#i just had an experience and i felt compelled to share it in case anyone else could relate

[heymacy]

hi macy :) I read about your personal experience with finding yourself too invested in the gallavich fandom to the point of feeling upset about it and I have to say... that happened to me too. the compulsory need to engage even when there's no good feeling at the end of it, the constantly thinking about it to the detriment of other activities... I don't know if it's maybe because shameless and gallavich deal with heavy topics, or just one of the ways online engagement and hyperfixations can evolve, but I felt so much better once I removed myself from it, able to find joy in numerous other activities, and fandoms too! just wanted to share this - the fact that I had the same experience - and wanted to say I'm glad you're doing better now :)

hello my love! thank you for reaching out! i'm very glad that you were able to find solidarity in what i shared. re: heavy topics - i know that for myself, not being faced with content regarding my own disease on a daily basis has been a nice change of pace for me. i haven't felt as consumed by it since i took a step back. i think sometimes the content we engage with colors our real-world experiences and that was definitely the case for me. i've never been a casual viewer of media or a casual enjoyer of things so it doesn't surprise me that what happened to me, happened. i love having the capacity now to enjoy other things - and hey, i still engage with fandom here and there! i'm loving RWRB content right now (i have just a tiny bit of brain rot regarding those two) along with some jane austen adaptations and other such things! media is beautiful and transformative and i love putting stickers on the scrapbook that is my blog! thank you for your kind words - i'm glad i'm doing better now, too. it feels good. it feels healthy and normal. and i really hope everyone can find a balance if they're feeling off-kilter. also, i love you. did you know that? thank you for popping in 💛 feel free to do it any time you please, i'm always hanging around somewhere!

[some-pers0n]

hi hey just wanna let u know that i (this anon in particular) would always want to listen to your thoughts about The Thing youre excited about regardless of the reason or my knowledge or the time-space continuum!

YOU! Ohhh anon you poor soul. I'm terribly sorry. I have been holding onto this ask for a while, at least until the next time I felt as Energized about Them again. Shaking. Twitching. I don't quite know how to explain it. I can only take potshots at attempting to rationalize my thoughts behind them. With that said, here's more rambling about Engiemedic, the only thing I seem to care about

I've rambled about Engiemedic a fair amount of times before, either jokingly with goofy remarks about them or writing a giantass fic about them. They scratch a certain part of my brain that is difficult to really describe and pin-down.

Like I've never really "shipped" anybody before them. Did I like ships? Yeah sure of course. I've always liked considering relationships and thinking about how they intersect and are written. It's probably definitely the aroace bit of me talking, but I only really get involved in ships when there's really some substance to them.

It makes Engiemedic this weird fucked up anomaly to me then because what the hell do you mean that this decently popular non-canon pairing that's had all of like 30 seconds of shared screentime and maybe seven panels where they're in the same room at max has become so engrossing and fascinating to me. It's not like the usual ships where this happens to people; the ones with lengthy tragic tales tied to them or spend so much time with one another. It's just two silly guys

It just...perplexes me. It's odd. I can't describe what about it really draws me in, despite the fact I've written so much. I can at least try and figure out what it is though

I think the thing that made me first interested was simply the dynamic and jokes to be made. They are exceptionally silly, wherein I can fully believe them sticking together and doing weird experiments for hours upon hours. It's hard not to imagine them getting excited over whatever project they've been throwing themselves at. It's fun

Because ultimately both Engie and Medic are both unethical murderous science people, Medic obviously while Engie is a tiny bit more subtle. Their dynamic is interesting in that regard 'cause, when paired together, now you've got two weirdo freaky smart people tossing back ideas and before you know it now they're trying to create some sort of nuclear-powered contraption that explodes bones

It calls out to me in a way that other ships don't, especially Heavymedic. No shade to Heavymedic shippers out there, I think it's still a fun ship, but I don't find it as compelling with their dynamic. Heavy is a reasonable and level-headed guy. Yeah he kills people and laughs about their misery and whatever, but he's more stable than most other mercs. If Medic was to say "I want to self-isolate for days on end while I work to create the bubonic plague 2.0" Heavy would have concerns and try to stop him from doing it because What the Hell

Engie, however, would endorse it. I think Engie and Medic are very similar in that regard. They're dedicated to their crafts and understand the nuance and skill that it takes to partake in it. Engie obviously still has qualms and is there in case Medic clearly ain't right, but he's more likely to get caught up in whatever experiment that Medic is trying to do

Which brings me to my next point: the way they influence each other. When together, I think they are at their best and worst (morally at least). It's like that trope with two smart people coming together and being dumbasses, but instead it's with them making weird creations and doing odd experiments that ultimately do not benefit anyone. They simply do it for fun

On a more personal level, I think Medic draws out the parts of Engie where he tries to hide and represses. Headcanons, obviously, but I think Medic taps into Engie's more sinister nature as a maniac with a god complex and a hankering to kill and really draws it out. It's infectious and hard not to try and match his energy. Medic makes Engie want to get more creative with his projects and drives him to be more experimental and, of course, murderous

Likewise and, again, mainly headcanons, I think Engie helps Medic tap into a slightly more "human" side. I think Medic generally struggles with caring about other people, discarding them in favour of working on his own projects and being by himself. Engie is one of the first people he's encountered that not only likes him and enjoys his company, but is just as wacky and weird as he is. Engie is more charismatic and outgoing and, while still not too terribly great with the whole emotions thing, helps Medic out in case he's Not Doing Good

Their personalities intertwine so much they make me ever so slightly ill. They don't seem alike really at first glance. Medic is over the top, eccentric, and generally a giggly mad scientist. Clear to see the archetype he's based on. Yet, when you look past Engie's charming little quips about Texas, he's very much alike Medic. He has a god complex, is highly intelligent, morally bankrupt, etc and etc. He's just as eccentric and wacky as the doc is, but is only slightly better at keeping it under wraps

I just think they're really entertaining when put together honestly. Sure yeah I love me my angsty and fluffy stuff with them, but I think they're simply great when just working on some project and talking to each other. Their personalities bounce off of one another exceptionally well and it's hard for them not to get so caught up in their work that Oh No it's been Four Days and they haven't left the workshop/laboratory

Ultimately, yeah. I think they care about each other a lot that way. Their work is...intimate in a way. They're lab partners. They spend all of this time together, defying God's will with whatever unholy machination they've crafted, they got to have some sort of bond

What makes me happy is that I think a lot of people really like the concept of Engiemedic in any form. Platonic, romantic, whatever. I personally go for QPR stuff (something about their love being undefinable by normal standards blah blah), but I think it's a neat observation that makes me like it more. It's hard to deny that they're really fun together

Speaking of their connections, let's talk about their roles in the actual game. Y'all heard of the Heavymedic duo, with Heavy running around with a Medic pocketing him the entire time, but have you ever considered the Engiemedic duo?? Engie and Medic are the BACKBONES of this game honestly. All it takes is one Engineer or Medic on a team to shift the balance entirely. Everyone wants a good Engie and Medic, but it's a hard role to fill and nobody really wants it. However, they're needed. They're necessary. They're the main support roles of the game than, say, Sniper or Spy ever are. They're the underappreciated, yet incredibly vital parts of the team.

Honestly the Engiemedic duo is far more prevalent and makes far more sense than the Heavymedic duo, because tbh you can say that Medic is closely connected to any class. Soldiermedic duo where Solly just spams rockets and wipes out the entire team. Demomedic duo where Demo just spams pipes and annihilates every building. What makes the Heavymedic duo any special? God I'm sorry for being a little Heavymedic hater, I promise I think the ship is alright, but idk. I like Engiemedic a lot

Anywho, I think Engiemedic is extremely fun to write about as well as just generally experience. There's so much you can apply to them. It's hard to think of anything they can't do, really. They're great with humor, what with shoving them into a room with some cadaver and letting them have at it. They're great with angst because, with headcanons, they can be really heavily fucked up people trying to make things work. They're great with fluff because they're so silly and it's easy to think of them doing cute things with one another. The list goes on!

They're...special to me. They're certainly something. I could go into all sorts of other things too (more esoteric and metaphoric I'm talking), but eh who cares. I don't like delving too much into headcanons and my own weird readings with these more generalized rambles. I just think they're silly :]

[heaventree13]

How Jikook Found Me

Hi anyone who happens upon this!

**I'm going to preface this with the information that I don't know how to link stuff, embed etc, so hopefully my attempts to do so will work!!**

I've been thinking of doing a "how I discovered jikook" post forever, because I love coming across other's similar stories, and was inspired this morning by @jiminieloved post below:

We discovered jikook at pretty much exactly the same time, if in slightly different ways.

I first joined instagram around October 2019, after only being on facebook prior to that (I had started a twitter account at some point, but had never used it), and somehow the algorithm decided I would be interested in Larry Stylinson. I don't know why. I knew who One Direction were, but didn't really listen to them. I didn't know what a "ship" was, except for "Bennifer" and "Brangelina", and that's not even really the same thing, is it? Anyhoo- it turned out I was a bit of a Larry. They were adorable and what I saw was compelling at the time.

Then, of course, the algorithm started throwing in some other ships for my consideration, and along came the vmin ship videos.

I had no idea who they were at first. I had heard of BTS, vaguely recalled seeing them on some entertainment news program once, but (much to my chagrin, as I could have been listening to them earlier), hadn't paid attention. I'm embarrassed and a little ashamed to say I just remember they all had different coloured hair, were so impossibly pretty, and thought they were likely just a fad.

Don't hate me!! I would fight to the death for all 7 of them now!!!

But I digress! So, I thought vmin were so sweet. Nothing necessarily romantic there to my eyes, but I had an open mind about it, and I had never seen that kind of affection between males. I ate it up. I'm a 50 year old female (46 at the time), and from Canada, and this was so outside my personal experience. I adopted them into my heart. I watched everything I could find on instagram.

And then some stray jikook content started sliding in.

And I got worried. What about my vmin babies? Was my mischievous little V ( I didn't know him as Tae Tae yet) going to get his heart hurt? Of course, I was seeing stuff that had already happened years before in most cases, but all very new and "real time" to my heart, that was slowly turning a vivid purple without my knowledge 💜. But what I was seeing in jikook was quickly becoming undeniable in my eyes.

And I was blown away. My heart remembered what it was like to believe the stories I read and watched in romantic books and movies when I was young. I had decided that was all just the stuff of fiction, and that maybe I was a fool to have believed in it. But no- these two young Korean men were putting Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth to shame! In real life!! I had to slide over to YouTube. I had to start searching stuff like "the way Jungkook looks at Jimin":

And I was able to reconcile vmin and jikook for what I believe it is- no animosity, no competition (at least romantically) because it's two different kinds of love, both just as real. Not that I don't see moments in the content where I think our Tae Tae felt left out, but our babies (all seven of them) had all lived together and done everything together for so long, I think their relationships are not like anything most of us will ever experience or be able to fit into any tidy relationship categories. They are so much more than that.

Somewhere in my searches I found this excellent 3-part commentary by @mimiandkookie4607 :

And this then this favourite by @themooniswaitingforus (who also makes some really beautiful song edits ,btw) :

Then I started wanting to watch original content, so I joined WeVerse and VLive. And then of course, as will happen, I fell in love with all 7 of our amazing, hard working, passionate, talented, brave, fun, impressive young men. I will love and support them until they are old men (or at least much older, as I won't be around as long as I fervently hope they will).

There is more, of course. So much more, but I've run out of steam for today! I do want to say that I joined tumblr because of jikook, as well. I first discovered @dalloga through the Korean Perspective video (they haven't been active for a little bit, but it's worth it to go read their blog, for those who haven't), and then @stormblessed95, and went further down the proverbial rabbit hole from there.

Thank you for reading. Stay positive. Be kind. Seek out happy!

[yellowhollyhock]

Rise Donnie: Do you know where your wallet is?

03 Don: Probably somewhere within time and space.

87 Donatello: Unless of course it got caught mid transport in the nonspace that allows us to travel between dimensions!

03 Don: In which case it’s only within time, surprisingly.

IDW Donn: We have proven by extensive experimentation that time does pass in the nonspace between dimensions.

12 D: It’s the reason that in spite of our portals, we haven’t been able to build a time machine.

Rise Donnie: Haha it was a trick question! You do not know where your wallet is for I have stolen it!

