.

“What?” you laughed incredulously at hearing him swear, especially in such a serious and impassioned tone.

“Is that not how you would put it?”

“I see. I’ve been a terrible influence on you, and ruined your genteel demeanor.” You tried to keep the joke light, but couldn’t help the darkness that crept over your face at the thought of it being just another thing you couldn’t do right for him.

“I’m serious, Y/N. Who cares what they think?”

You paused, biting your lip and looking down at the sliver of ground between you. “Well I mean…I thought…you did? You’re Valdo Marx. You should be here, courting rich patrons and lovers and charming the all sorts of people. Not burdened by me.”

He sighed, leaning one hip against the railing and crooking a finger under your chin to pull your face back up toward his.

“I would be lying if I said I never considered my reputation. But there are things much more valuable to me than it, and I can’t be bothered anymore with anyone who thinks less than the absolute highest of you.”

You felt the tears beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes and reached up anxiously to brush them away before they could fall.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you, Y/N. I truly do. With all my heart. And I will give all of this up a thousand times over to live in a hovel if that’s what it takes to have you in my life.”

“A hovel? Really?”

“Yes. I mean I would much prefer not a hovel. A modest townhouse at the least. In a city, a capital or near one of the universities, I’ll still need to ply my craft somewhere. And I’d be terribly frightened that you’d get bored or sick of me and use your innumerable talents to make my body disappear if we were out in the middle of nowhere. But if isolation is what you truly wanted, I would find a way to make it work.” His eyes shone in the distant candlelight as he carried on.

“Take it easy, Valdo,” you laughed. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say all that talk sounded very,” you gestured vaguely as you sought the right word. “Future-y. Like you’re expecting us to settle down soon.”

“Well…” he carded a nervous hand through his curls and your fingers itched  beyond reason to replace it with your own.

“What? Why would we do that? I thought we both loved this wandering life…Do you know something I don’t?”

“It’s…well…a bit more hopeful than that…” you had never seen him so worked up, and his nervous energy was beginning to bleed into your own.

“Out with it.” You ordered, hoping some firmness would get him to pull himself together.

He sighed. “I hadn’t planned to do this tonight, or so shortly after you had been insulted and upset, which it is only by virtue of him being a future king and therefore an important ally to cultivate that I did not challenge him to a duel for that you know…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right, and him being only about twelve-years-old had nothing to do with it?”

He shrugged, as if to suggest that he would in fact have challenged a child to a fight in your name.

“Y/N. Sun and stars in my sky. Deity made flesh and stooped low to love me. Grandest muse, all I could ever ask for and more. I have no right. I am a cad and a wastrel and do not deserve you. But I bare my heart before you, and ask you to take it, let it be yours forever, let me be yours,” he slowly sank down in front of you. “As your husband?”

[writinginthesecrettrees]

old essays

Wanna read an essay I wrote for a lit class a few years back? Comparing Clytaemnestra in Agamemnon and Christine de Pizan’s The Book of the City of Ladies. 

          In the history of the western world, women have gotten a raw deal. Women have been seen as weak, conniving, scheming, jealous, and cowardly.  When Aegisthus stays behind as all the other men go off to war with Troy, he is called a “womanly creature” (Agamemnon 1916).  Christine de Pizan mentions one of the Catos, a respected orator of Rome, “who declared that if woman hadn’t been created, man would converse with the gods,” (de Pizan 127).  In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon and de Pizan’s The Book of the City of Ladies, the characters of Clytaemnestra and Christine both face these negative views of women and femininity.  Their responses to their worlds show both the best and the worst of what feminism can be.

           In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra has been left to hold together Agamemnon’s kingdom while he goes to war (over her sister!) immediately after killing their daughter.  And she does hold it together for ten years, all the while not knowing whether her husband would return or not.  Just that much requires a strong intellect, especially with the way the people of Argos constantly doubt her.  She is considered “too ambitious, far too arrogant,” (Agamemnon 1687) and too competitive (Agamemnon 1109) to be womanly.  The prevailing view of women in Argos is that they are irrational and rather stupid.  It’s “the nature of a woman— / to give thanks before the truth appears” (Agamemnon 575-576) because “[t]he proper order in a woman’s mind / is easily upset,” (Agamemnon 578-579).  The chorus leader questions Clytaemnestra even while pretending to follow her rule, saying that “[w]ith our king far away, the man’s throne / is empty—so it’s appropriate for us / to pay allegiance to his wife,” (Agamemnon 308-310) but then attributing her knowledge to a dream or a rumor until Clytaemnestra explains that she “organized these messengers of fire, / setting them up in sequence, one by one,” (Agamemnon 375-376). Upon being given this evidence of her cleverness and rationality, the leader says only “You speak wisely, like a prudent man,” (Agamemnon 425).

           The challenges to her intelligence and spirit bring out anger in her.  She responds to the chorus’ questions with sarcasm, saying “[a]s if I’d listen to some dozing brain,” (Agamemnon 329) and telling them that they are “insulting [her] intelligence, / as if [she] were a youngster” (Agamemnon 331-332).  After killing Agamemnon in a spectacularly bloody manner, Clytaemnestra accuses the chorus leader of “testing [her], as if [she] were some silly woman,” (Agamemnon 1657). In the end, she succumbs to the expectations of her time: she turns to Aegisthus to protect her and be “loyal to [her] now / as always, [her] shield” (Agamemnon 1698-1699), and becomes a secondary character in the end with all credit for her deeds given to a man.  It is a product of the time: Clytaemnestra is a strong woman, written by an ancient Greek man, and Aeschylus’ writing is shaped by his society.

           In The Book of the City of Ladies, de Pizan, through the character she created, encounters similar views of women. Her reaction to these views is markedly different than the ancient queen’s.  Clytaemnestra tries to conform to her society’s standards, presenting herself as the perfect model of a noble lady (Agamemnon 728-738) and saying “what a woman out to say,” (Agamemnon 1959), until she cannot suppress her resentment any longer and explodes rather dramatically in anger.  Christine “[begins] to examine [her]self and [her] own behavior as an example of womankind,” (de Pizan 113) and uses her observations to counter the claims against women.

           De Pizan presents herself as a scholar, interested in nothing more than her studies.  Like many students, she takes study breaks.  Where today’s student turns to Netflix, Christine “[puts] aside these difficult texts and [finds] instead something amusing and easy to read from the works of the poets” (de Pizan 112).  In fact, the book she chooses is one that “was said to be written in praise of women” (de Pizan 112).  The rarity of finding a work that praised women shows the culture that Christine has known all her life.   The very idea that most works available to her would be critical of women and only concerned with highlighting their flaws is indicative of a pervasive cultural misogyny. In the course of her studies, Christine has read works by “all manner of philosophers, poets and orators too numerous to mention, who all seem to speak with one voice and are unanimous in their view that female nature is wholly given up to vice,” (de Pizan 113).  The many accounts of the vile nature of women, including a book that supposedly celebrated women rather than reviling them became a harsh critique of the wrongs of women, created a hostile environment for Christine.

           Christine’s conclusion, “that God had surely created a vile thing when He created woman,” (de Pizan 113) shakes her badly.  She expresses sorrow and bitterness at this prevailing view.  In this moment of utter despair, de Pizan takes her surrogate to a fantasy where she meets feminine personifications of reason, justice, and rectitude: three qualities that the male writers claimed were lacking in women.  Reason addresses the authors who disparage women directly, attacking both their writings and their characters.  When Christine brings up a writer she feels has especially unpleasant things to say, Reason tells her that she “[shouldn’t] be surprised if Cecco d’Ascoli slandered the whole of womankind since he hated and despised them all. […] He too got what he deserved: thanks to his heretical views, he suffered a shameful death at the stake,” (de Pizan 125).  Again and again, Christine brings up a man who has written on the evils of women, and Reason tells her that the men are bitter or envious or foolish (de Pizan 123-124).  Throughout their dialogue, the three ladies give Christine the knowledge she needs to face the persecution in the works she reads and stand up for women.

           Both Clytaemnestra and Christine have the potential to be great feminist characters.  Clytaemnestra is a queen who protects her kingdom and helps it to prosper.  Even her murder of Agamemnon can be seen as justified—he killed their daughter, an act which is said to “violate all human law” (Agamemnon 177) every time it is mentioned.  She could be a champion, fighting against a society that views women as property, sometimes literally (as with Cassandra).  Instead, she surrenders to the stereotype of the scheming and evil woman, killing the war hero in his sleep and depending on Aegisthus to protect her.  Christine lives up to her potential.  While de Pizan shares Clytaemnestra’s anger at the way women are viewed and treated, she writes a dialogue that sets up her opponents’ arguments and then counters them. She writes of Amazons and warrior women who show the same courage and strength as men (de Pizan 128-134), and she appeals to the religious views of her land: that God “nurtured the idea of creating man and woman” (de Pizan 126) and made woman to be man’s “companion standing at his side, who he would love as if they were one flesh, and not his servant lying at his feet” (de Pizan 126).  De Pizan is justifiably angry at the treatment that women receive, but she channels that anger into her arguments.  Most importantly, she stands against the misogyny that she has encountered and refuses to surrender to it.  Clytaemnestra allows her anger at the world and at her husband to cloud her mind, and she is weakened by it.  Christine de Pizan takes her anger and uses it as a focus in her fight against the unfair world she lives in.

[january3693]

The Dark Lord’s Elf - Someone We Used to Know Extra Scene

(I’m busy this weekend, so there will be no update to Someone We Used to Know on Sunday, instead, here’s this bonus scene.)

(This is outside of the main storyline of Someone We Used to Know, but it provides some more insight into Regulus, and a very important change to canon. It probably won’t make too much sense if you haven’t read the main story, but you can find everything posted so far on the Someone We Used to Know Master List.)

Someone is screaming in 12 Grimmauld Place. It startles Regulus awake. His hangover arrives approximately two seconds later.

Mouth dry, head pounding, Regulus tumbles out of bed and throws a dressing gown on over his pajamas. He recognizes this particular screech. Even if he feels like he’s about to vomit, Regulus heeds his mother’s call.

Only it’s not him she’s calling for.

“Kreacher!” Walburga yells. She stands in the middle of the drawing room, dressed impeccably for the day, as though she were going to host an important luncheon or attend tea with the Minister. Regulus knows she isn’t likely to even leave the house though. She rarely steps foot outside Grimmauld Place since his father’s death.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Regulus asks from the doorway. He’s not slurring his words, which he counts as a victory.

“That insufferable elf! That lazy, vile beast! Where is he? He’s not answering my summons!” Walburga says. Her wand is in her hand, and Regulus grimaces at the sight of it. He and Kreacher have both been on the wrong end of that wand before.

Walburga stopped hitting or cursing Regulus after he took the Dark Mark. “You’re a man now,” She told him. “A true scion of the House of Black.”

She still yelled though, and she still hurt Kreacher whenever the whim took her, or forced him to hurt himself.

“Mother, Kreacher isn’t here,” Regulus reminds her, as gentle as possible. “You sent him to stay with Narcissa and help with the baby. You told him to stay with her until Lucius manages to get a new elf, or they hire a nanny.”

For a moment, Walburga just frowns. The thunderous look on her face says she wants argue with him. Instead, she settles for disparaging Lucius Malfoy, who isn’t there to defend himself.

“That man! I always said your cousin could have done better!” Walburga says with a huff. “He should have gotten a replacement elf long before now. He should have gotten two considering Narcissa’s condition. I don’t know why he just gave away their old one in the first place.”

Because the Dark Lord asked, and Lucius is as loyal a servant as any house elf. Regulus doesn’t say the words out loud. His mother doesn’t have the mark. She doesn’t need to know about any of that.

She certainly doesn’t need to know that when the Dark Lord asked his followers to borrow a house elf, his red eyes had initially settled on Regulus.

It was a test, Regulus is sure of it. One he very clearly failed.

He can still remember the weight of those terrible eyes on him. He’d kept his gaze focused on the floor, terrified that even his long practiced occlumency wouldn’t be enough to hide his treacherous doubts from the Dark Lord.

Perhaps if Regulus hadn’t already had so many doubts, if he hadn’t had Potter’s mirror hidden in the bottom of his old school trunk “just in case,” maybe he would have done it. Maybe he would have sent Kreacher to assist the Dark Lord, hoping to bring favor to himself and his family.

The doubts were there though, planted by Potter and the mystery of Sirius’s disappearance.

“Maybe it is for the best,” Walburga grumbles, collapsing heavily onto her divan and pointedly eying the liquor cabinet against the far wall. Regulus takes the hint and does Kreacher’s usual duties. It’s barely noon, but Regulus can’t exactly judge his mother for her day drinking.

“I remember that Malfoy elf,” Walburga continues as Regulus pulls out her favorite cognac. “It was a strange thing. Nervous, jumpy, but the little beast gave Lucius lip more than once. I think his orders were too lax.”

She clucks her tongue disapprovingly as Regulus finishes with her drink. He eyes the decanter thoughtfully, then takes a long swallow directly from it. Hopefully his mother isn’t watching. She’s stingy with her liquor.

Regulus remembers the Malfoys’ elf too. His mother is right, he was a strange creature, even for a house elf. He’d seemed eager enough to serve when Regulus had smiled and thanked him for things though. Regulus struggled to remember the elf’s name. He’d asked for it at dinner one time. Something with a D, he was sure…Dorin…Dobbin…Dobbie…yes, that was it. He’s fairly sure of it.

He shudders at the memory of those enormous eyes and the way the elf’s ears had twitched happily when Regulus had thanked him for refreshing his tea.

His mother hadn’t approved of that. She’s never approved of how he treats house elves. To this day she insists that, when Kreacher gets too old to serve, it will be Regulus who takes his head to mount on the wall.

Kreacher loves the idea too, but it terrifies Regulus.

He knows he has more affection for Kreacher than is proper. It’s wrong that he sees the elf as almost as much of a friend as he is a servant. Perhaps that’s why the Dark Lord looked to him first, to rid him of this foolish attachment.

All Regulus knows is that he’s thankful he didn’t offer Kreacher’s service to the Dark Lord.

Lucius had stepped up instead, eagerly offering up his own odd elf. The Dark Lord had smiled and praised him, and Lucius had preened like one of his white peacocks.

His elf never came home.

The Dark Lord never offered an explanation, or apologies, and Lucius had known better than to ask.

Heaving a sigh, Regulus takes another swallow of cognac, hoping to chase off his hangover for a little while longer. Then he pastes on a smile and takes his mother her drink.

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’m sure Kreacher will be home soon,” he says. “Until then, I’ll help you with anything you need.”

She mutters something about the indignity of her son acting like an elf, but she doesn’t refuse his offer, or the drink.

Regulus excuses himself from the room after that, hoping to head back up to bed. He shudders as he passes by the house elf heads mounted on the wall, dreading the day Kreacher’s head will join them, and wondering what became of the Malfoy elf’s body.