03 Don:

Rise Donnie: … Here is your wallet back.

12 D: Robot fathers keep an eye on your babies, child murderer just walked in.

03 Don: I wish you guys would stop doing that. I felt really bad, okay?

Rise Donnie: I’ve programmed Shelldon with semilethal lasers adjusted to your specific atomic frequency and set to go off if you come within ten feet of him.

03 Don: I told you, it was an accident, and he ended up being okay. We were just trying to trap him—

12 D: You literally tracked him down with intent to harm.

Rise Donnie: Oh so you’re not a child murderer, just a child kidnapper!

03 Don: To protect the city! He had a really evil dad!

IDW Donn: I had an evil dad. Would you kill me to protect the city?

03 Don: that’s not—!

IDW Donn: Because I was a robot for a while you know.

12 D: So in conclusion, cereal is a soup only insofar as it served with milk. Cereal served with energy drinks qualifies only as an abomination.

IDW Donn: An abomination in which we fully indulge, of course.

12 D: Of course.

Rise Donnie: And don’t forget cereal eaten dry which would be most closely categorized as a salad, implying that trail mix is also a salad.

87 Donatello: Personally, I prefer both as a pizza topping.

03 Don: But you guys are avoiding the important question: what kind of cereal?

Rise Donnie: Evil science is more fun!

03 Don: Donnie no

12 D: All science is morally neutral. Donnie get down

IDW: Actually I disagree, there are some definite exceptions. Not the stove Donnie

12 D: Okay, well, there might be evil methodologies—

IDW: Isn’t methodology a pretty key part of it being science? You’re saying thought experiments are morally neutral.

12 D: No I’m saying knowledge is morally neutral.

03 Don: I don’t know guys, I just think science should be used for good.

87 Donatello: Don, you’re absolutely right! It’s impossible for science to be evil. The pursuit of knowledge itself is always a net positive which makes it unequivocally morally correct in all circumstances. It’s right up there with the power of friendship.

03 Don: … I’m not sure how much you agreeing with me helps my case.

12 D: No, no, he makes a compelling argument.

87 Donatello: Of course, I’m the expert. Anyway it’s been fun fellas, I’ll catch you later. Donnie and I are off to build a machine that automatically zaps anyone who insults us and brainwashes them to love us. I know, I know, you’re jealous you didn’t think of it first. If you’re nice to us maybe we’ll share. If you’re not, well, you will be soon. Ciao!

Rise Donnie: I got the parts we needed thank you for distracting them~

[d3nt4l-d4m4g3]

A few days ago, I emailed my former professor about a paper on women’s food practices in the middle ages. At least, that’s what I told him it was about, initially. 

But actually, I wanted to discuss heresy. This professor teaches a women’s rights course every year. Every year at the beginning of the class, he calls attention to why he, a man, is talking about women’s rights. He looks us in the eyes and says, no one else is doing it, and I’m sorry it’s me.

This man made us read the SCUM manifesto, Gerda Lerner, Maria Mies. He grazed the subject of the Lesbian Sex Wars, delicately, so gingerly, posing the question: “Can sex work ever be just work?”  And my  (all woman) classmates, generally mute—in a Women’s Rights class, they all seemed averse to saying the word “woman,” at all. Then one woman raised her hand. and she said, “Sex work is real work.”  A statement that, as I hope you know, is a deflection and a discussion killer.  

At the time I was non-binary. Hah. I submitted a comic at the end of the year of my final project. My thesis for that project was this: the very language female people have to use for themselves was constructed by the patriarchy. for example, the english word “vagina” comes from the latin word for “sheath”. so the vagina invokes the act of penetration upon its utterance. Whereas the word “penis” has no clear etymological root, implying that it is original while the vagina is constructed for him. Why should I carry the fact that I will always be a tool, the hole, of the human that is man? My solution, at the end of the comic, was to continue using they/them pronouns, to shield myself from the horror of being a wo-man, a s-he—an appendage of Him. 

I got a good grade. A stellar report. And it wasn’t a bad comic, for what I knew then. For my condition of blindness and deafness. I made a compelling argument, using sources from class.  But oh, how much older I feel now. I’ve always felt old but now I feel almost like I’m dying. Like I don’t have enough time to fix the world before I disappear. And women’s stories never survive. They are not surviving. networks spring up like mycelium and then every century at least they are burned. Witchcraft is in the air shared by women in a room of their own, and witchcraft is doused in gasoline.

I don’t have enough time to explain how the veil lifted for me. Maybe I forget the big moment. the days after were a blur of searching the no-no tags like radical feminist, GNC, gender critical. Amazed at the wealth of journals that these women linked to with real statistics showing that children are being sterilized for no reason. Mostly gay children. like me, a lesbian, who now lives in a house with three  “non-binary afabs”. This summer, one of these women, who I have known since freshman year, will start taking testosterone, a procedure I took up  for three turbulent months during my freshman year of college. I get to watch her become what I turned away from, knowing the experience fractured my sense of self to a point of  terror and estrangement. I get to watch her hide from her problems and cut herself off from womanhood the way I did for 3 years. I am not a woman, so do I not feel Woman’s pain, she is telling me, I told myself, when I was in a dream.  She has so many problems, she laughs. But trans is a separate problem that has nothing to do with those other problems. A coincidence.

 (For any trans people reading this, you may think: This transtrender fake-trans never-was-trans woman is treating these nonbinary people as if they were dead! as if they weren’t happy people finally living their truth! —well. I put my mom through the process of trying to convince her that I should have always been a man. and I did lose her, for months. For her it was the height of cognitive dissonance that I should want to go on a life-altering hormone to cure my lifelong social awkwardness and self-hatred and self-harm and depression. And I blamed her for not accepting my real self. I was basically made to shun her and my family because of transphobia.. It is disrespectful to anyone’s sanity and integrity for me to perpetuate that cognitive dissonance in this post.)

So I eventually got through to the professor. I knew because of the texts he had us to read for class. He is gay.  He has read all the theory, and lives by it.  And no (woman) student wants to speak to him. To bring the theory alive. They cannot breathe into it and it sits dead in his mouth.

Maybe it is because he is a man. because the presence of one man in a space of all women immediately sends up alerts.  lockdown. Certainly that is the case. Radical Feminists here: I know he’s a man. But I don’t have a woman. And I felt on the strength of the texts he’d given us that he would be my best bet. Maybe somewhere in the corrupted, rotting heart of my college there was a person who knew about thoughtcrimes and was thinking them anyway.

My professor starts with diversion. He starts by talking about my paper. I find it disconcerting that he starts that way. I worry that he won’t want to refer to my email. Where I say: I have woken up from a dream to the apocalypse—Does this man think I’m crazy? Chipper and kind of frantically, he lists off  primary sources of medieval nuns and women saints. for my paper.  Does this man think I’ve turned into a bigot?  Am I confessing lunacy, like a flat-earther?

But I steer the conversation to the meat at his first tentative encouragement. I tell him something like: “children, mostly gay children, a whole generation of gay children, are being sterilized. Porn is a symptom of late-stage capitalism—men’s ownership of women’s bodies. trans is an extension of this. I was part of this. I was in a cult.” I was shaking a bit. I don’t think I’d uttered those words out loud. They sound crazy. Some of the things I said did sound far-fetched. disorganized, remote. But I prayed that my professor would believe some of it, any of it. 

 What I will say is that he believes me.  Thank fuck, right?

He tells me something along the lines of this, vocalizing my fears: 

that all of academia is being scrubbed of anything that doesn’t support Trans.

And it is trans-identified female students and women who are reporting him to Title IX, who spend all their time in his classes fuming at the lack of validation for trans women in the  history of women. My sisters, footsoldiers for the cause. What cruel irony. This man is holding onto this class by his fingernails, speaking through his teeth, hoping any of the twenty young adult women staring blankly or angrily at him will hear him and listen.

 Looking back, the professor’s responses to my emails are vague, completely refusing to acknowledge a point of view other than “WOW. I look forward to discussing this.”  I think he thinks he could be blackmailed. Anything he says on gmail dot com can and would be used against him. It’s like, really, really, really that bad. 

No ideology should involve a cultural cleaning of women’s history feat. witch hunts. 

I will end here with an excerpt from my first email to this professor:

I'm sure you know what a total bummer it is to realize this. 

[yourgenderisfake]

A Confession

Preface: I debated writing this for a long time. I debated posting it anywhere even more so. But I wanted to share my experience in case it was a helpful perspective for anyone else. Ultimately, that’s all this is – my perspective – but this is the internet, after all, so I’m expecting some people to willfully misinterpret this in bad faith. While I won’t be able to stop that, just acknowledge that this is a difficult conversation to have.

I haven’t used this Tumblr account regularly in over two years. To be honest, I almost forgot about it until I saw a screenshot of one of my older posts circulating on radfem twitter, which compelled me to finally sit down and write this.

It took a lot of soul searching and reflection to come to this conclusion, but after five years, I no longer identify as a radfem or align with radical feminism.

The last two years have irreparably changed people in countless ways. Whether it’s depression from the pandemic and mass death, (fear of) getting and spreading a novel infectious disease, losses of loved ones and friends, the subsequent economic fallout of lockdowns, and the grinding tolls of capitalism amid all these horrors – there’s not a single person on the planet who hasn’t been affected by covid.

It was the economic fallout and the tolls of capitalism that hit me particularly hard. I got laid off in March 2020 and didn’t find another job until this past May. I was unemployed for a while, but I couldn’t afford to live on unemployment payments alone, even while getting that bonus $300-$600 from the feds. I blew through nearly all my savings on rent, bills, and other living expenses.

As if my significant financial loss wasn’t bad enough, I began to feel extremely depressed and suicidal as a result of losing my job. I woke up each day feeling stuck, applying to any jobs I was remotely qualified for, even those I was underqualified for. I went through multiple rounds of interviews for a few different jobs and they either ghosted me or rejected me. It was hard not to take it personally. I distanced myself from college friends and former colleagues because I felt like such a disappointment for not pursuing a job in my field. But at the end of the day, I was still privileged enough to have money saved up.

More than anything, what I needed was a distraction. I needed to get out of my head. I live in a neighborhood that has a very high aging population, and at the start of the pandemic, I signed up to get involved in mutual aid efforts. Every week, I made grocery runs for a few of my neighbors and delivered them food, supplies, and other things.

It was certainly depressing work. A lot of people in my building died, and I grieved for them, although I didn’t really know many of them. Many lived alone in rent-controlled apartments and it pained me to think of them being alone during such a horrible time. But at the end of the day, knowing that I wasn’t wasting my time feeling sorry for myself, knowing that someone who was at high risk of getting sick with covid could still count on having their needs met, was enough for me. It was revitalizing. I got to meet some of the community organizers that I never knew were doing this incredible work. I felt grateful just to be a part of it because it was genuinely important work.

As I got involved in more community-focused efforts, one of the first things I noticed was that I worked alongside a decent amount of trans people. Initially, I reacted with caution. But after a few weeks, something clicked in me. I asked myself why I judged these people so harshly when (a) I barely even know them and (b) we’re mostly ideologically aligned and (c) the same goal unites us – to support the most vulnerable members of our community when others won’t bother.

After five years of only engaging with other lesbians and radfems, I had to recalibrate and decide whether radical feminism was still a force for good in my life. I thought for months. I wrote down all of my thoughts. At some point, I realized that radical feminism stopped being helpful and started being harmful. Some parts of it weren’t ever helpful for me, ever, at all.

In order to track the path I followed, I had to go back to the very beginning. I fell into radical feminism when I was 19. I was a sensitive, traumatized young woman (technically I identified as agender but who really cares). Freshman year, I was sexually assaulted at a party by a guy I vaguely knew from one class, who’d later start wearing nail polish and earrings and using they/them pronouns. I felt a confusing yet subtle rage as someone who I and others perceived as a “white cishet man” for the longest time suddenly claimed a queer identity similar to mine. That’s around the time I started trawling radfem blogs and finding myself covertly agreeing with everything. Eventually, I stopped lurking and made my own side blog.

It also didn’t help that as my thoughts got intrusively more terfy, many of my own friends started to ID as nonbinary or trans. Most of them were lesbians or bi women, but some were straight, as far as I knew. Not all of them pursued medical transition, but some did. By the end of college, I could count on one hand how many cis-IDed woman friends I had left.