[the--regenerating--degenerate]

Sol Invictus

A/N: Thanks go out to Selene Sokal and his fic, By Steel and Starlight, which helped inspire this work. If you haven't read it go give a look. It is really good. This fic is not a prequel to his, this is inspired by.

You may also be wondering about Blake's name; I wanted the Faunus to feel like they have their own culture, naming conventions and actually feel like a separate distinct people. Their naming convention is their Family Name first, followed by clan then given name. The 'Ist' in their name is their way of saying 'I am from' or 'Of this place.' Much like the German 'Von.'

--------

Chapter Two: The White Fang

Ruby Rose loved ships, she loved everything about them and every type. From three-man fighters and interceptors to the behemoth dreadnaughts and carriers. Ruby was never happier than when she was exploring, learning or working on a spacecraft.  It was exactly because of this love of ships she wished that she was allowed to explore every inch of the Muninn more often. 

Sadly, permission was a rare event and it was always begrudgingly given by Aunt Raven. 

Though it also wasn't often that Ruby did ask for permission. Nor did she ever approach her pirate aunt without Yang's, her older sister, supporting presence.

So Ruby had developed a love/hate relationship with the Muninn. 

She loved the ship for what it was. From the RSDC Series 2 power core, to her sleek Adel-Rolls R Series 450 sub-light engines, to the polished gleam of her black bulkheads, to the incredibly rare and expensive Luna-Shawcross DF2 Fold drive. The Muninn was an engineering marvel.

She hated the ship for what it was. A frigate-sized, but cramped ship, filled with people who went out of their way to avoid her; with Ruby’s only real friend being her older sister. Not even Aunt Raven cared to spend any time getting to know her ex-husband’s second daughter.

Ruby was used to the disparaging glares and sneers that she got from Raven and her crew. It wasn't all that different from the Royal Valian Naval Academy; were even the instructors did not particularly care to be in close proximity of the energetic brunette for long periods of time.

No, she avoided Raven more for the sense of potential violence which seemed to coalesce around Raven like a thick miasma.  

“Sorry, Rubes.” Yang would say, as the two sisters would walk back to their shared quarters. “Raven is… Well, she’s busy. Lots for us to do. Maybe next time.”

Ruby never asked Yang why she always referred to her mother as Raven. She wanted to. Desperately too. But it had been years since Yang had run away to join Raven in Wild Space; and the two of them had only recently reunited. 

Though the two young women had made great strides in reconciliation; to the point were sometimes it almost felt like they were back home on Port Patch, or on their father’s old freighter; they were still… hesitant over certain subjects.  

Raven being one of those. 

Yang’s gene-tailoring being another. 

Ruby sighed. She had been frightened when she had first finally reunited with her older sister planetside; before being brought onboard the Muninn. If it hadn’t been for the long, blonde hair and lilac coloured eyes, Ruby would have hardly recognized the hulking, almost brutish stranger who waited for her at the dock that day. 

Yang had always been big, tough, strong. Now she looked like she could rival those who had grown up on high grav worlds. Her arms, legs, shoulders were thick with muscle and bone. The scaly ridges on Yang’s forehead, the slit pupil eyes and elongated, animalistic, fang-like canines, frightened her. If Ruby hadn’t known any better she would have sworn her sister was a Faunus. The sight had caused Ruby to doubt that Yang was really Yang anymore.  

But then as soon as Ruby stepped off the shuttle, Yang had run over and scooped her up in a tight, loving hug; and Ruby felt her doubts and fears melt away. Yang almost broke her younger sister’s ribs, as she embraced her for the first time in years. The two of them nearly crying in each other’s arms. 

The look of pure joy and happiness that had split Yang’s mouth into a wide smile. It was so obvious that Yang regretted splitting the two sisters up. Regretted leaving Ruby behind as she wandered off to explore the galaxy and find her mother. Ruby cried herself for doubting her big sister. So here they were. Comfortable with each other for the most part, but still having to walk delicately around one another.

Speaking of Yang, Ruby groaned irritably inward. Where is she? I’m booooooored!

She had been gone for several hours. At least according to the crono-sphere in their cabin. She had gone to take care of some business for Aunt Raven and had left Ruby with precious little to do in the meantime. 

Well… I could always clean Crescent Rose… Again… 

Ruby spared a sideways glance at her precious rifle. It was one of the very few things that Ruby had brought with her from the Academy. Crescent Rose was her baby. Her prized possession. A VA M29 designated marksman rifle; Ruby had been quick to tamper with, rebuild and customise every part from the upper to lower reciever, pistol grip, trigger assembly, fire selection and even the barrel. She had even given the rifle a red and black custom paint job, with a stylized rose right above the magazine well. 

Currently, her beloved weapon was laid out on Ruby and Yang's shared table. Ruby had stripped her down, laying each part out in a neat, meticulous order. From there Ruby had obsessively gone over each and every part until they shone brightly even in the dim light of Muninn.

To clean Crescent Rose again would be the height of redundancy.Not that Ruby wasn’t willing to do it. Nothing was too good for her baby.

Or… She could go out to find Yang. Maybe catch Aunt Raven in a good mood. A good enough mood that she would allow Ruby to wander through the belly of the Muninn? 

It was tempting. 

So that was her choice. Sit around, clean Crescent Rose for the seventh hundredth time. Or go and ask her Aunt. 

Besides Yang is there talking to her. It couldn’t hurt to ask. An eager, but nervous smile playing across her lips as she slipped on her bright red cloak and stepped out into the dim hall. 

-----------

The snapping of metal, the of breaking porcelain and the shattering of glass echoed in Raven's quarters, as Yang’s fist smashed through the incredibly expensive Mistral tea set and the crystal and gold inlay table it had once sat upon. 

Raven huffed irritability as Yang, it seemed was unsatisfied with merely breaking what had once been an extravagant tea set; decorated with painstakingly hand painted scenes of cherry trees in full bloom, their blossoms catching on the warm spring winds; and its equally masterworked table; and so continued to punch it until it was an unrecognizable mess of porcelain, crystal and broken shards of twisted metal.

 “Are you quite finished with your tantrum? Or do you wish to find something else worth more than a Mistralian frigate to smash?” Raven asked when Yang, panting heavily in deep, shuddering breaths finally stopped. 

Behind Yang stood the ever-faithful Vernal, her tattooed and kill-marked arms crossed above her chest; she bore a look of rare concern. Not that it was needed, but Raven still valued the loyalty. 

“Tantrum?” Yang bit back, “ you made me kill a man in cold blood! Then tell me I am throwing a tantrum?” 

“Because you are.” Raven never once raised her voice, but allowed a tinge of ice-cold anger to colour it. “I gave you a choice. You choose to follow through with it. Now you get to live with it.” 

“That bullshit again? You never gave me a choice. It was that or die.” Yang glared at her as she shook her head, “Dad never wanted me to come out here. Uncle Qrow told me to stay away from you. I couldn’t. I had to see who you are with my own eyes. Away from Dad’s nostalgia and Uncle Qrow’s cynicism.”    

“And have I lived up to your expectations? Your dreams, your fantasies?” Raven rolled her eyes, a hint of an ill patient frown forming. “This is who were are. We are the strong, so we take. I am the strongest, so I lead. That is all there is to it. If you thought that a pirate would be fun, adventure, steal from the rich for the needy then you are even more foolish than I ever thought. Your father’s influence no doubt.”

“You don’t get to talk about him like that!” Yang whirled on her, hands clenched into fists. “He was there. He raised me, never abandoned me to go off and play pirate-queen in some far off flung shit-hole in the galaxy.” 

“Yet here you are.” Raven smirked, “so eager for praise and so willing to do what I ask. You cannot blame me for the choices you make my daughter.”

Yang fell silent for a moment, staring at the remains of the tea set and crystal table. There was truth to that. She had done what Raven asked. She had been apart of boarding parties, seizing ships and killing the crew. But they had always been armed. They always had a way of fighting back. 

But was it any different?

Yang felt sick to her stomach just asking herself the question. Raven was right. It had been Yang’s choice. No matter what excuse she tried to come up with.

Yang took a long calming breath, lilac coloured eyes met Raven’s blood red. “I’m leaving Raven. I’m taking Ruby and I am leaving. I’m done with this, I’m done with you. We’re going back home.” 

“Are you now?” Raven asked with a hint of amusement. 

“Yes. You can’t stop me Raven.” Yang hissed, turning to leave. “Get out of my way Vernal.”

“I don’t need to do anything to stop you from leaving Yang. You’ve oh so helpfully put that collar around your own neck.”

Yang snorted as she reached for the door control. 

“What would Ruby think of her big sister painting the back wall with brains of an unarmed and helpless man?” Raven said, arching a delicate black eyebrow.

Yang froze. Her hand just over the control. If Ruby found out… it would destroy them. She was still haunted by Ruby’s fearful silver eyes when they had met at the docks. Ruby had been frightened, terrified by what her big sister had become. If Ruby found out she was a murderer, what little connection they had rebuilt would be gone. 

Yang would be alone. Truly alone. Just the thought of that sent chills down her spine. 

“You wouldn’t.” Yang’s voice barely registered above a whisper. 

“I would. You have a weakness, one that I can and will exploit. You are useful to this tribe and to this crew Yang. I don’t like to waste useful things.” Raven’s tone was bored and uninterested, as though discussing the weather. “Now, go see to the prisoner and get prepared for our guest. They should be arriving in the next three days or so. I want us to be prepared. You are dismissed, Yang.”

Before Yang could turn to leave, there was a hesitant knock on the door. 

“Cap’in Raven.” The man at the door nodded in respect as he entered,. “Forgive the interruption but we received a message from the buyer.”

“And you couldn’t call me on the com?” Raven asked, clearly annoyed. It was never particularly healthy to the life expectancy of the one she was annoyed at.

“It was marked specifically for you Cap’in. I wouldn’t have interrupted if it wasn’t.” The man held out a small disk, his hand shaking with nerves. 

Raven rolled her eyes. “Fine. Yang bring it here, and you, get out of my sight.”   

She took the disk from Yang, slotting it into the player. Soon a holographic woman appeared in the middle of the player. Long black hair, eyes hidden by a white mask of Grimm… and a pair of twitching cat ears on the top of her head. 

“Faunus.” Yang gasped in surprise. This was unexpected. It was rare to see the Faunus outside of the Menagerie Systems. 

“Captain Branwen Raven Ist Muninn.” The recording started with a nod of her head, “I am Belladonna Zech Blake Ist White Fang. I have been asked by our leader Brother-Commander Taurus Naut Adam Ist White Fang to open negotiations and confirm that the prisoner is indeed who you say she is. My ship and I will be arriving at the coordinates you gave him within the standard day. I look forward to speaking with such an ally.” 

The hologram gave another nod of her head, before flickering away. 

It was all Yang could do to retain her horror, keeping her head straight and expression unreadable. The White Fang? She's planning on selling the Schnee to the White Fang?

The White Fang were extremists, who thought the Faunus Uprising was still a war being fought. They were enemies of the Protectorate; while Yang was no fan of Atlas she knew what the White Fang would do if they got their hands on the Heir Apparent. 

Across from her, Raven met her eyes and smiled that cold, calculating smile of hers.

It would be war.        

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

Ruby ran. She needed to get back to their room. She needed time, time to think, time to process. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. 

She felt tears running down her cheek. 

No. No. 

It wasn’t possible. Yang was emotional, sure. She had a temper that was more than obvious. But she wasn’t a murderer. She couldn’t be.

The old Yang could have never had murdered someone. Another more cynical part of Ruby’s mind whispered, but what about this new one? The one who I haven’t seen in five years. 

Images of Yang staying up late reading her bedtime stories, bandaging skinned knees and packing her lunches for school, danced through her head. It was quashed brutally an instant later by a new hulking and unnatural monster. A monster wearing her sister’s face, whose lips were now curled into a slasher’s crazed grin. 

The door to their room slid open, as Ruby dashed inside, jumping onto her cot, taking in deep, calming breaths. 

Okay, okay. Breathe calm down. Did I hear what I thought I heard? Ruby closed her eyes, hearing Raven’s voice float through where Ruby had been listening at the door of Raven’s cabin. 

“What would Ruby think of her big sister painting the back wall with brains of an unarmed and helpless man?” 

And all Yang could respond with was a helpless whisper of “you wouldn’t.”

Ruby’s face fell. She had done it. Yang had murdered someone. 

And it broke Ruby’s heart. 

Yang had changed. The years had changed her. Every doubt, every fear that Ruby had felt when she saw what Yang had become. The mon…

Ruby’s eyes settled on the picture, hanging just above Yang’s bed. A crayon drawing. Simple, yellowing with age. A four-year-old’s picture; the vivid colours, too bright and gaudy to exist in reality, the simple lines and unproportioned autonomy of the two children and the mother and father, all of whom were far too big to fit in the small box simply labeled ‘house.’ Misspelled of course.

Yang had kept it all these years. Above her bed.

Yang wasn’t a monster. 

They would have a lot to talk about. Yang had left her, left her to go and wander the galaxy looking for Raven, looking for her mother. Despite what their dad had told them, despite what Uncle Qrow had warned them, Yang was so stubborn and so hot-headed she went anyway.

Yang had killed people. She had changed. Or had been changed.  

But despite everything, Yang still kept that picture, taped over her bed.

Ruby knew they would have a lot to say. She knew there would be anger, she knew there would be yelling. Not just from Yang, but from herself as well. But they could deal with that later. 

Yang needed her. Yang would never admit it, but she needed someone to rescue her. She was trapped on this pirate ship.

Ruby smiled as old memories of Yang walking her to school, making breakfast, scolding their comatose father after Summer had passed away. Teaching him how to be a father again once Qrow had snapped him out of his dressed stupor. 

Now it was Ruby’s turn to protect her sister. All she needed was a plan.

Ruby stood up and walked over to where Crescent Rose lay stripped on the table, she closed her eyes and began reassembling the rifle. 

--------

It was only a short while later when Yang burst into the room just as Ruby finished tightening Crescent Rose’s scope onto the top of the rail.

She barely got a word out in greeting, before Yang had picked her up and pulled her into a bone-cracking sisterly hug.

"Yang… can't breathe." Ruby managed to squeak before Yang gently put her down.

"Ruby… I'm sorry. I messed up. I've messed up." Yang blurted, as she rushed past her sister, grabbing a bag and shoving her belongings haphazardly into it. 

"Get your stuff ready to go.” Yang ordered firmly, “we're leaving."

"Leaving?" Ruby asked, brow furrowed in confusion. She hadn’t been expecting this. Ruby had thought it would be a massive fight to try and convince her sister to leave.  

Yang nodded, grabbing the crayon drawing and carefully folding it, before placing it gently in a breast pocket. 