Like many other women, I turned to radical feminism in an attempt to cope with trauma from male violence and grieve my female/lesbian friendships. Radfem spaces and rhetoric helped me understand what happened and why it all happened. It gave me the language to define my experiences and I'll be forever grateful for that. It was also important for me to come to terms with the fact that I’m always going to be classified as female; I learned to accept that and become comfortable moving through the world as a woman, no matter how I view myself.

However, as I got deeper into radical feminism, I built a filter bubble that constantly exposed me to accounts of male violence. It prolonged my own trauma response and made it harder to heal. Men are without a doubt dangerous, but I don't think it was healthy for me to feed into a fear that made it difficult to leave my apartment or interact with men on any level. The sense of constantly feeling under attack as a lesbian made me pull away from people who cared about me.

Seeing myself as someone who was “rescued” from a cult wasn't helpful or accurate, either. I found myself in radfem communities that fell into the same traps they harangue queer/trans communities for having: there was a clear figurehead(s) instead of a community dynamic. The need to have perfectly aligned beliefs outweighed the need to foster consciousness about different experiences and take coordinated action based on that, even if the feelings and motives around it are varied. Again, this resulted in me pulling away from some of my closest IRL friends. I viewed them as brainwashed simply for saying things like “trans women are women.”

I also don't think it was good to constantly engage in discussions about how insane or stupid trans and/or dysphoric people are. I developed the sense that trans people are somehow my enemies and they are actively trying to hurt me as a lesbian. I participated in an authoritarian approach to other dysphoric people pursuing transition or identifying as something other than their birth sex. I believed they were misguided and in need of saving from themselves. In hindsight, it was wrong of me to police others’ identities or assume I knew how to define their lives better than them.

It’s important to note the timeline of my peak radfem stage: 2017-2018, the peak of #MeToo. It felt for a second there that radfems might be on the precipice of some kind of big gender reckoning. In hindsight, it was a smokescreen. There was no momentum or structure to build an actual movement or anything, at least not in the way the trans community has clearly outlined its goals and strategies. We were headed nowhere.

I saw prominent radfems pissing away any credibility with unproductive discourse (i.e. arguing over gender-neutral pregnancy terms in the middle of the biggest global reckoning against anti-black racism in history), acting unnecessarily cruel and hurtful towards young trans people, particularly FTMs, aligning with right-wing racists over and over again, and generally having extremely narrow perspectives that don’t allow for multiple truths to exist simultaneously.

Being involved in community mutual aid efforts showed me what true solidarity looks like. It’s showing up for people who aren’t exactly like me on the premise that everyone deserves a good quality of life. I wasn’t just going to refuse to give someone their groceries because they were a Trump supporter – even if I disagree with them, they deserve to have food security, as everyone else should. No matter who they were, even if our beliefs were radically different, every person deserves to be safe, happy, and healthy in their life.

Considering that principle, I realized that negging trans people online isn’t activism. Insulting and mocking dysphoric people for transitioning isn’t activism. Nitpicking over language, slurs, and identity labels isn’t activism. Policing people’s experiences other than your own isn’t activism. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s just harassment.

I still have a lot of complicated feelings on gender identity, but honestly, it’s simply exhausting to direct my energy toward thinking about how mostly like-minded people are out to get me. Instead, I’ve found that I’d rather put that energy towards building bridges: now I actively engage in friendships with trans people, gradually make space for critical conversation, and accept that some points of ideological contention aren’t worth sacrificing so much of my community.

My trans teammates in mutual aid – mostly trans women and nonbinary folks – are wonderful, intelligent, and caring people who always kept their fingers on the pulse when it came to the community we served. I never would’ve gotten to know this if I always kept my distance as I did initially. And when I listened to them describe their personal experiences with gender, I didn’t feel as if my identity as a GNC lesbian was compromised, like I was always reactively afraid of, because it wasn’t my experience to define. I felt ashamed that I’d been closing myself off from years’ worth of friendships with an entire part of my community because I was so convinced that trans people were out to get me.

I know what some folks may be thinking while reading this: “Maybe you just buckled under the weight of reality. Maybe you’re backpedaling because you can’t stomach the truth of misogyny. Maybe you’re just too selfish to face the facts and stand up for women. You just want trans approval. You’re not a REAL feminist.”

Trust me, I’ve thought all those things enough myself, and I’ve reached a place where I know that’s not true. I can – and do – still actively support women everywhere in my life without identifying as a radfem. I took what was helpful from radical feminism, adopted it into my own life, and am trying to leave the rest behind. I think that questioning and reevaluating your beliefs, especially in times when your life has irrevocably changed, is a good thing that people should always do (and not just with radical feminism either).

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I know that I’m not above blame for everything I’ve shared above. I'm not going to say I felt duped or brainwashed; I'm a grown woman. No matter how fucked up mentally I might have been at some points, I made my own decisions. I am responsible for what I’ve done and said, who I surround myself with, and how I respond to things. I said and did a lot of things I regret, which isn't anyone's fault other than my own.

I won’t be deleting this account, but I will be retiring it. I’ll leave this essay up in case anyone else questioning their politics finds it helpful, or if anyone has questions or wants to chat. At this point, I’d rather build bridges than burn them. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from this: if the revolution isn’t tomorrow, always choose friendship and happiness at the end of the day.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Okay, as the hours are ticking away, I might as well get something off my chest. I’m hoping just the sharing of my anxiety will be enough to make it easier to face.

And please, don’t feel obligated to reply. I’m not doing this to make people feel for me. I just need the release.

I return to work tomorrow after two weeks away. I had to apply for an Emergency Leave of Absence for ‘compelling reasons’ as outlined on the website of the third-party company that handles leave requests and payouts. My reasons were 100% valid (not health related, and I have paperwork to back up what I explained about my living situation, and will present it if anyone asks to see it) but my request was summarily denied by the Store Manager, who wants my ‘ole ass out of there ASAP. I’m sure they’d like to do it without being liable for unemployment. 

One of the front end supervisors texted me the day my request was rejected, and I replied that - well, I’m still losing my home with little notice AND I have no place to go, let alone any place to put a houseful of stuff to store. She wished me luck and I haven’t heard a word since.

If When they fire people, they wait until nearly the end of their shift, which mean 5-6 hours of torture waiting for the guillotine blade to fall. I should be glad--I’ve been needing to get away from that hellhole for years, and ever since December it has felt like I’ve been playing chicken with management to see which of us gives first. I wish I wasn’t such a wimp as to be dreading the actual visit to the office to get it done. I’ll probably cry because that’s how I deal with shit, even when I’m angry not sad, and in this case, it’ll be with a huge sense of relief. I am praying that I WILL be eligible for unemployment--I think they could just say I abandoned my job, but I’m still on the schedule, so going back tomorrow proves that I didn’t.

If you’re the praying kind, I would appreciate some at this point.

*whew*

I’ve been thinking a lot about the things I will miss, things that have made what I once truly enjoyed into a miserable experience. There’s so much I’m going to miss about the work itself and the customers I take care of. I’ve made some good friends with people I’ve met across the counter, over the years, and I’m really going to miss them. I’ll miss the relief I see on the faces of people who have difficulties dealing with my coworkers who lack patience and finesse--people who always tell me how glad they are that I’m the one waiting on them. I’ll miss helping people that are nervous or scared because they have to do an unfamiliar financial service, and I alleviate their fear by being kind, sympathetic and professional (professional is something my company doesn’t even look for when hiring anymore). I’ll miss helping people (usually Senior Citizens) by preventing them from being scammed out of thousands of dollars via wire transfer fraud--I rarely get recognized for it, and I’m the last of those where I work who pays the proper attention to those kind of details.

I’m going to miss meeting people of numerous cultures from all around the world, and the beautiful color of their accents (those of the Caribbean and African nations are my favorites - such beautiful, lilting music to those tongues!)  I’m going to miss my regulars (especially those from elsewhere in the globe) who I’ve chatted with and learned about their cultures and religions. And the way they treat me because they are glad to find a student of the world in such a humble setting.

I’ll miss the impeccable manners of gentlemen not born here, who always treat me with the utmost respect, making me envy the women of their cultures, especially when too many young man from here have come to my desk with harsh, foul language, and coarse behavior. I’ll miss the moments when a customer ‘gets’ that I am doing my very best to do the best for them--despite some difficult situations like severe understaffing. That I take each customer one at a time, and they get my full attention until the transaction is done. I’ll miss the terms of endearment they treat me with...Miss Vicki...Mama...’mam...because they feel the respect I treat them with.

One thing my employer, in it’s current state, plays lip service to but doesn’t know the first thing about seeing it done, is simple respect. Not just for the customers as unique individuals, but for their employees as individuals and as the assets we can be.

However it shakes out, I’m glad for my time of service. And for knowing on many specific occasions, I made a good difference in someone’s life, if only for an hour or a day. Gonna miss that too.

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 10 ~The Art of Non-Communication

WARNING: MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

Previously in The Mediation

"Three million pounds for a house!" Jenny broke through his reflection. "Doesn't it make ye wonder what else she inherited?"

Jamie looked at the paper again.  That's what the house is worth? Ach, Christ!  Even the Oxford gossip found its way to Broch Mordha. He knew Claire would be mortified if the news of her assets became everyone's favourite topic of conversation.

Folding the note, he handed it back to his sister. He shook his head at his sister. "Not a word about this to any of yer mates!" he warned her. "Or else ..."

Jenny's eyes widened. "What do ye take me for?"

"A babble merchant," he ribbed, unsmiling. "Now, let me be."

"Ye're no' angry at me still, are ye?"

"No," he sighed. "I'm just exhausted."

"Can I do anything for ye?"

He puffed out a breath. Jenny was looking at him earnestly, and he knew she only wanted to reach out. "Aye, in fact, ye can. Ye can arrange that appointment with the therapist for me."

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

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  Jamie was removed from the noise of Lallybroch's homely routine when he stepped inside the shower that barely allotted for his breadth and height. He stroked the erection he'd been sporting since he'd woken up from his dreams of Claire, his elbow occasionally hitting the wall. If he kept this pace up, there would be some damaged tiles to answer for by the time he finally climaxed.

Creamy pale skin and amber eyes seeped through his mind, and he stifled a groan, the throbbing flesh in his hand swelling to the point of anguish. It was the reason he'd escaped to the shower when his dad had woken him, the image of Claire still vivid and the need to spill urgent. But the act of pleasuring himself was tainted with guilt. It didn't feel right using the memory of them together to find completion when he'd left her on her own. Not only did it make him a sick lecherous human being, but his action defied all reason and logic. 

Anyone in their right mind wouldn't be depriving themselves if they had what he and Claire had, but instead, here he was, on self-imposed retreat, his hungry thoughts reliving that time she'd been on her knees taking his entire length in her sweet, sweet mouth. Depravity kicked in, and his body responded to the memory in a fast, fluid rush. Every moral compass he'd had, went from dried cement to loose sand, and nothing could contain the rampant desire to relieve the pressure between his legs. 

He propped his left hand on the wet wall and quickened the pace of his strokes, the tight fist travelling from the base of his hardness to the engorged tip. 

"Christ," he gritted, hoping he could finish without the repercussion of self-loathing and feeling like an unredeemable bastard. 

Ye left her! In tears!

It's for her own good. I'm taking steps to make myself better ...for her.

What if she gets sick and tired of waiting for ye to sort out yer issues?

No, no ...she understands. 

Ye havenae called her.

I'll see her after the therapy, for fuck sake.

Guilt made him want to dim the image of Claire sucking him, but the heavy sack hung between his thighs wouldn't be wheedled into emptying without envisioning her. 

He was so close. He replayed Claire's most recent voice message in his head, her voice husky and yearning. She must have been in bed wearing nothing but his shirt.  I love you, Jamie. I wish I could hold you right now and ease your pain.

"Ah, fuck!" Jamie groaned as convulsion racked his body. "Christ, Sassenach." His seed spurted from his cock in what felt like an endless surge of the tide. Back and forth until he was compelled to release his flesh to brace himself with both hands on the tiled surface while the remnant of his release washed down onto the shower floor.