"Leaving. You and me…" Yang hesitated, "... and the prisoner Raven has onboard."

Ruby nodded in relief. "Good."

She looked over at her completed rifle on the desk, her silver eyes then sliding to the pistol on Yang's hip. "You got a plan?" 

Yang smiled nervously. "No… You know me… I’ve never been one to sit around and think things through. But were going to need one soon The White Fang are coming to meet us in less than a day."

“The White Fang?” Ruby couldn’t believe what she was hearing, her sister was dealing with the White Fang of all people?

“Yes the White Fang. Which is why we need to get out of here as soon as we can.” Yang collapsed down on her cot, “some guarantor arriving first before the actual buyer. So we need to get out of here before the buyer actually arrives.”   

“Alright then,” Ruby pulled her chair close to her sister cot and sat down facing Yang. “So the guarantor is arriving before the actual buyer?” 

Yang nodded. “No idea how long before hand. Maybe a day at the most.” 

Ruby sat there quiet for several minutes, then she smiled, the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind. “Okay then. I have an idea…”

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

Weiss’s eyes snapped open as the door to the brig slid open with a hiss.  Dull artificial light from the lamps just outside the brig flooded her dark, cramped cell.. There was the smell of recyke and the heavy tread of boots belonging to that hulking genebred freak.

“I...brought you dinner.” 

The plate was placed gently on the floor, just in front of her cage. Weiss turned to look at her new guard. Yang, she thought she recalled; or something similar. 

The woman’s head was bowed, refusing to look Weiss in the eye, even as she placed a small canteen of water next to the tray.

“It's… mostly recyke, unfortunately. But I was able to grab a lump of ship bread too.” The woman, Yang, sounded almost apologetic; as she waved a hand at the lump of grey matter next to the bar of recyke. 

“So what?” Weiss finally spat, her voice rough from a lack of use over the past weeks. “Want me to thank you? Want me to bestow my gratitude onto a murderer?”

She sat up onto her knees, all the room that her cage barely allowed; before bowing at the waist to Yang. 

“Thank you oh my dear captor. Thank you for showing me some small mercy, after you shot my unarmed crewmember. I will remember this magnanimous show of grace from a murderer when I am finally released to whatever slave market, or small-time warlord, your oh so merciful Mistress deems fit for her purpose. Truly you have earned the favour of the Heir-Apparent of the Protectorate.” 

Weiss couldn’t help but grin as Yang’s eyes narrowed and her temper flared briefly at the sarcasm which dripped from the Heir-Apparent. Apparently struggling not to lash out and quash it as Yang’s body shook with anger. 

“I didn’t really have a choice.” Yang snarled, before taking another calming breath. “I’m not here for that anyway.”

“Oh? Then why? Here to gloat? Here to see the fall of grace of your better?” Weiss’s tone was as sharp as the Atlassian tundra wind in the deep of winter. “I didn’t give that woman before you the satisfaction. You can expect the same, brute.”

“Raven wants to sell you to the White Fang.” Yang cut in. Weiss noticed her fingers curling as though she was only a step away from wanting to strangle her. “They are going to be here in the next day or so.” 

That stopped Weiss cold. Any retort, or insult she had planned to throw at the gene-tailored blonde, was caught in her fear swollen throat. 

“The White Fang?” Weiss finally whispered unbelievably. “Why… that…”

Weiss paused, collected herself. “If your Captain turns me over to the White Fang… I’ll be executed.” 

Yang nodded. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Weiss snapped, before leaning back against the wall. “If the White Fang kills me, the Protectorate will have no choice but to go to war with Menagerie. It would be a slaughter...” 

“Which would drag in the other powers.” Yang finished for her. “Another Great War, billions dying, whole systems left to waste and to the mercy of pirates like Raven. Not to mention the Grimm.” 

Weiss looked up at her, somewhat in shock.

Yang shrugged with a barely concealed smug grin. “Just because I am some space pirate frontier bumpkin doesn’t mean I don’t have some grasp on the current state of the galaxy.”   

She took a quick look over the back of her shoulder before leaning in close to Weiss’s cage, her voice hushed and quick. “Look, there is a small group of them coming to see if you are who we say you are. That’s going to be our best chance. You, me and my sister, are going to take their ship and get out of here. This is going to be our only chance. I suggest you eat and regain some of your strength."

She pushed the tray closer to Weiss.

"I never wanted any of this. So I am going to do what is right."

Yang stood up and without another word walked out of the brig, leaving Weiss alone with the tray and the dark.

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

Belladonna Zech Blake Ist White Fang paced uneasily up and down the small bridge of the raider the Red Claw. Adam had trusted her with this task. His top lieutenant, his favourite amongst all his White Fang Brothers and Sisters. 

His best friend

His lover. 

And the one who would betray him. 

It wasn’t going to be easy. It would be her and the captive against several dozen pirates. Then Bake would need to kill her compatriots. Faunus she had spent the better part of several years serving with. Fighting on the frontier against slavers, pirates and raiders and then themselves becoming those same pirates, slavers and raiders.

When she was a girl, the White Fang were her heroes. The ones who had united the divided clans and families. The ones who had driven the Protectorate out of Menagerie. They had rebuilt Faunus culture, preserved their history. The ones who later fought against the slavers, pirates and raiders who descended on the system, like vultures to prey. 

It broke her heart to admit it, but the White Fang had changed.

Or maybe they hadn’t. 

Now she had seen what the White Fang truly was. This ship the Red Claw was part of that proof. It had been a human ship. A freighter making the runs from the Protectorate to the Vacuo Union, the White Fang had seized. The crew, at least those who weren’t useful, were disposed of. The rest were forced to teach the various White Fang members what skills they knew. They were kept alive only because they were useful. To be later disposed of when that usefulness wore out. 

Blake had only realized that recently. 

Then Adam had shared his grand plan with her; the new ally he had made in Wild Space. 

Blake shuddered. No. 

The White Fang, once a beacon for hope, a brighter future for the Faunus, was now a force so blinded by their own righteousness; it had become self-destructive. Not just for itself, but for Faunus kind.

“Sister-Lieutenant Belladonna.” A helmswoman wearing a heavy Ursa Grimm mask approached her, dragging Blake from her thoughts. “Preparations have been made, the Fold-Drive is online. We can make the Fold anytime on your orders.” 

Blake nodded. “Thank you Sister. Prepare to Fold on my mark.” 

She watched the tick of seconds on her the crono strapped to her wrist, counting allowed for the bridge crew to hear. “Four, three, Gods of Sanctuary Preserve. Mark.”

In an instant, thousands of billions of kilometres condensed and folded in on themselves; the Red Claw shot forward, towards a meeting with the last person Blake ever thought she would have to rescue. 

Blake would have to save Weiss Schnee, Heir-Apparent of the Protectorate of Atlas, from not the Dread-Pirate Raven, but her own Brothers and Sisters of the White Fang. 

She had her work cut out for herself.

[gaycrouton]

93 "You're more than that" for the hurt/comfort prompt!

I have quite an author crush on @viceversawrites , so I hope I did this prompt justice!

For three years it had been a joke, something that -if mentioned- was done with so much disregard that she was sure he didn’t give it a passing thought.

Spooky Mulder.

Basement Dweller.

Obsessor.

Loner.

Loser.

Terms she wouldn’t apply to him herself, but she was quickly realizing today that he did.

They were in a packed elevator when the six letter word usually only reserved for cheap, orange and black Halloween decorations was mumbled, laced with careless malice and aimed at the back of her unsuspecting partner’s head. She smirked up at him, expecting some casual banter about his ridiculous nickname when, instead of a smile, she saw him chewing on his cheek and looking at the ground like a dejected child.

“I heard he’s a genius.”

“Yeah, aren’t most psychopaths?”

She whipped around to glare at whoever thought this was an appropriate conversation for a cramped elevator. What she saw was several pair of eyes looking back at her and just as many vicious sniggers. She didn’t know who said it, but she knew it was a sentiment that was shared among the group.

“I heard they sent her down to keep him in check.”

“No fair. Do you think if I pretend to be on the verge of a mental breakdown the government will assign me a personal hot piece of ass?”

She was just about to whip around again when Mulder’s hand on the small of her back led her out of the opening elevator doors and into the hallway, a burst of laughter acting as a departing gift.

They’d reached their office door when she realized he wasn’t going to talk about what just happened. She was contemplating letting it go herself, not wanting to act as if it was anything that warranted attention, but he’d been so happy when she ran into him in the lobby. Jovial, talkative, flirty even. Now his shoulders where slumped and he was uncharacteristically quiet. He cared. She hadn’t thought he did, but the evidence was glaring in her face. Mulder’s feelings were hurt and she’d never felt such a sense of fierce protectiveness.

“They’re wrong you know,” she stammered, awkwardly breaking the silence with little regard for tact.

“Who’s wrong, Scully?” he deadpanned, giving her a subtle signal that he wanted to drop it. A signal she wasn’t going to take.

“Those people in the elevator. They-”

“Call me Spooky Mulder. They think I’m insane. A loser, someone who, at the prospect of getting respect, is a laughable joke,” he repeated as if reading off a slip of paper. She couldn’t help but think of his eidetic memory - every word probably burned into his brain like a brand and he could remember each syllable so vividly he knew the intonations by heart.

He looked like he was about to say more, but stopped when he looked at her for the first time since leaving the elevator. She was sure the hurt he was trying to repress was manifesting on her face instead. Mulder sighed in resignation and shrugged, “If I need to be the black sheep in order to make them comfortable in their complacency- I don’t really care. I’ll just resign to my fate of being the spooky guy in the basement.”

Scully stood in shock for a moment as she watched him sit down and boot up his computer. She honestly didn’t understand him sometimes. Last month she made a disparaging comment about her weight and he practically all but wrote her an ode in the middle of a gas station. “How could you even say something like that Scully? I thought you were the voice of reason in our partnership. Not even I could believe in something as ridiculous as that.” Yet here he was tearing himself down in front of her with little regard.

She walked over to him and when he looked up and saw her approaching he was already on the defensive. “Scully, listen. It-”

She interrupted him by grabbing one of his hands in hers and placing her other hand on the side of his cheek, drawing his attention to her and halting his words in his throat. “Mulder, you’re more than that. So much more.”

Mulder let out a breathy, nervous laugh and she knew him well enough by now to know he was going to laugh it off. She wasn’t done. “You’re brilliant, on a level your peers couldn’t even begin to understand. Hell, your case findings are studied at Quantico as part of the curriculum for Criminal Profiling,” she praised.

Mulder’s cheeks started to flush under the attention and, as much as she wanted to rejoice in this momentous occasion, she didn’t want to embarrass him. She stroked his cheek with her thumb one final time before letting it fall away. “You are the sweetest man I have ever met, and the depths of your loyalty astound me.”

A small smile quirked on his lips and she knew she’d reached him, at least a little. “I want you to remember all that the next time someone calls you that ridiculous nickname,” she demanded, squeezing his hand for emphasis before making her way over to her chair to set up her stuff.

“The same goes for you, you know?” he stated quietly.

“I’m the sweetest man you’ve ever met?” she teased to break the seriousness of the room.

He laughed lightly before rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “N-no, um, you’re more than what they said you were too.”

“Wha-oh, I’m more than just your personal hot piece of ass?” she replied with a cocked eyebrow and an amused smirk.

“Yeah. Well, I mean-I don’t- I’d never say that’s what you are. I mean, I’d never talk about you like that-not that I don’t think you’re attractive, um,” he stammered, clearly to overwhelmed by the sentiments she’d thrown at him to find his usual eloquence.

“You’re my partner, not some spy sent to personally ruin me. You’re as much a part of the X-Files as I am,” he said honestly. She stared at him with stunned surprise. That was a heavy claim and she could tell he meant it.

“Thank you, Mulder,” she smiled, touched.

[cartoonfangirl1218]

Mood Swings

Thanks to @shasta627 who first gave me the idea from talking about KP and EoA character similarities, and where one of the quotes from KP’s Emotion Sickness pops up here. Also thanks to @lostbutterflyutau for inadvertently helping me with her post about who Carla inherited her physical traits from. So first time writing from Victor Delgado’s perspective, exciting. Also this is all pre-EoA Delgado relationship where I imagine that Ash had dark hair and eyes before becoming a malvago and obviously, their relationship is not that rocky as it is now. Also bits of foreshadowing, see if you can spot it. Enjoy what was originally a comedic, but now surprisingly fluffy story. 

Victor was a tiny bit scared to leave his house.

This was not an unusual occurrence, being a thief on the run led him to be wary of leaving his hiding space for various reasons. The outside world held the guards that were no doubt hunting him down, some enemies that he may have backstabbed in order to save his own hide, as well as the potential to bump into vicious wildlife in the chance he took refuge in the dense forests.

But his fear of leaving, even though he very much wanted to leave, was from a different source.

A source that had been scaring him for the past 8 months with her unpredictable mood swings.

His pregnant wife, Ash.

“Overreacting! Overreacting! How can you tell me that I’m overreacting!” Ash cried, flinging the splintered wooden pieces of what was formerly a priceless Maruvian god statuette to the ground to collapse on the closest chair available. Her brown eyes already watering with brimming tears.

Victor tried to amend the damage done so far. “It’s just, you never seemed to care about that statuette much before. Remember when we stole it in Paraíso. We were about to be caught by the police and you said we can throw away some minor things like that statuette.”

“I’ve grown attached to it, okay.” Ash sniffed, clearly trying to hold back the tears, “I’ve been staring at from the couch during siestas and it helps me fall asleep when the stupid baby is kicking too hard. This is so like you. You never think about how I feel. First you break the statuette like a clumsy oaf and now, you’re leaving me to go join your idiotic buddies to play poker because you can’t stand to be with me. Even though I’m the one doing all the work and carrying your child.”

Victor sighed and went to sit in front of Ash, gently grasping her hands he reminded her, “I’m not playing poker with my buddies. The Capoto gang are not my buddies. We teamed up with them while we’re staying here, and part of that includes me going away to go steal stuff. I’m stealing stuff. Like gold and even those old texts you like, the ones with all the evil spells remember. We like evil, right?”

Ash yanked her hands away from him and buried her face in her arms on the table, “You’re leaving me in my time of need. I’ll never forgive you for this. Ever!”

As tempted as Victor was to leave and go do the heist like he needed to do, he just couldn’t leave her crying like this. Especially if he didn’t know this was going to put her in an even worse mood when he returned. If there was something that he had learned about pregnant Ash in the past 7 months, it was that it was best to agree with whatever she said even if it was wrong and ridiculous and plain confusing.

“Ash, I’m sorry that I broke the statuette, and I’m sorry that you have been feeling that I’m neglecting you. I’ve been doing double the work so I feel entitled to be tired and forgetful but you’re pregnant so you’re even more tired than me… I guess what I’m saying is that I’ll try to think a little more about what you’re going through.” 