The water had turned tepid by the time reality came streaming back in. Steeling himself, Jamie waited for the chitter-chatter in his head to start reprimanding, telling him what a sick bastard he was, but nothing came. It was quiet. Notably quiet, in fact, and the prolonged silence was too unusual for comfort and almost deafening. The voices had been his life long companion, and it seemed like someone had muted the noises. The only sound he heard was the sound of his breathing and the shower spray hitting the surfaces.

He almost jumped at the loud rapping on the door. "Jamie! Ye're gonnae be late for yer therapy appointment," Willie called out, impatience lacing his voice.

He blew out a breath. "Two minutes!" he shouted. Damn it!

"Two minutes," Willie repeated, and he strode off, the sound of his heavy footsteps making creaking sounds on the wooden floor.

Therapy! He wasn't looking forward to it, but if it would mean bringing him closer to living a normal life with Claire, he'd take his chances. He had his future waiting for him in his cottage, and God knew what was going through her mind with his prolonged absence. There's a possibility she could decide right there, and then, she'd had enough, and he could be returning to an empty home. Fuck that! No' gonnae happen.

Wrenching a curse from the depths of his soul, he grabbed a towel and dried himself in record time. No more messing about. It was time to regain back the rein to his life. After his therapy, he was returning back to his Sassenach.

..........

Jamie hadn't replied to Claire's multiple voice messages, so she'd stopped sending them, thinking he needed a break. If it hadn't been for Willie checking up on her, Rollo needing to be walked and her own work keeping her busy, she would have gone out of her mind. 

She found solace in knowing he was safe with his family and sorting out his issues and tried not to dwell on the theory that she might be the reason for his worsening condition; otherwise, it would mean giving up on them and walking out of his life for his own good. They'd both had a traumatic start to childhood. If anything, their shared experience should bring them together ...well, at least she was hoping that was the case.

As long as she was busy, she was absolutely fine. But it hurt being apart from Jamie. The minute she unwinded from her daytime activities, the feeling of abandonment crept in, and she felt lost and empty. An all-consuming gloom would lurk, overwhelming her, and tears would start to fall. It had been only two days since Jamie left, but she was already fearing she'd return to London without seeing him again. It's just not fair. It was as if the universe was conspiring to keep them apart, and if that was the case, they'd never really had a chance from the start. Such thoughts would lead to a part of her wishing they'd never met because it was like being shown what happiness with someone you love could be, only to be yanked back out of reach.

She glanced out the kitchen window and realised it had begun to rain, the grey skies echoing her sombre mood. Frustrated, she mentally shook herself. There were a lot of things to do, and her uncle would be arriving in a couple of days. She hadn't mentioned anything to him about what had happened with Jamie, but that was a worry she'd have to deal with later. Because of all days, Tom Christie had called earlier, arranging to meet with her this afternoon to further discuss his book's publication. She hadn't anticipated meeting up with him for another week or more. Maybe it was a good thing he'd decided to show up. It would certainly be a much-needed distraction from the growing worries she had of Jamie. But first, she needed to book a bed and breakfast room in the village centre, a request her uncle had explicitly stressed as he didn't want to stay in Jamie's cottage to watch them canoodle, as he'd gruffly pointed out. But Claire highly doubted there would be any danger of his uncle witnessing that anytime soon.

Grabbing her coat and bag, she headed out. She was just stepping across the threshold when she caught sight of Jamie's sister walking towards her. What is she doing here? The last time she'd seen Jenny was when they were first introduced, and back then, she hadn't failed to notice the lukewarm reception. She'd tried her best to dismiss it as overly protective sibling behaviour. But something had been niggling in her mind lately ever since Willie mentioned Jenny's meddling with Jamie's love life.

Bracing herself, she forced a smile. "Hi, I'm just on my way out. Does Jamie need some fresh shirts?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I can quickly grab some if that's what you came here for."

There was an awkward silence. "I ...ah, I'm here to see ye." Jenny held up a plastic container. "Oh, and ma made these ... it's rhubarb pie. And she's asking after ye."

"Oh, that's thoughtful. How are ..."

"Do ye have a moment?" Jenny interrupted out of the blue.

Claire paused. Though feeling like she was in this weird bubble filled with fog and not in the mood for small talk or niceties, she stepped back and waved Jamie's sister in. "Sure. I suppose I can spare a few minutes."

Jenny nodded gratefully and stepped inside the cottage. Claire watched her cross the room to place the rhubarb pie and her shoulder bag on the dining table. She started to wring her hands, possibly because she'd realised Claire wasn't going to initiate the talk. 

"Jamie is taking steps to get better," Jenny began, facing her.

"I know."

"Of course, you do."

Claire tamped down the urge to roll her eyes. "From what Jamie's told me, that's what he's been doing all his life, hasn't he?"

"Yes, that's true."

She sighed, impatience beginning to creep in. "Jenny, why are you really here? Please let's not pretend that you like me. You practically ignored me when we first met, and you've made no attempt whatsoever to get to know me. I am not expecting us to be the best of mates just because I'm with Jamie, but I do expect manners. So, I am asking very kindly if there's a reason for you taking over my precious time, please spit it out."

Jenny's eyebrows hit her hairline. "I ...uh ...I came because I wanted to see you. To check if ye're alright."

"Willie's been doing that but thank you anyway." She had no time for pussyfooting around. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she made a move to leave. "Well, I need to get going. Please thank your mum for me for the pie. I'll have it later with coffee when I return. And regards to your da as well." She pulled the door open.

"Wait ..."

"Yes?"

Jenny let out a rickety inhale. "I'm sorry, okay? I came to apologise. You're right. I was downright rude." Her lips barely moved when she said the words. It was as if it's taking a lot out of her to admit to her faults. "I have no right to meddle in my brother's affairs, moreso make ye feel unwelcome when ye're the one Jamie wants to be with." Her shoulders lost most of their tension, but the lines of her body were still strained tight. "I was worried about my brother making trips to London, and ye ken the reason why. I thought by not acknowledging ye, ye would eventually go away for good. I ken it was wrong. I shouldn't have behaved the way I did."

"But making me go away wouldn't have made a difference to his condition. Jamie would have continued to have those panic attacks."

"I ken," Jenny shrugged. "It was a dumb move, and I feel stupid for it. I realise that now. I dinnae ken what I was thinking. I'm so sorry, Claire. Can we start all over again and be friends?" 

Claire felt a spark of sympathy for Jenny. In that brief moment of admission, she'd kind of started to like the girl in front of her. Though she knew it would take a while before they could converse without feeling awkward, at least this was a start. Claire smiled genuinely for the first time. "Of course. I understand now why you felt the way you did." She glanced at her watch. "But in as much as I'd like to continue this bonding, I really need to go. I have a few errands to run. Shall we talk another time?"

"Oh aye, I completely forgot ye have someplace to go." She whipped around to grabbed her bag but knocked it to the floor instead, spilling its contents. "Ach, so clumsy of me," she muttered, getting onto her knees. "Ye go ahead, Claire. I have a spare key. I'll lock up once I'm done,

Claire immediately crouched down to help, grabbing feminine bits and bobs that were scattered on the rug. "Two pair of hands are always quicker getting the job done," she assured her.

"Aye, I guess so," Jenny mumbled as she skimmed the area with her eyes looking for anything she missed.

Claire scooped the loose pennies that had rolled off and slotted them into Jenny's bag. Then she picked up a slip of paper and was about to hand it to Jenny when she realised it was a newspaper clipping with her surname printed on it. Curious, Claire unfolded it and was surprised to see it was a small article from Oxford Mail about her family home, including a small line mentioning her as an heiress. Though she was aware of the article's existence, she was shocked to see it in Jenny's possession. What is Jenny doing with this?

Blood drained from her face when she recalled Willie's story about Jenny playing matchmaker between Geneva and Jamie. Didn't Willie say Geneva comes from a well-off family, Jenny's perfect solution to Lallybroch's financial problem? Claire skimmed the familiar article once more, the worth of her property jumping out of the paper: three million pounds. A sudden sharp pain slammed into her chest.

Claire held up the newspaper cutting to Jenny's face. "Why do you have this?" she whispered through numb lips.

Jenny's face was white as a sheet. "I ...it was given to me."

"Is this the reason why you're suddenly nice?"

"No!" Jenny licked her lips, thoughts racing behind her blue eyes. "I swear to God, I meant what I said earlier ...that I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with ..." She waved a hand towards the paper Claire was holding. "...that."

Claire scrambled to her feet. "You're sorry?" Her voice was high-pitched and unnatural, but she couldn't help it. There's a rumbling earthquake beginning to take place inside her. "When did you start feeling sorry, Jenny? After you read this?" She crumpled the piece of paper and threw it on the floor. "Did you really want to be my friend? Or was that all hogwash too?"

"Claire, please." Misery slashed across her face. "I realised my mistake when Jamie took off with his car the other night, and Willie spent hours looking for him. My parents, husband and I were up, and we were worried sick. My constant meddling has made him fled and taken him away from ye." She wrung her hands together. "I was a bloody idiot for thinking I was doing what's best for my brother when, in fact, I was making things worse. And Jamie's now miserable because he thinks it's all his fault when really, it's mine. Ye have to believe me when I say that piece of paper was given to me. I never sought it myself. It was handed to me."

"Good God, are you listening to yourself?" Her voice had been reduced to a whisper. All she could see was Jamie's guilt and tortured face that day when he'd told her about his fight with Jenny. His pained expression before he'd sped off to the night and her fear of the unknown. The many times he'd excused and apologised for his sister's behaviour because he thought Jenny was doing it out of love when Claire could clearly see it was all out of selfishness. "Let me get this straight ...you only recognised your mistake because you became worried sick after your brother took off. Are you even aware that you've been treating him like an imbecile all this while as if he can't decide for himself? This was never about him, Jenny, is it? You're only thinking about yourself. The other night scared the bejesus out of you because you knew well you were part of the reason he took off. Tell me this ...how does it feel like to be riddled with guilt now, huh? Try multiplying that guilt by a thousandfold and remind yourself that's what Jamie feels every day of his life. And if you think saying sorry will make things right again, you need your head thoroughly examined. Jamie loves you despite all your meddling, and you unashamedly continued to manipulate him. So excuse me if I have trouble believing a single word you're saying now. Because you know what the bloody hell this looks like? Your apologies to me sound like you're trying to manipulate me as well. And all because I happen to own an impressive three million pound property."

"No!" Jenny shook her head in despair. "Everything else is true ...but not that about yer property." There's a tremor in her voice and shame in her eyes. "I stopped by yesterday to apologise to ye, but ye werenae home, and when Mrs Fitz from across the road saw me, she handed me that newspaper clipping. I swear to God, Claire, I came to ye even before I knew ye had that property."

Claire couldn't stand there and listen anymore, not after what she'd gone through the last couple of days. She needed to let all her frustration out, or she'd implode. "I don't trust you, Jenny. If drivel could bounce, you'd be in the bloody orbit by now. Unfortunately, that won't happen, so I'm out of here. I can't stand being here any longer." The words exploded out of her and popped in the air like bright red fireworks. 

Jenny fell back a step and gasped. Claire was shocked too with the words that came out of her mouth. But she took that opportunity to rush out of the cottage, not caring if it was still raining, only focusing on getting as far away from Jenny as possible.

She'd just crossed the street when a vehicle screeched to a stop and reversed. Claire kept on walking, still reeling from her conversation with Jenny.

"Miss Beauchamp?"

She stopped and glanced into the Land Rover window that stopped by her side and noticed a familiar face. "Yes?"

The man tipped his baseball cap on his head and smiled. "It's me, Tom Christie."

"Oh ... it's you ... you're early!" was all she could say, too surprised for words.

"Actually, I'm on my way home to change clothes before our meeting. Do ye need a ride? I noticed ye dinnae have a brolly with ye, and it's raining."

Claire glanced back at the cottage and saw Jenny standing at the doorway, looking at her with that still ashen face. She'd heard rumours in the village about Tom being a ladies' man and knew what it would look like to Jenny if she got into the Land Rover with him. But she didn't give a flying fig. Let her gossip! Smiling, she nodded at Tom. "Yes, please. To the village centre if it's no trouble."

He grinned. "Nae bother at all. Hop in."

..........

"Remind me again why I'm here," Willie mumbled under his breath as they followed a young woman down a long hallway lined with modern paintings. "I thought I made it clear it should be Claire attending this therapy with ye. In case ye need reminding, I got our business to run."

Jamie sighed. "I'd rather ye're here. Ye ken my condition better than anyone."

"Is it Geneva ye're worried about?" his older brother asked in a low voice.

"God, no. I'd be more worried if Jenny came with me. Christ, she'd been pushing Geneva and me together for as long as I can remember. I ken the lass took a fancy in me, but that's all it ever was. I'm just concerned it's gonnae be weird since we ken each other."

Willie glanced at him with understanding. "There's nae avoiding it, lad. We live in a small village, and everyone knows everyone. It's the bane of living in such a place. We just have to make do with what we have."

"Aye, that's true."

The young woman in front of them turned. "The last one on the right," she smiled, pointing at the white door. Jamie wanted to say he knew his way around and that it was the same office as his former therapist but decided not to and returned her smile instead.

With Willie close behind him, he stepped forward and knocked lightly against the door. A feminine voice answered from the inside, "Come in."

Pushing the door open, they were greeted by a familiar, cosy space and Geneva, dressed in a black pantsuit with her hair done in a bun. She was sat in a dark leather armchair, looking them over with her transparent-rimmed glasses. If she was surprised to see Willie with him, she hid it well. 

"Mr Fraser, it's nice to see you again." Smiling warmly, she stood up and held out her hand for him. Taking it, she gave him a firm handshake before doing the same to Willie and motioning them towards the over-size beige leather sofa arranged in the middle of the room. "Please take a seat." Like a couple of schoolboys, they both did as they were told. 

"Before anything else," she began, looking at Jamie. "I have you here for one on one therapy. Is there a reason why you brought your brother with you?"

Jamie cleared his throat and licked his lips. "I, ah, wanted him here for moral support." 

"Fair enough. So what can I do for you?" She smiled, crossing her legs and reclining back into her armchair, a clipboard resting on her thigh.

Jamie anxiously glanced at Willie, but his brother only shrugged. "I dinnae ken where to start. Ever since yer predecessor left, I havenae been to therapy because I didnae feel comfortable seeing a therapist who knows me on a personal level. It kinda feels odd."

She steepled her fingers together, her blue eyes narrowing on him. "I understand this is out of your comfort zone and probably, for some, highly unusual. But I'd like to make it clear that I take my job seriously, and I hold myself to the highest professional standard. Whatever friendship I have with your sister will have no effect whatsoever on what would transpire within these walls. If you wish to proceed, please take a few deep breaths and just forget that you know me. In here, I am Dr Dunsany, and you are Mr Fraser."

Jamie considered her words as she waited patiently for his reply. After a minute of contemplation, he finally nodded and took a few cleansing breaths. "Fine."

She smiled. "So, first things first. What prompted you to finally see a therapist?"

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. "I'm in a serious relationship." Jamie thought he saw an ever so slight arching of her eyebrow but immediately dismissed it as his imagination. "And my condition and the panic attacks are hurting our relationship. I figured in order for us to move forward, I needed to take steps in getting better."

Geneva picked up her clipboard and started scribbling. "What do you believe your girlfriend thinks about your condition?"

Jamie smiled briefly at the thought of Claire. "Weel, she's very understanding and very patient, and she's taken my condition in a stride. Like the rest of my family, she thinks I'm suffering from suppressed guilt and emotions."

Geneva paused and closely appraised him. "Why do you think she thinks you have suppressed guilt and emotions?"

His heart began to increase its pace, and his throat tightened. "Because we were both there when her parents died. She was able to move on, but I couldnae," the words came out rapidly.

A whoosh of breath came from Willie.

"Why do you think she was able to move on and you couldn't?" she pushed, seemingly unaffected by Jamie's revelation.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. "Because it's my fault that she grew up without a family."

He heard Willie's breath hitch, but Geneva ignored his brother.

"And why do you think it's your fault?"

His mouth became dry, and his tongue thick. "I didnae run fast enough to get help when their car crashed. If I had, she wouldnae be orphaned today. If I was stronger, I wouldnae have needed to run off and get my godfather, and I could have pulled the door open myself and saved her parents as well."

"You look like a strong man, Mr Fraser. Why do you think you needed to run and get help to pull the door open?"

"I wasnae big enough back then. I was only ten." He dropped his head into his hand. "And she was so wee ...crying for her ma. All I could do was hold her." 

He started to hyperventilate as the image of Harry staring at him through the window, sprung to life. It was the last image he saw before the car had exploded.

Sensing his discomfort, Geneva stood from her armchair and retrieved two bottles of mineral water from the mini-fridge, handing them each to the brothers. They both gratefully accepted, taking large gulps.

When he got his breathing back under control, she proceeded. "I understand now your frustration at not being big enough to carry the task out yourself and why you had to get your godfather." She scribbled a few more notes on her clipboard. "I'm going to go back to the question you haven't answered yet. Why do you think your girlfriend was able to move on from her parents' death?"

He squashed the empty bottle of mineral water. "She was too young then to understand any of it, just a wee bairn when it happened."

"And so were you."

"She was five, and I was ten. I was old enough to be able to do something about it, but I couldn't."

"Your godfather, who was old enough and stronger than you, was unable to do anything further. Do you think it was your godfather's fault?"

"No! Of course, not. He tried his best. We got her ...Claire, who's m-my girlfriend now, out first and my godfather made me take her to safety. But the car caught fire, and it exploded."

"So it's not your godfather's fault, and yet you think it was your fault."

"Yes!"

"Why would you think, after all the efforts you and your godfather have done to try and save your girlfriend's parents, it's still your fault?"

"It was the way he looked at me."

"Who looked at you?"

"Claire's father. Just before the car exploded."

"How did he look at you?"

"He was just staring at me."

"And you can't get that out of your head?"

"No."

A mild frown of concentration descended across Geneva's face as she flipped through the notes on her clipboard. She reached out for a manila folder on a coffee table by her side and browsed through it too. "This is a great start, Mr Fraser," she continued. "From what I've here in your history with your former therapist, this is the first time you've ever talked about an experience from your childhood. This is highly interesting. Care to tell me why you've never talked about this before."

"It's a memory that I've forgotten, and it's just resurfaced recently."

She arched an eyebrow. "How recently?"

"A few days ago."

"Can you remember what triggered the memories to come back?"

"The night I met my girlfriend's uncle on video chat."

"So, prior to that night, you had no recollection of the forgotten memory, is that correct?"

"Aye."

"Why do you think your girlfriend's uncle triggered all the memory to come back?"

His fingers began to pick at the water bottle label. "He looks exactly my girlfriend' father."

A long silence ensued.

Geneva placed the clipboard by her side and uncrossed her legs. "That will be all for today, Mr Fraser. We've covered enough to have something to work on."

Jamie's head shot up. "So that's it? That was quick," he pointed out, glancing at his watch.

"Oh, we're far from done, Mr Fraser, but you've revealed more than I anticipated, so I decided to stop while we're ahead. Thank you for answering all questions as openly as possible."

"So what's yer diagnosis?"

She tilted her head to the side. "I believe you have a lot of misplaced guilt about your past that may be hindering you from moving on. So ...what I would like you to do is ...I want you to think about how you want your future to look like. Think really hard and try to dig deep. Next time we catch up, we'll discuss everything in details." She stood up, and Jamie and Willie followed suit. "I'll see you next week. My assistant will write down the date of our next meeting. You can pick up your appointment card on the way out," she smiled, opening the door and ushering them out.

The brothers walked out quietly together, both lost in their own thoughts.

"That wasnae too bad, was it?" Willie asked as they stepped out of the building.

Jamie shook his head. "No, no' at all." His head was still buzzing from the session, so he didn't really have much opinion to offer.

"Perhaps next time, ye can bring Claire with ye."

At the mention of her name, he pulled out his phone from his back pocket. He'd silenced it all morning as he'd prepared himself for the therapy but was disappointed to see there was no new message from her. "She hasnae messaged."

"I'm no' surprised. You havenae been returning her calls. And ye have no excuse, lad, because I left ye a charger at Lallybroch."

Jamie followed his brother close behind as they made their way to the car. "How do ye know I've no' been returning her calls?"

"She told me."

"How is she?"

"Find out yersel'."

A familiar bright red Fiat slowed down next to them just as Jamie was about to get into the car, and Ian, their brother-in-law, poked his head out of the window. "Hey, lads, guess who I just saw back in town?"

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged. 

When Ian stalled, Willie blew out an impatient breath. 

"Out with it!" Willie grumbled. "I've been away from work for far too long already."

Ian grinned. "Yer pal Christie."

Jamie waved a hand in the air in dismissal and turned to open the car door, not particularly interested in hearing the latest coming and going in Broch Mordha. "I'm pretty sure the lassies will be thrilled he's back."

"Aye, ye're probably right, but I dinnae think ye'd be too pleased to hear if one particular lass is enjoying his company."

Jamie whipped around. "What do ye mean?" He sounded like someone just launched a flying rugby pass onto his stomach.

"Saw Claire and Tom through the window of Slater's Arms. Probably sitting down for late lunch."

His heart and brain must have swapped places because suddenly, his heart seemed twice as heavy, and his brain thumped against his skull. "M-my Claire?"

Willie tipped his head like he's on the brink of calling Ian an eejit. "Hold up, this could all be just an innocent thing. Wasnae Claire supposed to be meeting with someone from here for some book publication?"

"Nae way!" Ian shook his head. "Christie doesnae look like the type to string a sentence together, never mind write a book."

"Alright," Jamie breathed, propping his hands on the edge of the car's roof. His brain was barely functioning because it was knocking against his temple, making him see red. He'd completely underestimated his ability to let her go, thinking he was doing it for her own good. Claire hadn't called today because she thought he'd given up. Ah, shite! He felt he was going to be sick. "I need to go and see her. Now."

"Fuck!" Willie muttered. "I'm coming with ye." Then he bent down to Ian's eye level and pointed his index finger at his brother-in-law. "Next time, run this kind of info by me first."

Ian smirked. "Fine. But I'm coming too. I'm up for seeing a bit of nefariousness."

Jamie was already in the car, fastening his seat belt. "Let's go!" 

  Dear Readers,

Whew, that was a long chapter. I'm literally drained; nevertheless, I'm feeling a sense of satisfaction that I can post it today. My eyes are wonky, though, from editing, and I was about to go through it again when I thought, ah bugger it, I will do the grammar check tomorrow.

Before I say nighty-night, thanks for your feedback from the previous chapter, and I'm looking forward to what you think of this next one. I know it's slow going, but I really wanted to cover as many plot holes as possible. Slowly but surely, I'm getting there. Anyway, take care always and keep spreading kindness and love. Until the next update, much love! X

[pascalsky]

Pedro Pascal is flying high on The Mandalorian, but defining success by his earthly bonds

The Wonder Woman 1984 and The Mandalorian star is one of EW's Entertainers of the Year.

Human connection. It’s vital. Especially in a year like 2020. Especially for Pedro Pascal. So it’s ironic that the 45-year-old’s highest-profile success to date is working with an adorable animatronic puppet, inside a chrome helmet he famously can’t take off. "It is why I wanted to do this show. Selfishly, I knew [the Child, a.k.a. Baby Yoda] was likely to make people fall in love with the show," says Pascal of tackling the title role on The Mandalorian, the Emmy-nominated hit Star Wars series, which returned for its second season on Disney+ in October.

The Chilean-American actor has an eye for choosing projects where he’ll stand out, from popular network procedurals including The Good Wife, The Mentalist, and Law & Order to his breakout roles as the charming — and horny — Oberyn Martell on Game of Thrones and, soon after, DEA agent Javier Peña on Net­flix’s Narcos. But it’s the stoic bounty hunter safeguarding a frog-egg-eating 50-year-old toddler that’s made him a house­hold name. The new season of The Mandalorian followed Pascal’s galaxy-traveling warrior as he searched for the home of the Child, generating countless memes in the process.