Ash lifted her head to look at him, frustratedly wiping away her tears, “It’s not that big of a deal, really. You’re right that I’m overreacting, it’s just that I hate this!”

Victor didn’t have to ask what “this” was. The pregnancy that was consuming every aspect of their lives.

Admittedly, Victor always wanted a family. Yes, his first love was money. With all the money in the world he could do whatever he wanted and people wouldn’t be so quick to put him down and disrespect him as they had when he was a kid. 

“Pay attention, Victor, it’s not like your trickery will get you anywhere in life. You need to be smart.”

“That’s a cute idea, Victor but I think we need someone who has more expertise. Not just a kid’s imagininings.”

“You don’t have a clue what you’re saying, Victor. But you’re just a teen, you don’t know about life.”

He still felt a surge of bitterness when he thought of the glory and fortune that would have come with being number 2 in Avalor if that witch Shuriki and Esteban had kept their part of the deal and hadn’t banished him.

But after that money he wanted a wife and children behind him. That was the ultimate status of happiness to him. Money and a family. It showed how he had it all.

So when it turned out Ash’s mysterious month long food poisoning was actually the signs of morning sickness, Victor was secretly thrilled. He may not have as much money as a king but he certainly could steal it from the king, and now he had a beautiful wife and a child on the way. It was like he made it.

Was Ash as happy as he about the news? No. Though Ash wasn’t entirely against children, she wouldn’t be too disappointed by never having one either. Her main priority in life was to get rich, powerful and to improve her fledgling magic power so she could achieve her goals. And until she became the malvaga she wanted to be, she didn’t plan on getting pregnant.

Until she did.

Everything changed. They had to find a more permanent dwelling since running as fugitives would have caused too much stress for the child. They had to start spending their small hoard on buying a proper crib and other necessities rather than just forging out in the wilderness, away from the long arm of the law. Everything they stole, a profit had to set aside for the future child. One good thing that came out of thinking of all things baby was that they got married. Victor knew it was a bit old-fashioned, but he still remembered his parent’s disparaging remarks about children out of wed-lock and thought it might be easier to blend in if they presented themselves as a legally married family rather than a trio of runaways.

Also, as Ash got bigger, Victor had to step up and deal with double the workload. Not that he minded, if that was what needed to be done for the sake of their child, he would get it done. It was Ash the one who had a problem with it. She wanted to keep her usual independence and join the heists, do her share, and plan strategy even though she was in no shape to do so and most recently, the mere smell of cigar smoke caused her to hurl on the spot. Ash hated to be out of control, and waiting for others to do work that she thought she could do better at. In fact that was one of the things Victor most admired in his wife, how she would do anything it takes to get what she wanted and no one could stand in her way. Now, half of Victor’s morning was devoted to arguing with her over what she was or was not capable of doing and it was draining for both.

“I used to be intimidating and powerful and now look at me. I’m tired of all this crying. I never cried when I was a child, and now that I’m having a child, it’s like I can’t stop. I don’t like it.” Ash ranted, a bit of her old fiery anger returning as she talked and ran her hands through her dark hair, 

“I don’t like it either.” Victor agreed, “I hate seeing you cry.” Ash’s anger faded instantaneously, and she pulled him into an awkward one-armed hug when the baby bump prevented them from hugging normally, “You hate seeing me cry? That’s so sweet. How did I ever get so lucky to have you?”

Victor couldn’t help but blush from the praise. Compliments were very rare coming from Ash, she was always so no nonsense and focused when it came to stealing, and sabotage and staying one step ahead of their many pursuers.. It was rarer still with all these mood swings that left her angry and weepy which could change on a dime. But still, even after all their fights and disagreements, he knew that they were solid enough to stay together. She was the only one who was as cunning enough as he to survive and thrive in this fugitive life and strong enough to do it beside him. He couldn’t imagine life without her.

Taking advantage of the moment, Victor massaged her shoulders, “If you want, I can make you some pan dulce when I get back.” Victor had heard that women’s taste buds tend to change when they get pregnant, and the things they liked tasted disgusting and they craved strange delicacies. Luckily for him, Ash’s pregnancy only seemed to make her crave for Victor’s food and he could always smooth over her bad moods with the promise of stew or dessert.

Unexpectedly, Ash’s mood soured again, “No. Stop giving me pan dulce. It will only make me more fat.”

Victor felt a coil of fear at that statement. It was never a good sign when Ash said that. He always made the mistake of hesitating or saying the wrong thing which usually led to a harsh interrogation about his “wandering eyes” and that he was lying when he said she wasn’t fat.

“You’re not fat, mi querida, you’re pregnant, and even so you’re still one of the most beautiful, stunningly sexy women I know. Sexier than anyone else in Paraiso.” Victor gushed. 

“Sexier than the queen?” Ash asked unbelievingly.

“You are always sexier than the queen, and any other women we come across. Always. I mean, remember that one night in Cordoba when we found those hot springs?”

Ash’s pout faded and her mouth curved into a sultry smirk, “Mmm go on.”

“Remember how we had been trying so hard to deny the attraction between us and kept taking separate baths. But that night, you called me to you. I swear the moonlight was made to highlight your gorgeous face. Ah, the water barely covered your chest. It was painful knowing that your marvelous body was underneath the water and yet I still couldn’t see it, or touch it.”

“But you did..” Ash sing-songed.

“Well I couldn’t stand there and just stare at you. I needed to get bathed too.” Victor retorted with mock indignance before smoothly segwaying to a new idea, “You were so hot that night. Perhaps...maybe after I make you the pan dulce, we can have fun with those rose-blossom potions that you’ve been magicking up, the ones for extra sensitivity? We can have bubbles in the tub and I’ll message you, my amazing malvaga queen? Wait till I have my lips on your skin and kiss your neck and go down lower and lower..”

“Oh, darling, don’t stop!” Ash purred before pulling him into an intoxicating kiss. For a brief moment, it was like he was back in the Córdoba springs. It was just heat, passion, her and him and no one else in the entire world that could stop them until he pressed up against her stomach.

The bump was a stark reminder of reality and what he was supposed to be doing. Stealing the Ramirez fortune with the Capote gang so he can get enough profit to buy whatever baby supplies they needed.

Victor pulled away breathlessly, trying to gather his thoughts into a coherent sentence that wouldn’t offend Ash into another statuette throwing mood.

“Ah ah ah. After the heist, and after the pan dulce. I’ll give you a night you won’t forget.” He winked taking special pleasure in Ash’s surprised face before turning to the door.

“Victor I need you.” Ash cried out just as Victor placed his hand on the doorknob.

Victor inhaled deeply to hide his exasperation in the delay. The Capotes really did not like to be held up waiting.

Victor turned and forced what he hoped to be an understanding smile, “And I’ll be here whenever you need me just not for the next five hours, okay? After this heist I’ll stay with you as long as you-” “No, you don’t understand you idiot. I need you because my water just broke.”

Victor felt the world go dim and into tunnel-vision. Victor wanted to argue the fact but he could see it was undeniable. A tell-tale wet stain spread from Ash’s grey dress to the floor and her eyes were wide with panic.

“I--but--I I- we. No no no. Not-how-now?” And the world went dark for a silent 40 seconds.

THUNK 

“Ow!” Victor clutched his head from the unexpected thunk of pain. He blurred looked around and saw what had hit him. A wooden eye from the former statuette.

“Did you just throw this at me?” Victor demanded. 

“I can’t bend over and shake you awake. I had to.” Ash snarled back, immediately reminding Victor of the situation at hand.

“How is this pos...but you aren’t due for another month!”

Despite the overwhelming fear Victor was feeling at the moment, he also felt a jolt of excitement. This was it. They were finally going to have their baby! 

“Yeah, well-” 

“We’re going to be parents!” Victor exclaimed, still feeling a bit lightheaded, he steadied himself by gripping Ash’s hands.

“Yes, we’ve established that we’re going to be parents for the past seven months. You need to take me to the midwife.”  Ash snapped.

“I-I I do? I mean I know I do. I- well. How? I thought you were going to give birth next month, I haven’t stolen a horse for us yet.” Victor stammered, panic beginning to fully settle in.

“The Capotes must have one. Take me to them.” Ash commanded, straining to push herself out of the chair.

Victor helped her out the door, moving as fast as they could in an agonizingly slow shovel-huffle combination punctuated by stops when Ash’s contractions overtook her.

It was a mile to get to the agreed hideout of the Capotes but for Victor, it felt like the location was 50 miles away and they were running out of time.

Victor saw the cave entrance and what a lucky break, several horses grazing contentedly in front of it. They wouldn’t even have to contend with the Capotoes, they could just steal it.

Victor let Ash lean against a nearby tree, and roughly dragged the horse to her, urging it to keep its frantic neighing down.

Just as Ash grabbed the reins, she sank to her knees, Arrgghh.” “Ay dios mio. Is something wrong? Is it happening now?” Victor helped her up as she clung to him like a drowning victim.

“No, no not now. But the contractions are getting closer,”  Ash panted, and shrieked again.

“What the hell is that screaming about?” A gruff voice barked from the cave rolling away its stone entrance to reveal a wizened old man and two young bodyguards.

“Delgado, what is the meaning of this? Why do you have your lady here?” Even though it was a fruitless tactic to get sympathy from these men, Victor frantically told the truth, “She’s in labor. We need to go to the midwife now.” “Listen to me. That horse is my property and I don’t intend to give it to any pregnant girlfriend of a disposable partner. Hand it over or I will slit your throat.”

“NO! You listen to me. Give us that horse or I will have Victor hold you down so I can give birth on you!” Ash glared, stunning the elder Capote into silence with that strange and graphic threat. 

Victor wasted no time, pulling out a saber that he always kept hidden in the interior of his jacket and nearly slashed the neck of a younger bodyguard, giving Ash to struggle onto the horse’s back.

The lead Capoto was backing away from the fight with a sly smirk as both of his men brought out their double-edged swords when Victor heard Ash yell out, “Leviosa!”

The two bodyguards levitated and hit the cave wall.

Victor gratefully smiled at her weary, sweat-stained face and ran to join her on the horse. He sat in the back, keeping her safely on the saddle as he handled the reins, urging their horse to go the needed 4 miles to town.

From then on, everything went by Victor in a rush. Bursting through the small shack where the midwives congregated with other couples and pregnant women, settling into a shabby room near the back of the house with a straw mattress and a basin of hot water, Ash gripping and cracking two fingers in his hands as the screaming, cursing, and crying enveloped all his senses.

“PUSH! PUSH! THAT’S NOT A PUSH, THAT’S AN EXHALE! COME ON, ONE MORE TIME! PUSH! YOU CAN DO IT!”

Then the world slowed and clicked into place as he saw his baby girl for the first time.

The midwife held her tiny body up long enough for them to see the downy mess of dark brown hair, and her small fists scrunched up, pumping the air as she made her first breath and her first cries.

Victor’s heart swelled and he went speechless. Nothing could describe the magnitude of what he was feeling.

He looked to Ash who always seemed to know what to do or say but she looked at him with the same stunned face that he felt.

“We made that. That’s our daughter.” Victor whispered, gulping back the tears that were welling up but he surrendered to their falling after Ash wordlessly smashed her face against his chest and sobbed.

They held onto each other, trying to pull themselves through the jumble of emotions and adrenaline that was rushing through them. Everything was different now.

The midwife returned with their daughter bundled up in a light purple blanket, “Here she is, all cleaned up. May I just say, you have a-”

“Give her to me. She’s mine.” Ash interrupted, impatiently holding her arms out.

Victor didn’t blame her, he wanted the midwife to leave so he could be alone with his wife and adorable little girl.

It was strange yet so right to think that. His little girl. Hours ago that was just a hypothetical. His little girl. He had tested out the thought a couple of times but it never fit. But this was real. It was so real and so very precious.

“She looks like you.” Victor cooed, cautiously touching the soft hair on their snoozing daughter that was the exact same shade as the woman cradling her. Victor felt an irrepressible smile crossed his mouth and thought he wouldn’t be able to contain, and honestly, he didn’t want to. He was a dad.  

“She has your...you’re right, she mainly looks like me.” Ash agreed, studying their daughter fondly.

They held their breath as the baby stirred, daringly opening her eyes into a squint. Victor swore he could see the color of violet of her irises which only made him more in awe of this tiny creature. Regal violet eyes.

“What do you want to name her?” Ash asked, not taking her eyes away from the small bundle.

Victor settled himself into a more comfortable sitting position, craning his neck over the crook of Ash’s shoulder so he could look, “What about Carla? It’s a regal name and-“

“Oh, oh,” Ash gasped when Carla suddenly waved her small hand before touching Ash’s nose and mouth. The effect completely melted her, and for the first time in Victor’s life, he heard Ash squeal, “She touched me!”

“Me next.” Victor held out a pinkie for the little girl to grab onto which she did handily, making a gurgling noise that sounded like a small crow of victory. Of his hand and his heart that was being claimed a little bit more by her every second.

“Aw, Carla.” Ash whispered under her breath, “Carla. That’s perfect for her. I love her so much.”

“Me too, I don’t know how that’s possible. I-“ Victor trailed off. He couldn’t describe it. He had a new goal now, he would upend the world and drain entire treasuries to keep Carla safe and happy. Everything he’d do, he would keep her in mind every second, every day. His heart felt full to bursting with a new, unending sort of love and warmth and he thanked the gods above for his new baby daughter.

“I have so much to teach you.” Ash pressed a kiss to Carla’s forehead as the baby began to drift off to sleep.

Victor watched Carla, studying her cute face as she dreamt and yawned before pressing his own kiss on the top of her forehead, “I hope I can keep you happy.”

Everything changed. 

[brooke-the-poet]

A serious important post..

Pathological Abusers within Fan Groups.

(This is an excerpt from a much longer essay adressing the topic of predators within disability and fan group communities)

Early fan groups were formed by extroverted Autistic women and men in order to share their special interests, overtime these groups and this aspect of autistic culture was hijacked/assimilated by non-autistics in their effort to socialise. In consequence many aspects have become unfriendly to Autistics, commercialization, conventions, and focus on monetary consumption and socialization, rather than person to person information sharing and connection.

Autistics connect to people in a very direct way, imprinting ourselves onto each other at times. We take connections personally and seriously. The idea of an “acquaintance” is a foreign concept. As this aspect of fan culture has gotten lost, leaving many connection seekers adrift, human predators have merged in to take advantage.

We are all now familiar with internet trolls, those who aim shots in order to cause fighting, but within fan groups a more sinister kind exist. Pathological Manipulators who develop vindictive behaviour and choose to take this out on others. This type of troll will find those in groups who are the most vulnerable for whatever reason, and attach themselves to them.

psychological manipulation: one person is used for the benefit of another. The manipulator deliberately creates an imbalance of power, and exploits the victim to serve his or her agenda.