Playing the Mandalorian has been one of the hardest and most unique experiences of Pascal's career to date. At this point, it's no secret that he wasn't physically under the helmet as much as he would've liked in season 1 and recorded his dialogue in post-production to match what his doubles, stunt actors Brendan Wayne and Lateef Crowder, did on set in the armor. Giving a largely vocal performance was a challenge for a physical actor like Pascal, who is almost unrecognizable when you compare his turns on The Good Wife and Game of Thrones, for example, because of how he carries himself. Yet, being on set way more in The Mandalorian season 2 didn't make his job any easier because he still had to figure how to make Mando compelling while also being as economical as possible in his physical movements and vocal performance.

"I'm not even sure if I would be able to do it if it weren't for the amount of direct experience that I've had with being on stage to understand how to posture yourself, how to physically frame yourself into something and to tell a story with a gesture, with a stance, or with very, very specific vocal intonation," says Pascal, who believes his collaborative relationship with creator Jon Favreau and executive producer Dave Filoni, a.k.a. his "Mandalorian papas," also helped him inhabit the role in season 2.

Speaking of collaboration: Working with comedian Amy Sedaris, who plays gruff Tatooine mechanic Peli Motto, was one of the highlights of The Mandalorian’s sophomore season. “I followed Amy Sedaris around like a puppy. [I was] like, ‘Hey again. I’m not leaving your side until you wrap,’ and she’s like, ‘Cool,’” Pascal says. “I love the Child — it really is adorable — and it is so fascinating to see it work, but somebody who makes you spit-laugh right into your helmet will always be my favorite thing."

Pascal longed for those kinds of interactions during quarantine, which proved difficult for the actor who was living alone in Los Angeles. But he lights up, is even giddy at times, when the conversation turns to bonding with the Community cast right before a charity table read back in May (he filled in for Walton Goggins), or FaceTiming his friends to celebrate Joe Biden and Kamala Harris' election victory on Nov. 7. "Ahhhh! Ahhhh!" Pascal exclaims, reenacting the joyous calls with buddies like Oscar Isaac that Saturday morning. "It was screaming and jumping and dancing and crying…. I very arrogantly took screenshots of everything and [shared them], like, 'I am a part of this!'”

"I'd be less nervous playing tennis in front of the Obamas than I was seeing a reunion of these people that I think are brilliant and have this incredible chemistry with each other and stepping in and having really, really, bad technology in this new space that I had moved into. I really resented having to actually participate acting-wise because there were instances where it was way too much fun to watch."

- PEDRO PASCAL ON SHOOTING THE COMMUNITY TABLE READ.

His appreciation for those around him has only grown during the pandemic. Before flying to Budapest to film The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent with Nicholas Cage, Pascal leaned on his bubble for support. Community's Gillian Jacobs, for example, hosted him for an outdoor socially distanced pizza night every Saturday in the early weeks of lockdown. (He suspects that's why he was recruited for the sitcom's table read when Goggins couldn't participate.) "The friends that got me through it are absolutely everything to me and very beautifully marked in my head. I've got old friends and new friends that literally did nothing short of parent me through the experience," says Pascal, who has "survivor's remorse" for being in Europe right now. "I feel guilty not being [in the States] with my friends through [this tumultuous time] but also grateful that, individually, I was able to gain a little bit of separation from the stress of it."

Those tight bonds helped redefine, or at least clarify, what success means to him. "I want to make sure that my relationships are right, and I want to make sure I'm nurturing meaning in a sustaining way, and that won't necessarily be related to getting good jobs and making lots of money," he says. But he'll take them — as he did for both of his 2020 projects, about which he's thrilled. And how could he not be, starring in two of the year's most feverishly anticipated properties?

Besides The Mandalorian, Pascal appears in Patty Jenkins' superhero epic Wonder Woman 1984, which has endured a Homeric journey to its release (read: several pandemic-related delays). Thankfully, the odyssey is almost over because Warner Bros. recently confirmed that it will open in both theaters and on HBO Max on Dec. 25. Pascal is stoked audiences will finally see his turn as the villainous Maxwell Lord because playing the greedy dream-seller pushed him out of his post-Game of Thrones action role comfort zone.

"With Wonder Woman, [Gal Gadot and Kristen Wiig] are doing the action, baby, and I'm doing the schm-acting!" he says, hilariously elongating that final syllable. "I am hamming it up!" (Indeed, Pascal reveals Cage inspired his performance in one particular scene.)

But Pascal felt he was up to the challenge because everything he needed was right there in the screenplay, which Jenkins co-wrote with Geoff Johns and David Callaham. "I didn't have to take something and figure out how to put more flesh onto it. I had to achieve getting into the skin of what was being presented to me," he says, contrasting the experience with playing a DEA agent for three seasons on Narcos. "For me, Colombia was almost the central character, and then I was allowed to make him depressive and to tonally interpret what the character was. And in this case [on Wonder Woman 1984], there was just so much for me to meet rather than to invent."

He continues: "That was an incredible delight and challenge because Patty Jenkins is a director who loves actors and when she sees she can ask for more, she does. And there isn't anyone better, in my experience, to give more to."

In 2021, he rejoins the good guys as an aging superhero and father in Robert Rodriguez's kid-friendly Netflix drama We Can Be Heroes. The inherent optimism of the Netflix film's title also complements Pascal's hope for the new year. Says Pascal, ”If [fear] can take a little bit of a backseat and not be the main character in everybody’s life, that would be great.”

SOURCE

[deadendtracks]

can you share any advice for writing something with topics that make you extremely uncomfortable? + do you think certain books should be censored or regulated? i feel like people don't want to explore the darker more horrifying parts of the human experience nowadays.

I don't feel that anything I've written is all that dark in the grand scheme of things (especially not compared to things I've read in the past), but you're right that darker fiction seems to be out of fashion/'problematic' these days so maybe it's comparatively dark.

The thing is 'uncomfortable' is a broad term. Writing porn at all made me extremely uncomfortable at first, because I had never written anything explicit. Writing about anything that is pushing your boundaries of skill or knowledge can also make you uncomfortable. I was so intimidated to start writing PB fic at first because I didn't know anything about the time period and history and felt like I'd get everything really wrong. This isn't the same as feeling unsafe in a psychological way, though.

Writing something with topics that make you extremely uncomfortable has to be something you feel, idk, compelled to do or feel you need to express and will get value out of personally, otherwise the discomfort you're inflicting on yourself seems harmful to me.

I think it's ok to sit with that discomfort, though, if it's not actively harmful to you. Being uncomfortable is not the same as being in danger, and telling the difference between those two is important if you're tackling topics that feel risky to you.

Though I have no problem with anyone who does, I've never set out to intentionally write something dark/uncomfortable for the sake of it -- it's more that this is where the story or writing or characters have taken me. And at some point you make a choice, I think -- do I want to keep going with this or not. Sometimes it's less of a conscious choice and you write something and realize afterwards oh, this is pretty uncomfortable. That's more complicated. Writing, like any art form, can tap into your sub/unconscious and express things you're not consciously thinking about or intending or know about yourself. I've certainly had themes or repetitive patterns come up in my writing (some not even 'dark') where I'm like 'hm, wonder what that means' and it's up to you whether you want to explore that further. But you should also know this is totally normal for creative work. It's just part of the process.

So as far as advice goes, I'd say that if your writing is taking you to a place that makes you uncomfortable, but you see value in it, go for it. With the caveat that you should keep yourself safe -- if the act of writing harms you or causes you to plunge into a mentally unsafe place it's not worth it. And you may want to have professional help in this case, where perhaps exploring those ideas can be done in a supported way.

I don't see writing something uncomfortable as inherently 'self harm' as some people have claimed. Writing through your trauma can be important or cathartic, and obviously not all writing that is uncomfortable is about trauma. But I do think monitoring how safe you are while you do it is important. If it's making you suicidal or self-harm in actual physical ways, etc, that's a sign it's not safe for you to do right now. That may change! But I would suggest keeping an eye on yourself.

I am going to leave the issue of warnings/tags and whether something *should* be written out of this post, because you have asked for advice on writing. I personally view a) keeping yourself safe and b) expressing yourself to be the important points to consider here.

For me, often the writing itself isn't necessarily the most uncomfortable part, no matter how dark or fucked up -- it's the act of posting. That's when I get more nervous. Because you become aware of your writing from the outside and start to think about how it will be received or how people will think about you for writing it. This is probably a separate but related point to your original question, but it's definitely part of the internal calculus you might be faced with while writing. Suddenly being like 'oh, this is fucked up, what will people think' can definitely kill your writing flow and put you into writer's block. Sometimes *that's* the source of the discomfort, more than the actual material you're writing about.

Other people have expressed experiencing distress about what this kind of writing *means* about themselves and what kind of person they are for writing it, but this is not something I have personally struggled with, so I don't have advice there. Just wanted to acknowledge it, though. I don't know if this makes me particularly weird or compartmentalized, but it's just not an issue for me.

So another piece of advice: should that question come up for you while writing something uncomfortable but you want to continue writing -- try to put that question out of your mind. You can tell yourself you'll make the decision about whether to make something public when you're done writing and editing, if that helps.

Sometimes it can feel like just the act of writing something down makes it public, like people will *know* you've written something messed up. They really won't! You don't ever have to post it! But there are going to be people for whom that messed up thing you worry about posting will really strike a chord with, so hopefully that will be part of your decision making process when it comes time to think about posting. The views of the people who your fic will resonate with are just as valid as the opinions of the people who will judge you for it (if not more), but we can forget those people exist when worrying about posting. Obviously the personal safety issue is larger with the people who might have a negative opinion of you, in the current toxic fandom environment. Again I want to emphasize keeping yourself safe.

You can post on AO3 as "anonymous"! That is an option that I would encourage for anyone who doesn't want to attach even a pseud to something they've written. Chances are people out there will want to read it, no matter how fucked up.

I don't know if that was helpful, feel free to send a followup if you have more specific questions about it!

This got really long, sorry I am not a concise person. As for your last question, no, I don't believe certain books should be censored or regulated in general, but that's a complex topic on its own that requires nuance (who gets to make that call, about what books, what do we mean by censored or regulated, how do we plan to put it into practice in reality, etc) and I'm not really prepared to get into a big debate about it on tumblr, so I'll just leave it at that.

[saintqueer]

On Being 13

by saintqueer

Date Written: July 2019

CW: brief mention of an eating disorder

I will be posting a series of old creative nonfiction essays I wrote in 2019-20 every Friday and tagging them #a saintqueer original. Some might be a little outdated but I'm getting my feet wet in the experience of sharing my own writing again. Hope you enjoy! My inbox is always open.

Your name is Jordan. It is 2006 and you just turned 13. You are officially a teenager. Not a preteen. Nor god-forbid a tween. You’re in eighth grade at middle school in the Bay Area suburbs and you just got your first cell phone. It’s a silver LG flip phone without a camera. Modern social media has been born but is not yet widespread. Myspace and AIM are still the name of the game. And your friend’s Top 8s are literally worth crying over. You buy songs you like on iTunes for 99 cents. Songs like Far Away by Nickelback and Jesus, Take the Wheel by Carrie Underwood. That is, until you wizen up and start using LimeWire in 2007. By that time, you’ll think your tastes much improved. You’ll illegally download songs like Buy U a Drank by T-Pain, Wait For You by Elliott Yamin, and everything Chris Brown puts out. Every single feeling you have is so large it’s like it has the potential to kill you. Weird shit is happening to your body. You started puberty early but it shows absolutely no sign of stopping. Things just seem to be getting weirder and more emotional. You cut your own side bangs and they look hella cool.

Ok, let’s pause there. I’m gonna go ahead and break the fourth wall here. Reader, I was planning on doing this entire piece as a kind of immersive second person experience. But. I. Just. Can’t. It’s too hard and writing about being 13 is difficult enough. I think that intro was enough to get you in the right head space of Jordan circa 2006-2007.

Over the last year, there has been more truthful explorations of the adolescent experience in media than ever before. With shows like Pen15 and Big Mouth and films like Eighth Grade, I feel like for the first time I’m starting to come to terms with my own adolescence. Being 13 is really fucking hard. And 13-year-olds get such a bad rap when, honestly, they’re just trying to do the best they can with all the shit they’ve been thrown.