Often saying they want help, connection, a friend, they weave a tale of need that the victim empathises with and then feels obligated to help.

For Autistic people the call for help triggers a powerful sense of personal obligation and responsibility. Physical pain and anxiety at the idea of not helping is often a consequence, so those who wish to use this to their own personal gain do not have to do much to convince the victim. Once accepted the abuser will then exert what seems like simple influence on the victim.

It is important to note that manipulation is not the same as influence. Everyone influences or is influenced in the course of life in order to achieve our goals.

But influencers recognize the boundaries of other people. They use direct and honest communication. Emotional manipulators disregard others feelings.

This difference is hard to tell for a lot of people, and even harder for Autistics whose neurology makes us more trusting of others and unable to process in real time, the meaning behind others words and behaviour. In hindsight it may become clear but not without much reflection and emotional guilt and turmoil.

Meanwhile without intervention abusers will persist, gaining inside information to use against their victim, controlling them, emotionally and psychologically manipulating them through verbal abuse, death threats and much more. Suicide can also be the goal of this kind of abuser.

Once the victim is further isolated they begin to take on guilt and feed the troll more of what it wants. Getting out of this situation is only possible if an outside person intervenes.

Almost everyone is a potential victim and while there are many guides suggesting strategies and so on for spotting them, trying to use them in real time, is almost impossible. One clear sign though especially in fan groups is, asking yourself:

Does this person claim to know a lot of personal information about the subject, yet provide contradictory information from un-satisfactory sources?

Do they exhibit un-fan like behaviour? Praising people or their interest one day yet disparaging them the next?

(Fans tend to be fairly consistent in their love and praise, often wanting to spread positivity surrounding their interests.)

Do they talk behind others back? Do they bait other people?

Are they inconsistent with their stories? ex: claim to be a teacher or some other profession, yet show no signs of it in their language, frame of reference, skills.

To people who have never been bullied or emotionally abused before, these things, even someone directly telling you to kill yourself, are obvious indicators of abuse but not to the ones who are used to such abuse.

They have rationalized this behaviour over time and attributed it to something being very wrong within themselves rather than accept that someone could possibly abuse them. This way any pain is deflected. And even when the abuse has stopped and the victim is out of the situation, self blame continues.

What fans can do:

Be aware of who is joining your group and who you interact with. Just as you would offline, get to know a bit about each person and if something doesn’t seem right, address it. You’re not being paranoid.

Don’t think you are not in a group, you are. The people you interact with are your group. Don’t expect everyone to be capable of watching out for themselves. Individualism will tell you that everyone is only responsible for themselves, in real life that is not the case. Someone else always knows something one does not, sharing that info never hurts.

Keep in mind that you are interacting with people of all neurotypes, abilities, disabilities, races, genders and so on. We all have different experiences that contribute to human understanding.

Checking up on each other is a must as fan groups often involve people needing to reach out to others for connection, issues around depression and other health crisis. Fandom is cheap therapy in most cases for those who can not afford it. It can be a distraction from pain of all kinds.

For example in my many years of fandom I have been a lay spiritual advisor, a suicide/relationship/ crisis counselor, a confidante, researcher and a therapist. It comes with the territory.

So if someone appears to be using this to manipulate and control people, speak out. Address it privately offline.

Fan groups needs to address this, to create protocol around it. Because often victims will not address it due to shame. Being a fan of something can bring it’s own particular shame, outsiders will say you shouldn’t be online or you should not join groups etc…this is victim blaming. It is not helpful. Online life is real life. People need to have an online presence, within the disability community being able to interact online is the only human interaction many have with the outside world.

Unfortunately we can't live our lives and enjoy things without someone coming along to exploit it. So online protection is a must. Especially by those who want to be allies. For the abled, being aware doesn’t take much effort, pausing your online consumption to check up on people, check to see if conflict or anything weird is going on, is well within the boundaries of a group.

Don't give in to factions. Sometimes one person in a group may garner popularity due to connections to the item of interest. They will likely be surrounded by hangers on who are more likely than not potential manipulators, trying to control the flow of information and that particular person, wanting to keep them isolated.

These groupies may prevent the person in question from making friends from outside the group established by the manipulators. Resist the formations of factions by encouraging engagement with everyone.

Oversharing/info dumping is natural to many Autistics. Not sharing can be a very confusing and curious matter and to us a possible red flag that something is wrong.

But there are also people who are not serious or true about their emotions and will make grand statements in order to gain sympathy yet will them use it to abuse the sympathisers.

Be aware of the difference.

If an autistic person says they do not identify with or has no interest in something, it does not mean dislike or ignorance of that thing, we simply have no connection or feelings toward it whatsoever. Non-autistics should not take this personally.

On a side note the term “Stan” used by non-autistics to describe their form of pathological interests, was coined by rapper Eminem who is Autistic. For the sake of cultural respect, non-autistics should be aware of the many, many cultural aspects created by Autistics from anime to the internet we all use, that they currently enjoy.

Overall interactions should be respectful, fun and meaningful. Autistic or not everyone knows the joy that comes with being interested in something. Special interests have helped me make friends, sent me down winding rabbit holes to locate people who are stuck, who I needed and who needed me. I’ve found inspiration and joy and countless ideas that have helped expand my world. People have the right to explore and enjoy these interests in safety.

[greyofjakku]

do you have any Senator!Ben and Jedi!Rey headcanons? where Ben never went dark and Rey was somehow found as a child and raised to be a Jedi by Luke

Hi nonnie! So glad you requested this! It was fun to write - so sorry it took so long. I’m sick with the flu and have an exam for Friday, but wanted to get this out! I’ll do the non-sexual part first, and then put the sexual under a cut :) Also, I wrote these headcanons as more ‘storyline-based’ than just a list. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself ahaha. I should really actually write this as a story *sighs*

*********

Rey and Ben met when they were younger, thanks to Uncle Luke bringing a few of his students with him to Naboo for the Festival of Glad Arrival. Rey was weaving in and out of one of the many dancing circles, stumbling over her feet but entrancing all the same. Ben, standing next to his mother in a place of honor, tried to ignore how beautiful the girl looked, not dressed in padawan robes but in a traditional white and gold embroidered dress. Braided ribbons adorned her arms and were tied about her three buns, aquamarine, peach, lilac, and daisy-yellow all fluttering in the wind. Across her face, gold paint was sprinkled like constellations, and an intricate design resembling a diadem was painted across her brow. He can feel her through the Force, a life-force that is warm and entrancing, like the sun. That was the first time Ben found himself enraptured by Rey, but also what he expected to be the last….

Ben didn’t see her again until she was a grown woman, 19 years and as beautifully fierce as a storm. She stood up in the middle of a galactic senatorial session to call out a particularly nasty Senator on his obvious speciesism and his disparagement of the Outer Rim sector. The entirety of the Senate had its eyes trained on her, breath held, before the clapping and cheering started. Rey, more embarrassed now at being praised for her outburst, flushed pink and resumed her post behind her assigned protectee, who wore the faintest of smiles on his lined face. Ben, having immediately recognized her, wore a look between shock and pleasant surprise, but he joined in on the clapping nonetheless. His eyes never again wavered from her for the rest of the day-long session.

He first speaks to her after the session releases. He catches her forearm - bedecked in arm wraps - in his warm hand, halting her forward movement. A current of pure energy flows between them, makes her hair stand on end. She freezes, stuttering in a breath before she grabs his hand and wrenches it away from her, turning with blazing eyes to see who would dare to touch her. A flicker of recognition crosses her hazel eyes, and she feels the Force echo between them like waves beating against a seashore, but her face twists into a scowl nonetheless. “Don’t touch me.” Ben holds up his hands, in an almost mocking manner, before leaning against the wall next to her. “You did what most were scared to do in there: use your voice, speak your mind.” She scoffs, tossing her head. “You’re senators; you only know how to talk people’s ears off.” Ben smirks at her words, but subtly shakes his head. “Not when it matters.”

He sees her regularly after that, in the hallways, in the senatorial chambers, at gala events. Every time she looks up, his warm brown gaze is trained on her, lips twitching in amusement. She tells herself she hates him, can’t stand the way he smirks and laughs and stares at her. Yes…that’s what it is.

She slams into his office, not even knocking. She was a force of nature, something to be reckoned with - hazel eyes glinting with barely concealed rage. “I’ve been assigned to be your bodyguard,” she growled out, “-despite the fact that I’d rather be the one to take you out than protect you.” Ben chuckles, leaning back in his chair languidly, knowing his easygoing attitude needled at her and her delicate temper. “What a serendipitous coincidence.” Rey sneers at his response, crossing her arms, the slate grey of her robes moving like water with her. “I was told that you had ‘requested’ me - as if I’m some sort of ‘girl-for-hire’!” Ben was already shaking his head. “I would never think of you like that.” Her shoulders subtly relax, and her erratic breathing seems to calm. “After all, you’re a woman, not a girl.” He ducks the bookend she throws at his head with the Force.

“You’re very thorough in your job as my bodyguard, aren’t you?” Ben comments as she trails her hands down his front, over each ripple and curve of his bare, muscled chest. “Oh, you have to be, in my profession,” she purrs against him, nipping at his pectoral with glinting teeth. “I wouldn’t want there to be something I missed.” Her hand strokes him through his pants, feeling him harden further against her eager palm. She smirks. ( @ifoundkylo hehehe)

Sometimes, when debates are particularly boring and long, Rey uses the Force in a way that would make old Master Skywalker cringe. She keeps her face stoic as Ben shifts restlessly in his Senate chair, the Force caressing him, stroking him. He keeps his mouth sealed shut, determined not to release a sound, but it’s when he has to count off or comment that Rey has the most fun. The slight stutters and broken sentences coming from his normally silver-tongued self is endlessly amusing. It’s safe to say that Ben ends up with a bit of a wet, sticky stain underneath his senatorial robes thanks to her fun…and he punishes her for it later.

“What a naughty little Jedi you’ve been,” he murmurs into the curve of her throat, licking there, sucking. “What would Luke say if he saw you now, getting fingerfucked by his nephew in a private opera box?” Rey shakes her head against him, gasping in a breath as his fingers undulate in and out of her at a leisurely pace. “Please,” she pants, writhing against him. “So polite now,” Ben murmurs, tutting. “Where’s your manners whenever your cursing me out, hmm? Or throwing bookends at my head? Or forcing me to cum during my sessions?” Rey clutches at his shoulders as her hips ride his hand; she lets out a moan, long and loud. “Be quiet, kitten. That is, unless you want the entire audience to see another show….” He chuckles at the thought, feeling her lithe form shake against him. She murmurs curses against his skin, biting at his shoulder as he thrusts into her particularly hard. “Do you want to come, little Jedi?” he asks, knowing her answer as he speeds up his hand and his thumb nudges against her clit. She bucks, mewling - tame for once under the ministrations of his fingers. “Should I let you?” She releases a muffled sob at the thought of not coming, desperate now. She begs for him, sweet little pleas falling from her delectable mouth, one after the other. He smiles in triumph, his other hand coming up to palm at her breasts through the silver spidersilk of her gown. “Come then,” he orders her, his voice as powerful and heady as when he is commanding the Senate floor. She does, just as the opera crescendoes to its grand finish. Yet, somehow, she still doubts that the opera was loud enough to drown her out.

She likes watching him work, likes the way he commands the room with a rich voice stoked in reason and power. He is dark, charismatic, convincing. She wonders, not for the first time, if the Force flows through him a bit more when he is working the floor - if his allure is purely him or not. Either way, the way he meets her eyes, even for the briefest of moments, has her wet for him. He knows it too, can read it in the set of her lips, the glint of her eye, how she holds herself. His lip twitches, imperceptible to anyone but her, and his eyes speak of promises to come, of late nights and fucking her into the desk in his office, spread out for him like a feast. She holds him to that promise when, two agonizing hours later, she slips away. As he enters his office, he’s greeted to an uninhibited view of her spread legs on his desk, her dripping pink cunt on full display. He shuts the door behind him, locking it, before prowling towards her. She offers him a smirk from where she sits, her fingers sliding in and out of herself. He quickly wipes it from her lips as he pulls her in for a long, searing kiss. “Anyone could have walked in and seen you,” he growls to her, hand locking around her wrist, halting her movements. “It’s a good thing it was you then,” she purrs, dark eyes flicking up to him with undeniable smugness. He proceeds to show her just how good it is that it happened to be him.

[daafricangurl]

How Long Does It Take For An Ex To Miss You With No Contact

How Long Does It Take For An Ex To Miss You With No Contact

Related: https://mininodormilon.tumblr.com/post/652399097638223873/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-cont

As time goes on, everyone eventually begins to miss their ex after a breakup. Even if it was mutual or even if there was a nasty breakup, they would always regret the little things their ex used to do for them. Going through a breakup makes people wonder if they made the correct decision.

Amid these various emotions, it is hard to say whether or not to observe the "no contact" rule. The no contact rule indicates how long someone should wait after ending a breakup before attempting to contact their ex.

This rule was created to provide persons the time to recover from heartbreak. Most of the alone times assist individuals to take a long, hard look at their relationship and can significantly boost the chances of getting back together with their ex.

How long does it take for your ex to miss you during no contact?

Things might not work the same for everyone. It is difficult to obtain agreement among people on determining the length of time for people to refrain from contacting one other.

The amount of time that people need to not keep in contact is variable and often ranges from 3 to 8 weeks. A research study found that a no-contact rule is successful in treating skin conditions within a little over four weeks. Curtailing contact with your ex for at least a month in order to maintain the relationship works in your favor.

Studies have indicated that time taken terminating a relationship enables people to release built-up tension and make new discoveries about their relationship, as well as helping them recover from recent life disruptions.

Will no contact make him move on?

You have jumped in, and now you have to deal with the challenges. After carefully considering the No Contact Rule, you decided to apply it. Even if your ex breaks up with you, you are still concerned that he could fall in boyfriend with someone else and stay away.

What are you to do about these issues?

Do you have a good possibility of your ex-boyfriend moving on without remembering you? It could be that you have already found another guy, or you are just getting bored of waiting for you.

There is always risk involved in ex-boyfriend strategies.

Even if your ex boyfriend starts to move on while you are practicing your no contact approach, the time of him succeeding is not great.

What is the point of that?

If you suspect that she is slipping through your fingers, what should you do?

What are the stages of no contact?

There are five stages of feeling, however instead of experiencing loss, the five stages of “feeling” without being in contact will be experienced.

Therefore, if your ex has agreed to a no contact rule, you are following it, you are remaining disciplined, and you are not making any mistakes when it comes to being true to the no contact rule. At this point, your ex is probably feeling the following emotions, as you go into a no contact rule.

confident and certain about their decision (3 Days To A Week) After you have not heard from them, begin to worry (Week To 2 Weeks)

Once they realize they are being ignored, they become angry (2 Weeks To 2.5 Weeks)

an unavoidable confrontation about what they lost (2.5 Weeks to 3 Weeks)

Related: https://mininodormilon.tumblr.com/post/652399097638223873/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-cont

HOPE OF CONTACT (3 Weeks To 4 Weeks)

Will I have to worry about my ex when there is no contact?

You can be sure that your ex will not have forgotten about you if you go on the no contact route.

That is, as you will see in a moment, the true reason.

Let us consider how your ex compares to, for instance, money. Having less money gives you more room to consider how you may earn more.

When you're financially comfortable, you'll be able to think about the things you didn't have to worry about.

He will therefore begin to think about it more and more now that his ex is no longer rich.

He is no longer of the opinion that what he thought to be vital in the past no longer exists. Your ex is attracted to you because he does not have what he wants.

Going no contact will not cause your ex to forget about you. Dedicate yourself to working on something as long as it takes.

He is probably going to miss you and the traits you brought to the table if you stay in North Carolina.

Your ex will dwell on the good moments and miss you, and this can be very beneficial to you.

Our memories of our exes are vital in helping us reconnect with them.

Does no contact help your ex move on?

The breakup is making you sad.

I have no hesitation in informing you that it is a horribly painful experience.

I can tell you without hesitation that you should not contact your ex. It will motivate him or her to want to return to you.

It is important to realize that, in order for your ex to desire you back, something must be lacking.

The ex must sense your loss.

When your ex has self-entangled, you feel a loss. You failed to catch them.

And it just goes to show how enthusiastic you are.

There must be a personal incentive for your ex to get you back. It is necessary for the person to be afraid of losing you in order to have desire to win you back.

You may find that your ex misses you, and this can take time.

When you also take into consideration the stages an ex-lover goes through in the process of cutting off all contact, it makes an ex feel terrible.

Even if it is too painful to think about, people occasionally ask me what their ex is thinking when they go into no contact. My advice to you is to avoid making assumptions or obsessing over it, but when you do not chase and do not contact them, they will be able to truly feel the breakup and realize that they do not want it.

Related: https://romaniandragonvladimir.tumblr.com/post/652403196994764800/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-cont

Helping your ex move on may in fact be detrimental to your contact.

The main thing that would help your ex get over you is for you to follow and keep in contact with them.

Stay in contact will be difficult.

You will do whatever it takes to help this person because you love them. Of course.

Will no contact work if he lost feelings?

It is critical that we do not waste time; so, let us jump right into things. The question "does he miss me while I am not contacting him?" can live in your bones.

Above all, be prepared for the festive seasons.

Yes. His ex misses him just as much, to some way, regardless of whether he was in a relationship with you.

And here's how.

To fully comprehend his things towards you, you must ask the questions, “does he think about me?” “Does he miss me when we are not talking?” we must begin by unpacking those questions

Acknowledge that you know this already, but you are avoiding contact with people who triggered you in the relationship in order to recover and move on.

Related: https://mininodormilon.tumblr.com/post/652399097638223873/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-cont

How do you know if your ex misses you during no contact?

When your ex mentions you a lot during periods of no contact, whether he is praising you or bringing you down, he clearly cannot let go of you. And even if you are unable to pay attention to him but he finds a way to make his disparaging remarks about you unavoidable, such criticisms will always find their way to you. It will be preferable for you to mind your own business in this thing. While listening to what others say about you, take note of the tone of voice, the emotions, and the overall topic, and utilize that information to better understand the problems you are encountering during the no contact period. If it ever reaches you, then you should speak with him about it. First, you must rule out all possible solutions. If you must face him, it should be your final resort.

Does silence make a man miss you?

If your ex's profile image is still a photograph of the two of you together, they most likely miss you. Your ex may occasionally interact with your social media posts if they miss you. If your ex still cares about you, he or she will be publicly showing signals of this on social media.

What is the use of silence?

It is true that he misses you while you are not in contact, but this strategy can only be effective if you spend the time when implementing it correctly. When I mentioned this above, I stated that spending all your time partying and waiting for a call from him will not lead him to think about you and wonder, "I have really missed her." “I wish I had the opportunity to speak with her..." He will be less motivated to become close to you if he perceives that you have done little to improve your life.

However, you can attract his attention like never before if you utilize this time properly and engage in behavior that improves your life. The outcome of your no contact period will depend on this factor alone.

How long does it take for an ex to reach out?

Would you like to know how long you will have to endure your loneliness? When will it all be over? Waiting for a text, a sign, or anything? For how long?

With a multitude of dating sites, you'll find lots of advice about implementing the “No Contact rule” to get your ex to chase you again. They are almost certain your ex will soon come to their senses and seek you out again- they say on the order of two weeks to three months. That is what you are getting. Most of it is lies, but they cleverly leave that out.

This is the wrong blog if you want me to sit here and lie to your face about when your ex is expected to return. Regardless of what Google returns, it's always possible to discover a totally made-up statement for you to consume as if it were the truth. Stop reading if you'd rather not know the details. If you are determined to get it, then sit down.

RESOURCES:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-contact-feed1 http://feeds.feedburner.com/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-contact-feed2 http://feeds.feedburner.com/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-contact-feed3 http://feeds.feedburner.com/how-long-does-it-take-for-an-ex-to-miss-you-with-no-contact-feed4

[maryanntorreson]

5 exercises to help you build more empathy

Angus Greig

Empathy — or understanding the thoughts and feelings of the people around us — is one of the most important and most trying parts of being social creatures.

But what exactly is empathy? And crucially, can we have more?

Stanford psychology professor Jamil Zaki PhD, director of the Social Neuroscience Laboratory there, studies these very questions. In a TEDxMarin talk, he says that human empathy is actually a skill that can be developed rather than a fixed trait. “Empathy is a simple word for a complex idea,” he explains. “Research psychologists understand empathy as an umbrella terms for multiple ways that we respond to other people’s emotions.”

Why is empathy so important? Some of the reasons are more obvious: “It inspires us to help family members, friends, and strangers,” says Dr. Zaki. “It helps us see past differences and allows us to see others who are of a different race or a generation or ideology from our own, without the lens of stereotyping, prejudice, or bias.”

But he also believes it’s not just others that benefit from empathy — so does the person feeling it. “People who experience empathy also tend to be less stressed and depressed, more satisfied with their lives, happier in their relationships, and more successful at work,” he says.

Dr. Zaki distinguishes between three types of empathy: cognitive empathy, emotional empathy, and empathic concern or compassion. To unpack these types, imagine that you’re having lunch with a friend when they get a phone call. You don’t know who they’re talking to, but at some point, your friend starts to cry.

“As you see your friend break down, you might start to feel lousy yourself,” Dr. Zaki says. “Taking on their feelings — which we’d call emotional empathy — is that vicarious sharing of what someone else is going through. You also might try to figure out what they’re feeling and why, and that’s what we’d call cognitive empathy. And if you’re a good friend, you probably care about what they’re going through and wish for them to feel better, and we’d call that empathic concern or compassion.”

Of course, empathy is not always possible nor is it always the wisest response. Dr. Zaki is quick to point out that we do not owe anyone our empathy. For example, if you find yourself unable to empathize with a person or people who actively seek to destroy or disparage the group you’re in, it’s not a failure. He says, too, that “empathy can run counter to justice and can sometimes give us tunnel vision, in wanting to help some people over others.” The empathy you have for a good friend may convince you that they should be allowed to jump the line for a COVID vaccine ahead of someone who actually needs it more.

Still, Dr. Zaki believes that we all have a responsibility to cultivate empathy in “the same way that we try to take care of our bodies or of our mental health,” he explains. “I think of building empathy as a way to take care of our social health.” Through his introductory seminar at Stanford on empathy (and from where the below exercises are from) and in his book The War for Kindness: Building Empathy in a Fractured World, he helps people train to become more empathic.

Here, he lays out five exercises to help build your empathy:

Exercise #1: Strengthen your internal resources

For this exercise, think about something you’re struggling with and how it makes you feel. Then imagine a friend coming to you with that same problem and how you’d respond to them. Doing this can highlight the chasm between the kindness we give to the people in our lives and the kindness (or lack of) that we show ourselves. You’ll probably find a significant difference in how you’d treat your friend — most likely with patience, generosity and forgiveness — versus how you’d react to yourself — perhaps with blame, harshness and self-criticism. High-achieving people like Dr. Zaki’s students, he says, often struggle to do this exercise.

What does this have to do with empathy? “Empathy has to start at home,” points out Dr. Zaki. “You can’t just give of yourself emotionally until there’s nothing left.” By building self-compassion, we are increasing our capacity for empathy.

Exercise #2: Feeling spent? Spend kindness on others

At some point in your day, especially when you’re stressed or feel like you don’t have any spare bandwidth, spend in some small way — whether it’s in time, energy or money — on someone in your life. Send a text message of support to someone who’s having a hard time. When you’re running errands, pick up your partner’s favorite coffee. Carry an older neighbor’s groceries upstairs. “Building empathy isn’t necessarily about donating half of your salary to charity. It’s about the little things that we do each day,” says Dr. Zaki. “It’s about habits of mind.”

In an attempt to conserve energy for ourselves, we tend to turn inwards when under pressure. While it may seem counterintuitive, Dr. Zaki has seen that performing these tiny acts — especially at moments when we feel like we can’t — can be energizing and enlivening. “Students are happily surprised to find that when they give to others, they don’t end up depleting themselves,” he says. “Happiness and well-being are not a zero-sum situation.”

Exercise #3: Disagree without debating

Have a conversation with someone you disagree with. But rather than debating or discussing the contentious issue, share your story of how you came to form your opinion and then listen to how they arrived at theirs.

This is likely to be the most uncomfortable of the exercises, but it’s worth doing given our current social climate in which a person’s ideology can be equated with their personality. Note: Do not do this exercise with someone who harms or denigrates you or the group you belong to.

This exercise is based on what’s called “deep canvassing,” a strategy that’s used by some activists where they have 10-15-minute, two-way, emotionally-engaged conversations with the people they’re trying to persuade. Although deep canvassing has the intention of trying to change someone else’s mind, that’s not the aim of doing this exercise. Its point is to show us that it’s possible to disagree with another person without disliking them or seeing them as the enemy. “Empathy does not mean condoning — but it can mean understanding,” says Dr. Zaki. When his students do this exercise, he reports, “They’re often surprised at how respectful and human conversation across difference can be.”

Exercise #4: Use technology to connect, not just to click and comment

For this exercise, think of how you currently use your phone and rethink how you might use it differently. “Try to be intentional about technology as a medium in which human connection can exist and which you can try to pursue that connection,” says Dr. Zaki.

Many of us pick up our phones only to look up an hour later to realize we’ve spent the time doing a whole lot of aimless scrolling and clicking and not much else. For a few days, do an internal audit each time you catch yourself looking up from your phone. Take notice of how you feel, what (if anything) you’ve gained, and what you’ve retained. By asking yourself basic questions — “What am I thinking? Is this what I want to be doing? What do I feel right now?” — you have the chance to look at its impact on you and your well-being.

This exercise is not designed to build empathy itself but rather to help us bring kindness and humanity to the online platforms where we spend much of our time. When you can, try to use your digital interactions as a chance to better connect with others. This could mean having more real-time interactions and conversations. Instead of just leaving an emoji on a friend’s Instagram post, why not directly text or call them? “The worst thing you can do for your sense of human connection,” Zaki says, “Is to just lurk on various platforms and let anger and other negative feelings seep into you like a young Darth Vader.”

Exercise #5: Praise empathy in others

Just like we’re conditioned to compliment other people on a great style choice or work accomplishment, let’s make it a habit to shout out empathic behavior when we see it, says Dr. Zaki. For this exercise, take a moment in your meetings — whether online or in person — to recognize the people on your team whenever they help others achieve their goals. “A lot of our attention tends to go towards the loudest voices, which are not necessarily the kindest voices,” he points out. “When we notice the good around us, it balances our attention a little bit.”

Feel free to do these exercises in any order you’d like and for as long as you’d like. In fact, why not turn them into a lifelong practice? The more that we can cultivate our own empathy and encourage it in others, the more we’ll be contributing to an overall culture of kindness. “There’s a fair amount of research on kindness contagion — the idea that when we see it, we’re more likely to engage in it ourselves,” adds Dr. Zaki. “By calling kindness out, we’re more likely to make it magnetic through that social force.”

Watch his TEDxMarin Talk here:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thu-Huong Ha is a freelance writer. Previously she was the books and culture reporter for Quartz and the context editor at TED. Her writing has also appeared on Slate and in The New York Times Book Review. Her debut novel, Hail Caesar, was published in 2007 by PUSH, a YA imprint of Scholastic, and was named an NYPL Book for the Teen Age. Follow her at twitter.com/thu

This post was originally published on TED Ideas. It’s part of the “How to Be a Better Human” series, each of which contains a piece of helpful advice from someone in the TED community; browse through all the posts here.

5 exercises to help you build more empathy published first on https://premiumedusite.tumblr.com/rss

[cuddletrain]

Dogpatch Press Threatening Atlantic City Fur Con - False Accusations of Alt-Right Involvement / Smear Campaign Against Venerable Con Host for No Reason

Dogpatch Press, ran by Patch O' Furr, Dogpatch, Scratch, Muttpatch, Patchmutt, Hitlerhatermutt, Antifapryde53 and Patch Packrat is an outlet for extortion and bullying of furries. Dogpatch runs his publication not as a temple of journalistic pride but more like an fascist media arm where he himself is the Fuhrer, aiming to inflate trust into his publication and use it as a tool to extort and bully furries in order to groom the fandom to his way. This is all highly symptomatic of mental health issues with Dogpatch, who has recently started trying to shut down Atlantic City Fur Con because it's focusing on increasing convention accessibility when he would prefer conventions to remain for the elite - the furries who can afford to go to a convention that's ran like an oligarchy than the free-spirited convention Radfox envisions.

That's why Dogpatch has begun to attempt to drag Rad into his alt-right fascist theories because ultimately, that's what Dogpatch is and wants everyone else to be as well. Let's talk about Dogpatch attacking the venerable Radfox, then about how Dogpatch loves public masturbation and likely Nazis and wrap it all up about how this is an example of mental illness and someone in need of help.

If you'd rather just get your lol's on, Kiwi Farm's has done the legwork there. Visit' em!

Dogpatch vs. Radfox - The Sickest Fight of the Century

If there was a goodest furry, many would point to Rad. He's been in the community being an all-star while working to keep this country's power grid running. He's sincere, honest, kind and generous and has recently tried to make conventions more accessible by changing the format to enable them to operate in areas without large attendance numbers and where it'd be hard to pull in enough staff. The new way he's pioneering involves furries going to a hotel and hanging out together, but without any of the structure like panels or convention staff or the need even for badges.