I first felt compelled to write this piece when reading a section of a book from my favorite podcaster, Karen Kilgariff. Karen describes a lecture series she went to in which one of the presenters made a case in defense of 13 year olds. Karen writes that being 13 “is the hardest age you ever have to be because of all the chemicals and hormones constantly raging through your body. It’s like you’re being drugged and then woken up with speed on a daily basis. All social structure implodes and resets itself in a totally unfamiliar way. You’re simultaneously the oldest version of a child and the youngest version of an adult, so you don’t belong anywhere. You don’t get babied, and you don’t get respect.” Basically, it fucking sucks!!!

At 13, my eating disorder was already in full swing and my body-dysmorphia-riddled brain had no shortage of reasons for why my life would be so much better if I weighed 25 pounds less. They would weigh us in gym class, one by one, and assign us our BMI classification (mine was “overweight”). I was constantly dieting, with resounding approval from family and peers; starving my growing body of whole food groups and then binging. My school used to sell these pizza hot pocket things in plastic wrapping called pizza sticks (they were so DELICIOUS). One time, I found an unopened and still-warm pizza stick on the floor next to a garbage can. Wildly hungry from my meager carb-less lunch I picked it up off the floor and shoved it into my mouth, facing the wall, in as few bites as possible so no one would see. OFF THE FLOOR…OUTSIDE. I think it was on a pile of leaves and other trash (though unopened, it was slightly flattened on one side so it might have been stepped on?). This is actually the first time I’ve told anyone that I did that. Blogging is fun.

I was truly beginning to understand that my body was a commodity in society. I couldn’t take up space as a girl and to be beautiful was to be frail. My body was a sexual thing but I was not allowed to be a sexual being. Boys were the horny ones, not girls. But boy, was I! The thing was I couldn’t tell anyone, only the bathtub faucet could know. This was heightened all the more by my church and my faith. Youth group taught me the importance of dressing modestly and how we had to do everything within our power to help easily tempted boys remain sexually pure. I had so much shame that I had any kind of sexuality at all.

A majority of us wanted to fit in when we were 13. And I wanted it desperately. It’s not necessarily that I wanted to be cool, it’s more like I just wanted to belong. I wanted to have best friends. I wanted boys to have crushes on me. I wanted to be wanted. And it never happened for me. I didn’t develop deep lasting friendships until my late teens. I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 21, for god’s sake. My friends at 13 were changeable and excluding. I felt like I was constantly vying for their approval and as I entered high school in 2007, my social life became the center of my world.

Admittedly, high school felt much more enjoyable than middle school. I had established my place in the cool crowd and shirked academics. I stopped listening to Christian Rock and started listening to Lil Wayne and learning how to twerk. I cut class with a friend to straighten my hair with my hot pink straightener in Starbucks. I got in trouble with the cops for underage drinking. I got better at actually starving myself for a few days at a time instead of just dieting. I was significantly better at swearing. However, every single thing still felt like the biggest deal ever and it felt like it would always be that way.

Now, over a dozen years later, I hardly ever think about how it felt to be 13. I always forget that I “fell in love” with a boy named Alex at church summer camp who I saw from afar five times and talked to once for two minutes. It’s hard to believe now that I wrote his name in sharpie on my converse sneakers and sang I Drive Myself Crazy by *Nsync while crying and staring directly back at myself in the mirror.

This might seem unforgiving but I feel like the one redeemable thing about being 13 is that it doesn’t last forever. It ends. You grow and you change and you work through your trauma. If you’re lucky, you get better friends and you go to therapy and do some healing over ten years later by watching tv shows and movies that remind you of every painful feeling. Then you look back and laugh. You laugh at that school dance where Peter said he’d never, ever slow dance with you. You laugh at the school dance less than a year later where you grind provocatively on a dude you don’t know to Get Low by Lil Jon and the Ying Yang Twins. You laugh (hysterically, I might add) at eating that pizza stick off the floor. You laugh at smoking weed for the first time using a plastic water bottle your friend somehow turned into a shitty bong. You laugh at shoplifting your first thong from Ross. You laugh at your self-cut side bangs. You laugh and you laugh and you laugh and then you, finally, move on.

[helena-thessaloniki]

hi 💖😭 i just binged all your rivamika stories on ao3 and finished beyond the walls tonight… i’m floored. you’re an amazing writer and you characterised them so well, the writing was so incredibly captivating (when i say i binged i mean it 🤣). thank you for sharing your talent with us 🥺

I actually had a question about chapter 6 that i remained curious about - at this moment:

“Mikasa turns back to him, openly distraught. “It’s everything I’ve wanted, but it’s… it’s not—...”

Her words are wrecked with grief. Her watery, washed-out gray irises are drenched with it. A grief viscously different but no less despondent than others he’s witnessed from her.

It’s not…”

levi cuts her off so we never actually get to hear what mikasa wanted to finish her sentence off with. i tried filling in the blanks myself but i’m still unsure what the home is “not”. or maybe i was reading too excitedly that i missed the explanation 😅 i just felt compelled to ask and get this nagging question out of my mind - but in any case i still wanted to express my admiration and to gratitude to you for your absolute works of art ❤️‍🔥 take care and have a beautiful day x

Aw, thank you, thank you. Stumbling onto fics that I loved and binging is how I have survived this pandemic, and more than that, it's brought me lots of joy, so I'm absolutely honored to hear my works offered this binging experience for you hahah. Thank you! ❤️‍❤️‍

Oooh excellent question, you didn't miss anything. I was mostly concerned with showing how Levi misunderstood that sentence, I don't think I worked in the opportunity to be clear on what Mikasa actually meant. Full response below (:

(I'm an educator by day and writer by night, I talk way too much, please forgive the self-indulgent mini-essay below ahhh)

Since her POV is only before and after, I think I accepted that whole exchange would be understood better with a re-read, and some of it might still remain unclear. That said, I appreciate your question 'cause I definitely want to learn and revisit to see if I can make sure there's nothing leaving anyone hanging too much. :)

In the scene before, it's deliberately abstract, a rather vague description of her sudden realization. She starts off incredibly excited, jumping off her horse and walking straight for the house. It's a vulnerable position for her, to be completely open, excited and ready. But we see in live-time, even though we don't hear her direct thoughts, the crashing realization that she let herself be so excited to start a life in their home, whereas Levi was not. At that point, she thinks he would have gone there without her and it would have only been his house. (How important a home is to her as an adopted kid who lost her biological and adopted parents is a whole other conversation, but really essential here; their home is representative of so much more than the brick and mortar building.*) By the end of that scene, she's slowed down her steps and is hesitant to go in. The last lines hints at her shift. Only the physical house is perfect, but not the dynamics between her and Levi. He's had some (emotional) baggage she hasn't noticed. All in all, it's an especially harsh realization because she'd just let herself be so vulnerable right beforehand.

But it switches to Levi's POV immediately, while she's in the literal middle of this very abrupt realization. I honestly don't think she's figured how to put it into words yet. Once it does switch to her POV in the next scene in the next chap, she's still reeling in her mind and can't gather her thoughts or speak about it. Once she can talk, she only asks him questions to try and piece it together for herself.

So, returning to that exact dialogue exchange you mentioned, I think she's trying to figure out her thoughts and not able to verbalize them.

TL;DR: It isn't that Levi cuts her off per se, it's that she's struggling to understand her own realization and is talking out loud while she attempts to.

“It’s everything* I’ve wanted, but it’s… it’s not—...”

It's not what Levi wanted too.

Not as much, not as strongly.

Not as certainly. Not as fully and completely.

I won't say she would have said "It's not what you wanted, too", because as it comes up later, she knows it's what he wanted, it's just she's afraid she wanted it more, needed him more. I think that's a general human insecurity, but for me writing, it was a pivotal one for her character and her journey in healing. She deserved someone who wanted her as much. (Which is why she didn't really have this epiphany until after her self-awakening and self-commitment on the coast and swimming in the sea.) I don't think there's anything else she would have physically finished that sentence with either.

*Everything. When she says everything, she means so much more than just the house, which has become a symbol at this point. That's why in the very last scene, the title reveals itself to be about their home, not the three physical Walls. "Beyond the walls that surround them, she wonders what the rest of their life will look like..." And of course, the switching between 'the house' and 'their home' was pivotal to this, too. All in all, she was just afraid he didn't want the same everything as she did. Of course, he absolutely did.

❤️‍❤️‍ ❤️‍ Thank you for reading, thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, and thank you for engaging, it helps me learn so much and I really, truly appreciate it.

[vfdarkness]

AVFD Script - S2EP03 The Forgotten Man

[[Intro]]

You’re at a bus stop and your bus is late.

Finally, it pulls up, you step aboard, and for a brief moment… 

the driver’s facial features - their eyes, nose, mouth are in all the wrong places. 

As you stare, their face quickly rearranges itself to appear more normal. More human.

The door closes. There’s no one else in the vehicle.

You need my help.

[[AVFD intro music kicks in]]

This is A Voice From Darkness.

[[AVFD intro music fades out]]

Hello, this is Dr. Malcolm Ryder, parapsychologist, here to help you with all problems paranormal, supernatural, and otherworldly. And we have a wonderful show planned for tonight. There’s two national alerts for the state of Florida - one for the panhandle, and another for the everglades. After we go over these we’ll explore one of the strangest roadside attractions in American history. And of course we’ll finish our show with the phone lines open so you, our listeners, can call-in. But first, let's get to our national alerts

[[National Alerts music starts]]

A sinkhole has appeared in the middle of Kelson Ave in Marianna, Florida. The hole’s depth is currently unknown however twenty feet down, stone carvings of faces appear. The carvings continue for as far down as anyone can tell. Each is unique yet is made to grotesquely express either the emotion of fear or that of delight. A spelunker descended into the hole to gather information about its depth. Two hours into his descent contact was lost and he was pulled out. When he resurfaced he was said to be in a daze. He removed his harness and immediately jumped back into the hole. Please be careful while driving on Kelson, Ave in Marianna, Florida. 

Our second national alert is for the Florida Everglades. The Singing has returned to the wetlands. All those in the area are advised to wear hearing protection for at least the next 72 hours or until otherwise instructed. The source of The Singing is unknown but is said to compel all who hear it to walk into the wetlands and be devoured by the creatures there-in. Again, please wear hearing protection if you’re within earshot of the Florida Everglades.

And that’s all we have for national alerts this evening. 

[[NA music fades out]]

Next up we have Today In Odd America, where we’ll discuss a manifestation that once haunted every corner of this land. And afterwards we’ll open the phone-lines.

[[Today In Odd America]]

Today in Odd America we find ourselves across the highways of our country. Forty four years ago today marks the last known visit to a roadside attraction commonly called The House of Narcissus. No physical evidence of this place exists. It was never found in the same location twice - yet hundreds of oral testimonies swear to its existence. Tonight I will cobble together disparate accounts from those who claim to have toured the fabled roadside museum. My hope is this will paint you a picture of what the experience was like for those who wound up touring a space dedicated completely to themselves. 

“I was driving down Route 8,” Maise Bridges stated to the Columbus Dispatch in 1955. “It was late and dark. No other cars were on the road. Then I saw it - a billboard illuminated by a single dim light that read: Know Thyself, Next Exit. No other words. But next to them, taking up the entirety of the right side was a painted picture - of me. Unmistakably me. Done in a sort of… Norman Rockwell style I suppose. I just… What was I supposed to do? Of course I took the next exit.” 

All descriptions of The House of Narcissus begin this way. A strange billboard on a lonely road, mere seconds to decide to take the exit or not. Oddly, there are few confirmed cases of those who saw the billboard and kept driving. It’s impossible to say if that says something overall about human nature or merely the people The House chose to manifest for.

“I was overwhelmed when I first drove up to the house,” Curtis Johnson said to the Louisville Times in 1948. “I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I might have cried a bit. I mean the place was just, just magnificent. Out there, in the middle of this grassy field, in the middle of nowhere there’s this small piece of heaven, you know? I didn’t feel like I was about to tour some cheap-o roadside scam where they show you a mannequin in a five dollar gorilla suit and tell you it’s Bigfoot. I felt like I was home. Of course I rushed right outta my car up to the door. Why wouldn’t I? I was home.”

Descriptions of the museum are typically left vague. Abstract. At least when describing the exterior. Visitors will speak of the joy they felt upon seeing the house. Often they’ll say a sense of nostalgia or homecoming overwhelmed them. However no one was ever able to give a single concrete detail of what The House looked like. How many stories were there? What color was the siding? What the house looks like remains a mystery to this day. But there’s much agreement about its interior. At least in some respects.