This means that those who can't afford a badge and the locals who can't travel (much less budget in a $60+ con badge to their convention activities) won't have to pay out. No panels will mean that there isn't money going to empty rooms when there isn't enough panel hosts or empty panels because the panel hosts a con can get don't have relevant content for the audience. Everyone makes their own rules, hangs out with those they want to hang out with and it's cheaper for everyone involved and easier to run since all you need is the hotel being okay with it and folks to show up.

Spoiler: None of those people are connected to anything but Chick-Fil-A and a love of fine Starbucks.

The rise of ghosting shows that more and more furries attend cons for friends and not the sideshows the con runs. Conventions like this solve that problem.

Dogpatch though doesn't enjoy the idea of this convention and wants it to end. He's begun threatening Radfox with "kill pieces" and is sourcing news from strangers in an attempt to weave a story about how AC Furcon supports the alt-right. Which is, to anyone with a drop of common sense, stupid because Radfox would be the first in the room to punch a nazi if you knew him (and he's strong enough that his one punch would likely do).

He wants Rad to change the con or he's going to write a killer hit piece and take it down, which, I mean, is hypocritical coming from a man who loves public masturbation (see below gif).

Dogpatch and Public Masturbation

Why are we even talking about this? Well, Patch's furry news website, likely read by his mom and a few people he @'s at on Twitter, shows a ranking of 800,000 on Alexa which puts it as a website that has some readers, but not many and constantly falls below 1,000,000 (the cut-off to be even ranked, aka a pretty much dead site). That tells you pretty much how irrelevant his website is and debunks even his ability to

The owner, Dogpatch, loves public masturbation and lots of other freaky kinky things (that I don't want to Kinkshame on, but you could just easily assume what they are) and wants public nudity to be a thing, but at the same time doesn't like a convention focused around removing the barriers and disbanding the oligarchy that most cons run under (i.e. taking power away from the con chair and the "staff" that often use their power to control attendees and bully them) so much he's willing to disparage random furries and accuse them of being part of the alt-right.

His aspersions about the alt-right are comical and come off almost as if he was projecting a world in which everyone is alt-right and that means his "sick opinions" are alright. His evidence comes from when Rad was literally making the convention chat "SFW" and taking the NSFW talk to a second room, where furries being furries started clowning around with some distasteful jokes like in every NSFW chat.

Rad's empathy for others made him do this even though only a few people complained about some rude remarks.

Rad didn't participate, didn't throw out a heil hitler, didn't do anything yet Dogpatch the public masturbator has to for some reason try to disparage this convention because he's just not right. We can go into detail about it, but Kiwi Farms does a much better job than I'm going to do and I don't want to rehash their content, but let's just say this isn't the pot calling the kettle black, but the pot calling a white fence black.

As you can see, his news is consumed by mostly one sex. No wonder he’s so against inclusion in the fandom.

Basically, Dogpatch is a big proponent of whipping it out in public even if it's not legal to do so while in suit. Then he roles on to the Internet, sees a convention that's trying to make the fandom more accessible and then somehow tries to shoehorn his alt-right conspiracy theories in with it while claiming he's some credible outlet for journalism.

Credibility Lost

Proper journalism is rather simple. You vet your sources, you vet your stories and then you move on. How do you know when the media is corrupt? When they no longer are vetting their information. Dogpatch, in speaking with Literally Furry Hell, began assuming random identities for various members, even though it's unfair to the people he's accusing and to the victims of his estranged identity theft ways.

Which, by default means his paper is "fake news" and is a "rag." It's basically nothing at this point but his opinion piece, as he skews context and abuses his illusional authority to weave a tale of Radfox somehow being involved with the alt-right while at the same time being completely delusional when it comes to reality.

Mental Health - A Serious Issue

This all points to a serious mental health issue with Dogpatch. Something is happening where he sees enemies and threats where they just don't exist. He needs to control the fandom and maintain the status quo of how cons are run. He needs the attention, constantly trying to get his unpopular website attention through screaming into the void loud enough that maybe something will scream back at him.

It's hard when venerable members of the community come under attack to sympathize with the abuser, but sometimes we have to take that high road. You can read lots of comments and replies to Dogpatch where people are concerned about him and the way his behavior is. On one hand, he's a kink fiend who wants to make seeing his junk in public okay no matter what but on the other don't you dare hold a convention where people don't have to register.

Let’s hope the death wish is figurative.

I say that we all acknowledge that he needs to seek help and make sure to remind him when he runs around trying to find somewhere in the void to scream that you're not weak standing up and saying you have a problem, you are strong and that strength is respected.

There is nothing wrong with us respecting Dogpatch, if he stops abusing the word "journalist," starts citing credible stories, starts writing credible pieces and doesn't throw the alt-right around like it's an instant win card. For that to happen though, he'd have to do things differently and we often need help to show us that what we're doing is wrong and that there is a better path in life.

This isn’t his first rodeo and honestly, the idea that he would smear Rad shows that this is a sick individual out to hurt others and he needs to stop.

Everyone wants everyone else to have a great life and there is no reason for him to suffer in this delusional world, so let's have sympathy for him and let's encourage him to get the help he needs. Spinning around trying to argue with his crazy points and prove every thing he makes up as a lie is a waste of energy when treating the root cause in this scenario is far more productive.

If you’re a friend of his or trusted by him and feel that these words speak to you, please reach out and encourage & support him making himself a better man.

- Praise

P.S. I don’t make the argument he’s in it for the money because $209 a month isn’t much for writing content every day and pay for the hosting. You could say that his zeal and lack of reward contribute the idea that he’s doing this to control and terrify; to sate some primal need that shouldn’t exist.

[golbatgender]

It's very difficult to actually harass someone on AO3.

The primary way to contact a creator on AO3 is via work comments. By default, anon is on and comments are automatically posted; however, this is very easy to change and these options are automatically offered in the work posting form. In fact, it is possible to mark a work as only visible to logged in users, or to orphan it or add it to an anonymous collection (thereby hiding authorship). (For readers concerned about being monitored by others, it is also possible to make private bookmarks not listed when someone else clicks on your bookmarks.)

It is also possible to link someone's profile, but they will probably never see it. If the link results in comment harassment, they can respond as described above. Users can mark disparaging works as "inspired by" a work by someone they are trying to harass, but this is fairly rare and requires a great deal of effort. The affected user can also submit an abuse report, and AO3 is pretty good at actually dealing with them (unlike tumblr). Unless it's an actual parody and not just a polemic posted as a work, it will probably be taken down.

And you can't get around this. Not easily. If an author does not want interaction, it is very hard to continue it. You'd have to create an entire sockpuppet account, and that's bannable and not very easy to do. (And then it's very easy for your target to shut you down again.) I've been harassed, in comments and via parody fic. Turning off anonymous comments and enabling moderation stopped it. I, the target, had absolute control of the situation, and it was quite clear to my attackers that I had not only denied them consent to say these things to me but also that they could not brute force their way around those boundaries. There was only one parody fic, and I have never bothered to report it because the harassment had largely stopped on AO3 and because it might look like a normal parody without context. But I still felt like that was an option, because AO3 has a history of actually taking abuse reports seriously.

In fact, if other sites took abuse and boundaries as seriously as AO3 does, the harassment would not have gone there in the first place. It only happened because someone whom I'd blocked kept screenshotting my blog, even after I'd set it as only viewable to logged in users. (And he had to use chrome mobile to get the screenshots, because the app makes it so blocked users can't see real-time posts—though if the blog is still searchable, a search will still show posts. Eventually I disabled the logged in users restriction, because it wasn't enough to stop this guy and because loading in the dash takes forever in a browser.)

I want to make it abundantly clear that most of what relatively little harassment can and does happen on AO3 is only possible due to less-moderated social media. Tumblr refuses to ban the man who encouraged his followers, including underage users, to start a flamewar on an explicitly sexual work with no relation to his political vendetta against me. Who repeatedly exhorts his followers to kill me by name; to kill other named users; to kill all members of a sexual minority and anyone who dares support them. Who encourages and spreads slander of these people as sexual predators. Who owns multiple sockpuppets created for the sole purpose of harassing people who have already blocked him. Who has been reported numerous times by numerous people. Tumblr does not care about harassment and has no consequences. You get a form email and no help. The report option is not even available within the mobile app. As shitty as its current block system is, it didn't even have that before 2015 (or maybe late 2014?), and I suspect they were faced with a lawsuit in order to get that much. AO3 would have banned him ages ago, if he were even able to retain the motivation to be such a horrible person in the feedback-starved environment of AO3 comments. You don't get praise for being mean to people there, even if the target is actually a bad person. If it's not your work, you've already lost the argument, and people will find it boring or not read the comments on the fiction at all.

AO3 itself? Very difficult to harass anyone on there, beyond the level of annoyance they're willing to put up with (which can admittedly be a lot, among those of us who write strange things and understand that many people will not want to admit liking them under their own account names), without going off-site. If fandom were confined to AO3 and email, maybe even also a lightly moderated set of forums and a traditional blogging site, harassment would be much less of a problem. Instead, we're expected to use more recent forms of social media that are structurally predicated on the goal of viral content. Great for cat pictures; bad for discussion or accountability or the ability of users to control what happens to their own content, and with an inherent power differential between popular users and less-known users, since the former essentially control all information (especially in the presence of a moderation staff that only cares about dmca violations).

(I suspect that viral media is the trend of this decade, and that by the middle of the next, something else will replace it. I'm not sure what.)

But yes, that's what harassment is, on AO3 and elsewhere. And then people have the audacity to act like seeing mentions of disturbing things in tags is harassment?

Lolno. First off, if it's not aimed at a specific person or demographic group, it's not harassment. (And if it's not aimed at you or a group you are part of, you are not the victim of that harassment, just a concerned citizen.) Second, the warnings are there so you don't stumble into graphic descriptions of the thing without warning. It would be…extremely unusual for someone to be triggered by the word "rape" but not by a graphic or explicit description of such, or a detailed discussion of, but without the word. Third, the tagging promotes consistency so users can better avoid exposure to it, and browser extensions to substitute one word for another exist.

Finally, it is ridiculously entitled to think that everywhere on the internet has the responsibility to be safe for you, personally. That is like accusing grocery stores of attempted murder against people with allergies because they sell shrimp or peanut butter. You need to take measures to keep yourself safe, not expect people to do things that would often be removing more general safety features to keep you safe, especially if they don't even know you exist.

And like…it's the internet. You will see porn you did not ask for and do not like. The appropriate response is to be mildly annoyed and hit the appropriate buttons to make it stop.

Moral outrage is not the appropriate response, and it isn't the same as harassment or being triggered. Most of you all think AO3 is a hellpit of abusive fetishizing fic that will cause anyone who reads it to do those things to other people, and want it shut down. And you're wrong on all counts, and just end up sounding like creeps who want to rape people for real and are only stopped by social disapproval. (Especially when you proceed to sexually harass people in "socially approved" ways to express your displeasure with their ships!) So stop. Sit down. Realize that your disgust is probably personal and does not mean that something is morally wrong. (Seriously, people are into some strange things, and most of them are harmless in fiction and impossible in real life.) Stop acting like fringe cases should dictate everyday life. And if you really, truly must attack something Bad and feel like you'll die if you don't and you don't have a therapist to call, go take it out on /pol/. Make sure to use a proxy.

[youngerdrgrey]

might know my soul, but not much else // a queen sugar fic

/

about… Ideally, after the opening of the mill, Charley would’ve been clinking wine glasses with Remy in the barracks. Instead, she’s texting him, telling him, “The next time you want to hurt me, keep my father’s name out of your mouth.” — or, a response to 2x07, I Know My Soul

also, tumblr user @loco4scandal​ said, What about Remy siding with Rah on this will/farm & Charley feeling betrayed? I started filling this before 2x07 aired, but once I Know My Soul aired, I knew the prompt needed the weight and love of that episode too. SPOILERS through to 2x07 below.

+ on ao3

[Anyways, also, prompts are always welcome. Timelines are ambiguous. I have a lot of feelings. // feedback and critique definitely welcome]

.

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you cannot remain a war between what you want to say (who you really are) and what you should say (who you pretend to be) your mouth was not designed to eat itself

— split, Nayyirah Waheed

+

“When you decided to buy this place and stand up for the farmers that made sense to me, ‘cause it was both smart and considerate of your community. It was thoughtful. But now I wonder if I misunderstood your father. Yeah, maybe, maybe thoughtful meant calculating.”

— Remy Newell

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.

Charley circles her jaw twice before she sends the message. Her therapist likes to make pointed reminders about her channeling her aggression properly. She says that Charley needs to ease into conversations rather than coming in so hot that she scorches all hope at mending fences. But, if Remy had wanted a conversation, he should’ve known better than to come at her like that. He should’ve known better than to insult her in the same breath that he praises her. He just… he shouldn’t have wielded her father’s name as a weapon.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:12 pm) Charley: The next time you want to hurt me, keep my father’s name out of your mouth. You want to tell me how disappointed you are, or question my character? Do so directly. I have enough to deal with between Ralph Angel disparaging his legacy so just save me the mental gymnastics in the future, alright?

She sets her phone down on the table once it’s sent. Rests her hands on the wood too. Micah’s typing in his room; his laptop keys sound from over there. He types just about as fast as she can, though his comes from a sort of generational understanding of technology. He’s never known a world that couldn’t hear him. Never wanted for a space where he could both be heard and be invisible at the same time. He’s never wanted for much of anything.

At least, she remembers his life that way. Remembers huffing her cheeks to help him blow out his birthday candles. And whispering with him in movie theaters before he was old enough to know better. What will she remember from this time in his life? The silence? It’s not quite quiet though; there’s always noise in the barracks, just not aimed at her. It’s his laugh coming in from down the hall, or split seconds of his voice when he first gets on the phone and talks extra loud before he puts his headphones in. The FaceTime ringing for somebody else.

Her phone lights up with a speech bubble. Three dots blinking before they disappear. Remy composing his apology. Remy doesn’t understand how she could be anything other than cold if she is calculating. If she is thoughtful and deliberate, then where do emotions factor in? If she is the strong woman who needs no help, has no fears or doubts or pain, then why do the rest of them even exist?

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:13 pm) Remy: Honestly, Charley, I meant no disrespect. Not to you. Not to your father. I was just thinking aloud.

That’s it? He means no disrespect?

He chooses his words just as carefully as she does. He practically thinks in fully formed sentences and anecdotes. Yet, she’s calculating. Maybe he should keep his thoughts to himself.

Well, maybe not exactly. If he kept it all in, he’d just stop talking to her. Join the line of people who seek to find solace in someone else rather than ever actually bringing her in. Be like this new version of her son, or any version of the rest of her family. She and Nova didn’t start speaking again until they lived in the same state. Even then, even now, the honesty’s something Charley has to reach for. Strive to accept and acknowledge her own emotions without projecting them onto her sister. Assume kindness rather than an attack. Remy could deserve that same sort of opportunity.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:14 pm) Charley: Then why mention him at all?

Her father should’ve been proud of her. He was. She is an amazing business woman, a great mother to Micah through everything. Her daddy would’ve been proud of her, and for Remy to question that — to imply that she is somehow less than deserving of her father’s love is the very definition of disrespect.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:17 pm) Remy: Because he’s a part of this, Charley. At least to me. I started working with your family out of respect and love for him above all else. His stories about you convinced me that you could handle what all this work could do to you. But his stories also come from a different place than what it is that I’m seeing. He saw the victories, not the process. Seeing the whole picture is a little disconcerting, at times.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:20 pm) Charley: You knew before any of this that I wasn’t someone who could be steamrolled or short-changed. Yet now you’re acting like this is the first time you’re seeing me. Like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:22 pm) Remy: Honestly, I don’t know if I did.

But he’d been there when Davis first came to NOLA and she ended her marriage. He’d been there when she fought with Nova during the hurricane. He’s been stood up for business deals and carted out to family dinners. Remy’s seen her at her most vulnerable and inconsistent. These decisions aren’t all that she is, but they are who she has to be. To get the job done. He had no problem with that when she decided to take a chance on his sugar cane. No problem when he got to officially sign on as a consultant and reap the benefits that entails.

Does he even know what the last few days have been like for her? Does he even want to?

To Remy Newell // Today (3:24 pm) Charley: What does this mean? Moving forward?

Professionally, he should appreciate having a contact who is willing to make the hard choices in order to do what’s best for the business. She cares about the farmers and their legacies and wants to offer them fair opportunities. She doesn’t want to give free passes and chances for people to walk all over her, but she will do her best to keep everything above board and honest. It’s more than she can say for her brother so, it’s something.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:26 pm) Remy: I don’t know if this is a conversation we should be having over text messages.

Personally, he’s seen her crumble at the loss of her life. He’s seen her claw her at every opportunity for failure until her hands shake. He’s seen her when she needs someone, and it’s still not enough.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:27 pm) Charley: This way, you can finish your thoughts and I can finish mine.

Maybe they’ll finish their whole relationship.

She settles back into her chair, pulls her legs up onto the cushion with her. Keys keep clicking in the background while the typing bubble animates on her screen.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:30 pm) Remy: Fine. It’s hard, Charley, knowing that you can leverage pretty much anything for the right price. How do I know that our whole relationship (because we do have a relationship whether or not it’s an official one) how do I know it’s not just another pawn to you?

Maybe they should be on the phone. She could let him hear the way her breath shatters before it can leave her lips. Let her jaw shift against the microphone as she struggles with the right way to form her response. Her chest folds in on itself. A pawn. For the last two decades, she’s cared about one man. One. And she’s loved him, been in love with him, and hasn’t wanted for anything else until Remy. But sure, he’s a pawn.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:31 pm) Charley: Why would it be? Because of Davis? Charley: What do I owe, Davis? What says that I have to still account for his feelings when he spent at least three years ignoring mine? Charley: The news of my divorce is mine to share when I see fit and how I see fit. Whatever is happening between us is a completely different conversation. All I can give you is my word, Remy, and if that’s not enough, I don’t know what else I can do.

If all he sees are the worst parts of her, then this will have to be it for them.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:33 pm) Remy: Not to be that guy, but I asked you to take my word yesterday and you refused.

She shakes her head.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:34 pm) Charley: That’s business.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:35 pm) Remy: What isn’t with you? Your divorce is business. Your family’s farm is business.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:36 pm) Charley: Ralph Angel’s* farm apparently

Not that he deserves it. Charley’s got two degrees, but Ralph Angel should have the farm.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:37 pm) Remy: Nobody said that

To Remy Newell // Today (3:38 pm) Charley: Apparently Daddy did. Ralph Angel showed us a letter that he says Daddy wrote, changing the will and leaving the whole farm to him. As if he could run it without my help.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:39 pm) Remy: Why couldn’t he run the farm alone? I mean, he needs more experience, sure, but he understands farming in a way that’s part training and just part instinct.

She almost swipes into a phone call the second she reads that.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:40 pm) Charley: You can’t be serious

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:41 pm) Remy: Why can’t I be serious?

To Remy Newell // Today (3:42 pm) Charley: Ralph Angel can barely take care of himself, let alone eight hundred acres.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:43 pm) Remy: I thought you were passed this

To Remy Newell // Today (3:44 pm) Charley: He nearly loses the farm every time he’s left to his own devices, but I’m supposed to trust that he won’t ruin our family's legacy? He barely got approved for that young farmers loan. There’s only cane in the ground because I could pay for it and because you lent it to us.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:46 pm) Remy: He’s doing better than a lot of other farmers when they got their starts. Your brother has a gift for this work, and the sooner you all actually allow him to do it, the better you’ll all be for it.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:47 pm) Charley: Oh that’s what you think?

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:47 pm) Remy: That’s what I said, isn’t it? Remy: The tone, I’m sorry

To Remy Newell // Today (3:49 pm) Charley: Don’t be. Honesty’s what we need right now. If everyone would just stay honest, we wouldn’t even be in this mess.

She could have her feet wading in her pool, eyes set to the mountains.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:49 pm) Remy: Which mess?

To Remy Newell // Today (3:51 pm) Charley: Any of it. I’m only here because of Daddy’s farm. If I’d known it wasn’t mine, I would’ve stayed in LA with Micah. But instead I got sucked into this world. Your world

No speech bubbles pop up for a whole minute. First time the screen goes static in the whole of the conversation.

It is his world. He lives this farming business just as much as Ralph Angel, even if Remy’s more on the academic side of it all. He bred his own type of cane for christ’s sake.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:53 pm) Remy: Now you regret staying down here?

She sinks into her seat before it feels too stagnant, too much like giving in. She’s not giving in. She doesn’t — She sits up.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:55 pm) Charley: I regret trusting Ralph Angel not to make everything about him. I regret not speaking out sooner about my own needs in this family. I regret not being there when my father needed me and winding up with nothing but this

She hits send too soon. Mid-phrase means he’ll build his own end to that sentence. She barely has an end herself. If she hadn’t left LA, she’d be dodging questions from fake friends who want to know what comes next for her and for Davis. He’d been suspended, so he probably would’ve gone to New York with Felix. Lena would be there too, probably actively fighting for her reality show to still happen. Micah wouldn’t have an easy time getting into another school, but they would’ve figured it out. Or simply fought to keep him where he started. Micah never would’ve had a run in with the police. Charley never would’ve moved into the barracks, or spent so much time at Violet’s house. Couldn’t’ve offered Darla a new job or any professional advice. Honestly, Charley wouldn’t have really gotten a chance to know Darla at all. Or Hollywood. Or Blue.

Staying down south might not be the issue. Staying silent might be.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (3:57 pm) Remy: “but this” ? Remy: Charley just because you can’t get your way doesn’t mean you storm off and take your money with you. You’ve pledged your support to your brother and all of these farmers.

To Remy Newell // Today (3:59 pm) Charley: I’m not going anywhere.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (4:00 pm) Remy: But you want to

Every word she doesn’t say hammers at the inside of her ribcage. She types so fast her nails practically scratch her screen. Her lips move with the words, voice rising as she goes.

To Remy Newell // Today (4:02 pm) Charley: I want a choice! I want to get a say in what happens rather than getting sucked into helping everyone else. I’ve said it before, I could sign a check from anywhere. I thought aht for once, we could do something together, as a family. But Ralph Angel decided he doesn’t want the rest of us around anymore.

Nevermind the fact that without her, he could be in jail right now for having Daddy’s gun in the house. Blue would be right back at Vi’s. Or at the trailer park with Darla. The farm would go untended. The whole Bordelon legacy wiped out just like that.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (4:03 pm) Remy: When have you ever taken what he said at face value rather than questioning it?

She didn’t fight him on the white flies.

Remy: You never consult. Never ask for permission. You tell people what’s up after you’ve already done it.

To Remy Newell // Today (4:05 pm) Charley: He’s the one who lied to all of us.

To Charley Bordelon // Today (4:06 pm) Remy: God Charley who raised you to see every omission as a lie?

“Everyone!” Her lips crack when she speaks. Throat croaks. She sets her phone down on the table, but her fingers pulse without the screen beneath them. She tries scanning the barracks for some sort of peace. A few breaths could get her pulse back down. But it’s just — he’s asking about omission, but wasn’t he mad about her omission? Wasn’t he — you know what, he wants to talk, then they can talk.

She hits the information button and the call symbol. Forces herself to take three breaths before she puts the phone to her ear.

“Charley—“

“You just finished snapping at me for omission, you get that, right? For not sharing my plans, I am calculating. And stubborn. And in the wrong. But when Ralph Angel does it, it’s just a little misstep. Am I hearing you correctly?”

“Charley—“

“Am I?”

“I’m not trying to fight, Charley.”

“Well, a fight’s what you got.” What else can she do but scream until someone hears her? “God. I don’t get it. I honestly don’t understand what I have to do to get anyone in this family to even look at my side. The only one who even tries is Violet.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re accusing.”

“No, I’m not. I asked. In your office, I asked how the same woman using her divorce to further her business plans is the same one who-who I heard about for years. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I’m trying to understand you, Charley, and you are making so damn hard to do it.” He huffs. “I have never known anyone like you. But I want to.”

She’s spent the last two days begging for someone to listen. Or not listen, during the whole choke fiasco. He saw that, right? He sees more than any of them give him credit for.

She shifts lower in her seat, so she can rest her head against the back of it. He says he wants to know her. “I never thought anyone liked me down here. I was always too California for New Orleans, so I always had to be the best so they wouldn’t ignore me. Be smarter than the rest of my family. More put together. Early acceptance into college, a future NBA player for a boyfriend, and even when I had Micah, I nearly killed myself trying not to be another young mother cliche.”

But college is hard enough without a newborn, so then came needing help. Needing professional help, not just what she could get from friends and the other basketball wives. Davis’s money went straight to childcare costs and living costs and textbooks that her slipping scholarships wouldn’t pay for. But she didn’t falter. She just found a way to make it through. Now here she is, tired but here.

“You made it,” Remy says.

She nods. “I did.” She can’t hear the keys anymore. Micah’s probably watching something at this point. “But Daddy still left the farm to Rah. And I don’t want to say anything bad about him. He loved me so much. He never let me forget it, but…. I made him a promise, and for the first time, I’m wondering if he even cares.”

“What was the promise?”

Her throat itches. She swallows around it. Circles her jaw. “To make things right.” But fixing everything for the farmers doesn’t mean everything’s okay. She’s not. Her family’s not. Rah and Nova haven’t been in bad shape since he first got out, and even then, they just swept it away as best they could. They never unpacked all of that. And if he’s mad at Nova for not being around, then he must be furious at her. And Micah….

He watches her sometimes like he’s trying to see which one of them will break first. Like if he starts talking about his own weaknesses, then she’ll have to do the same, and then they’ll never stop. Like he’ll cry so much that she’ll cry right with him. He’s not wrong, just not ready, she guesses. Not ready to talk about people who can’t see their humanity or why the Range smelled like urine for days.

Remy says, “You don’t have to do it all. Nobody’s asking you to be perfect but yourself.”

She laughs, despite herself. Light wrestling its way out of her chest. “My, uh, my therapist said the same thing.”

He laughs too. “Maybe I’ll add therapist to my resume. I’ll be an irrigation specialist, a professor—“

She nods into the familiar rhythm. “You cut hair.”

“I make a mean pie.”

“And a great friend.” She picks at the polish on her nails. She should probably apologize, for snapping, even if he had crossed the line with his story. If they’re ever going to have anything, they have to be able to communicate freely. Without fear that every sentence, or action, that the other disapproves of will mean the end of what they’re trying to start up. “I—“

Her phone buzzes against her ear. She pulls it back to read it.

To Mom (Charley Bordelon) // Today (4:15 pm) Micah: Wanna try out the ice cream maker?

“You…?” Remy prompts.

She blinks back to the moment, brings the phone back to her ear. “Sorry, text from Micah.” It’s so easy to make simple apologies. For a missed moment, or overreaching, but for actually hurting someone? “He wants to make ice cream.”

Remy gives a tiny groan. “Homemade’s always the best. Go. We can talk later.”

Once this conversation ends, though, so does the honesty. “You can’t question my character every time I make a choice you don’t like. You can’t use my father against me. You can’t side with Ralph Angel and expect me to just be okay with it.”

He clicks his tongue. “You can’t just kick me out when you don’t want to talk. You can’t shoot down valid business ideas without an explanation. You can’t expect me to choose your ideas just because they come from you.”

But she has good ideas. And her explanation for shooting him down was reasonable and necessary with the drama going on at Vi’s. And if they’d stayed in her office, she probably would’ve said something she couldn’t take back.

“That’s asking for a lot,” she says.

“So were you.”

“I’ll think it over.” She lets her feet down to the ground again.

“There you go being thoughtful again.” He drums on something on his end — knuckles to a desk maybe. "Tell Micah hi for me.”

“Will do. Bye, Remy.” She waits for his goodbye before clicking off the line. Takes another beat before calling out, “Remy says hi!”

Micah shuffles over without missing a beat. “That’s nice of him.” Charley hums rather than responding. Micah’s shoulders hunch, his ear are a little too red, so he must’ve been listening in. She didn’t say much out loud that she wouldn’t have wanted him to hear. Still, he should know better than to eavesdrop. He glances over at her though. “Are you two okay? I know you work together, so I wouldn’t want it to get weird.”

Oh. Micah stands up straighter, chest open for a second. Was he worried about her?

She swoops out of her seat. “We’re good. There’s just a lot to figure out with the farm and everything.” Micah doesn’t move, so she forces up a smile. “And what if we weren’t? You gonna fight him?”

Micah rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Mom. That’s the plan.”

She gasps. Rushes across the kitchen to him. “You wouldn’t fight for me?”

He ducks his head. “I’d be so bad. You need someone to fight for you get Ra—“ His grin slips the same time hers goes wooden. Rah’s the main one she’d need somebody to fight. “Just don’t get any fights, Mom. Come on, I want to see how this thing works.”

He heads to the cabinets to get the box down. She follows, watches him take it down and unpack the ice cream maker. She doesn’t have to be perfect. She doesn’t have to do it all. She doesn’t have to be right.

“Clean it first,” she tells him.

“I’m going.”

She doesn’t have to be perfect. She doesn’t have to be right. With help, maybe she can do it all.

.

.

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notes: tell me what you’re thinking, be it about the fic, or the show, or the fact that the midseason finale is about to air and put us on hiatus again...