“There’re no employees, no turnstyle to go through, nothing like a museum or roadside attraction typically has. You just go in the front door, and you’re suddenly there - in the first room. It’s filled with photographs along the walls. They were all of my family, friends, neighbors, teachers, former classmates, folks from my church, employers, co-workers. People I might have talked to only once in passing. None of these were photos I took or remember anyone else ever taking. None are in any photo album I own,” said Judge Michael Harvester in 1972, when he called into the KIRT radio station of Olympia, Washington. 

The Photo Gallery is always the first room visitors find themselves in. Under each photo is a brass plaque, on which a single sentence is etched: the last words said by whomever is touring the house to the person featured in the photograph.

Even this first room can be disarming to a visitor. As Judge Harvester said: “You don’t realize how many people you speak to, thinking you’ll do so again, but then never do. It adds up over a life. It really does. I didn’t look at all the pictures, or read all the plaques. I had to stop after awhile. I saw one in particular… the last words I said to an old neighbor of mine, lived a few houses away from the place I bought right after law school. Me, him, and some of the guys down the block would get together to play poker twice a month. Last thing I said to him, ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks.’ I don’t remember what happened after that. I guess the poker game fell apart. I don’t think either of us moved, I don’t remember us getting into any fights. But I never spoke to him again. And that’s just one example. People like to call that first room the photo gallery, and that makes sense, I guess. But that’s not what it is. It’s a monument. A monument to lost relationships.”

Most visitors to The House expressed regret coming there at all after visiting this first room. Unfortunately, the way they entered disappears after entry - replaced by a wall filled with photographs. Once you enter, The House forces you to continue through the rooms. That is, if you wish to leave.

“The second room was a full scale replica of my childhood home,” said Sara Lopez to the San Diego Tribune in 1966. “All five rooms of our house back on Balboa Avenue. “I went through the cabinets in the kitchen. The dishes… they were identical to ones we had. There were these little hand drawn designs on them. They’re abstract, hard to describe, but the plates in that museum. They matched perfectly how I remembered them. It was impossible.” Most statements regarding the second room share similar amazement at the level of detail on even the most insignificant items - stains on the carpet, entryways scuffed and dirty from children’s shoes. “What really got me about the second room, “Sara Lopez said, “were the smells. The kitchen had this overwhelming odor of garlic and cumin, spices my mother put in everything. The carpet near the entryway smelled like wet dog. Our lab, Daisy, would run through our neighbors sprinkler then come inside, right to that patch of carpet, and roll around. Little things like that, I’d forgotten about completely. Hadn’t thought of in years, but suddenly a million memories came rushing back to me.”

The average visitor reported spending somewhere between four to five hours in The House of Narcissus. There were outliers of course, in both directions. Some, after seeing the photo gallery, ran through the other rooms without lingering. Others claimed to have spent days and only left when they were near dehydration.

There are dozens of other rooms in The House. Too many to go over tonight. But I’ll end by stating what’s in the only obligatory room, the last room. The room with the only way out.

At the very end of a long hallway is a plain wooden door with a small sign above that reads: What if…

Inside is a small movie theatre. There’s a single red cushioned seat in the room with the perfect view of a small screen. To the right of the screen is a door with an exit sign above. The door will not open unless the visitor sits down in the chair and watches, truly watches and listens, to the film that plays in that small theatre.

“On the day of what was supposed to be my wedding I called my best friend - my bridesmaid. I cried and I gave her the awful job of telling my husband-to-be I’d changed my mind,” said Tonya Blanton to the Sante Fe Dispatch in 1958. “I was living in Minneapolis at the time. Born there, was to be married there, figured I’d die there eventually too. I don’t know what overcame me. But I got in my car and drove. Found myself in New Mexico and started a new life. My parents were furious. And I never spoke to the man who was to be my husband ever again. He sent me a letter when I’d settled in Santa Fe. I wasn’t brave enough to open it. But in that last room. In that last room of that awful house - a film played. It showed what my life would have been had I stayed in Minneapolis. I won’t… I won’t say what all I saw. What all I missed out on. All I’ll say is I know I made the wrong choice. I’ve thought about that every single day since visiting that terrible place.”

Tonya Blanton is not a unique case. Chicago journalist Studs Terkel in his book The American Road: An Oral History devoted a chapter to The House of Narcissus. He conducted over twenty interviews with those who'd toured the roadside wonder. When asked if they could change places and live the life they saw in that last room - would they? Every person he interviewed said they would.

The House of Narcissus only existed for some sixty odd years. The last known visit occurred in 1977, outside of Spring Green, Wisconsin. “People say I must’ve burned the place down or something,” Buddy Palmer, the last recognized visitor, said to the Madison Gazette in 1980. “I didn’t, I swear,” he went on, “but if I had some matches and kerosene on me, would I of? Sure thing. No one should ever be forced to watch the movie that plays in that last room. I’ll think of that picture the rest of my life. I’ll know I messed up early on and I’m not living my best, happiest life. You know how hard it is to get out of the bed in the morning with that hanging over you? Sometimes that movie plays in my dreams. I usually gotta call in sick to work the next day when it does. I just can’t stop thinking about it. The rest of the place too… it’s just... Just too much.”

For those of you listening to this while driving alone, rest assured, you’re unlikely to see a billboard with your own face staring back at you and the words: Know Thyself, Next Exit. But in the rare chance such an event occurs, please consider my advice: don’t take that exit. Just keep driving. There are some truths about ourselves perhaps better left unexplored.

And now back to our main show.

[[TIOA music fades out]]

​​ACT II

RYDER

And we're back and we already have a caller on the line. Why don't you tell us your name and the nature of your supernatural problem.

RENE

Hello, Malcolm. I was wondering if we'd ever get the chance to speak again.

RYDER

(uncertain)

I don't recognize your voice. Have you called into the show before?

RENE

A few times, yes. And we met once or twice in person.

A beat.

RYDER

Who is this?

RENE

My name is Rene Dupont. And though I've explained this to you before, I will kindly do so again. I exist with a peculiar condition. People can rarely retain memories of me. Not in any form. As this conversation gets to a certain point, I'll begin to vanish from your mind as well as most of your listeners. If you try to write down anything about me during this call, you'll likely only produce gibberish or the vaguest of details.

RYDER

I've read case studies of similar situations. There was a man in Utah-

RENE

(interrupts)

Yes, yes.

Nathaniel Cotwell who lived in a small town that couldn't create new memories of him past the age of eight. And so as an adult they'd still treat him as if he were a young boy. You studied him and Sarah Pullman of Butte, Montana who went missing one night in the woods. When she found her way home again, her family had completely forgotten her.

A beat.

RENE

The few times we've spoken, you've wished to demonstrate knowledge of people who've existed with Memory-related ailments and those are your two most common examples.

RYDER

It seems we have spoken before. Mr. Dupont-

RENE

Please, call me Rene. No need for formalities. We're old acquaintances after all.

RYDER

Yes. Of course. And why have you called into the show tonight, Rene?

RENE

There's been a man following me. Repeatedly.

A beat.

RYDER

(realizing what he means)

And of course that's a difficult task to accomplish, as it's so hard to remember you.

RENE

You're correct. I am Anonymity Incarnate. But there's a man in a grey suit who seems to have found my scent. A further detail about him: he's missing one of his fingers. I'll let you guess which.

RYDER

Why is The Traveling Salesman after you?

RENE

I called you in search of an answer to that very question.

RYDER

In all likelihood he wishes to strike a deal with you. That's why he seeks anyone out. That, or to kill them.

RENE

Let's assume the former for the moment: what sort of deal would he want to make with me?

RYDER

I have no idea. Perhaps he needs information from someone. But he doesn't want this person to know they've given their secrets up. I imagine with your talent that's something you'd be good at.

RENE

Before the wall was destroyed in '89 I was employed on both sides doing something akin to what you just suggested.

A beat.

RYDER

Then that might be what he wants. Or perhaps something more... metaphysical.

RENE

Such as?

RYDER

Your ability to be forgotten. Julian already has some power over memory, but not that.

RENE

Could he really take that from me?

RYDER

Not take. Trade. The Salesman doesn't steal, Rene, but his deals are often one-sided, exploitive, as he'll neglect to tell you pertent information before you agree.

RENE

So he wouldn't really be taking something from me so much as he'd be giving me the gift of being able to be remembered.

A beat.

RYDER

That's a dangerous way of viewing such a deal.

RENE

Dangerous for you, perhaps, but of great advantage to me.

RYDER

It would be dangerous for the whole country for The Traveling Salesman to be easily forgotten. One of the few weapons we have against him are the memories of devastation he's brought about by the deals he's made. The only reason anyone ever turns him down is because his reputation precedes him. Take that away-

RENE

(interrupts)

I have the means and resources to go to many other countries. Julian Holloway can have this one.

RYDER

You'd potentially sacrifice hundreds of millions of people to-

RENE

(interrupts)

To be remembered. And yes, I would. This "talent" of mine came to me when I was young. For most my life I've been unable to have a meaningful relationship with another human being.

To even have an extended conversation. What's my name?

RYDER

Rene...

Malcolm searches his mind for the surname.

RYDER

Rene Dupont.

RENE

You're close to forgetting already, Malcolm Ryder.

A beat.

RENE

If I made a deal with your friend for him to take this power away, you'd never even know.

RYDER

The Traveling Salesman is not my friend.

RENE

If your former friend might help me where no one else could before, including yourself, then I would take him up on his offer.

RYDER

That is if he even wants to help you. He could be searching for you, as I already said, to kill you.

RENE

And why would that be his objective?

RYDER

There are limitations to his power. I don't fully know what they are, but I know they exist.

RENE

Again I ask, why would this necessitate him wanting me dead?

RYDER

Because you possess power in one of his realms - Memory and Dream. And if you have more power than he does, and if he can't use you, or your power, towards his own ends, he'll want you dead. You're a liability otherwise.

A beat.

RENE

You're bluffing. Trying to stoke fear in me so I stay away from him. So I can't make a deal. If what you said was true, your friend Charlotte Price would be dead.

RYDER

Charlotte has found ways to take care of herself. She's forged alliances with things even Julian fears. Have you done the same?

A beat.

RENE

What you're telling me is that I need leverage before I allow Julian Holloway to try and offer a deal to me.

RYDER

That's not what I'm saying at all. Under no circumstances should you attempt to make any deal with him.

RENE

That's not what I took away from this conversation. Thank you so much, Malcolm. As always, you've been helpful.

RYDER

No, wait-

Dial tone.

A long pause.

RYDER

There was someone on the line just now. I swear there was.

I have notes I made, most are illegible which isn't like me. Of what I can read: Shadow, Mirror, Flesh, Spirit, and Dream. I tried to write Memory but it seems my hand was unable to. Odd...

A beat.

RYDER

I think we'll end the show there tonight. I'd like to play back the recording of the past several minutes. See if I can see what I'm missing.

A beat.

RYDER

But if you're experiencing anything supernatural, paranormal, or otherworldly, please feel free to call in next time on A Voice From Darkness.

[[AVFD outro music fades in and out.]]

[alliterative-albatross]

So, I sent you (@disgruntledspacedad) a pretty long ask a while ago (back when you had anon on) and I'm decently sure Tumblr ate it (or maybe you ignored it, in which case, feel free to ignore this one as well). But then I saw one of those "writers appreciate feedback no matter how long" posts, so I'm back here. Here is my mediocre attempt to rewrite my original review of your work. Bear in mind that English is not my first language, so if at any point my phrasing sounds weird to you, you know why. Mandatory disclaimer/apology: this might get a little too long 😅

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

I remember being SO mad at myself for not finding this sooner. I binge read it one afternoon with no thoughts for any real life responsibilities I might have had (and no regrets). Javiears is one hell of an unconventional relationship in the beginning, and I really love what you did with them. The whole premise of your story is quite refreshing, and you somehow manage to convey the trust and mutual respect there two feel for one another without explicitly showing us the beginning of their "entanglement".

Also, fuck you for what you did to poor Emilio, that man was a saint and he deserved better! I honestly can't believe that I got so attached to a character that appeared so little in the story, but it happened, and his death kind of broke my heart.

But the Javiears reunion + mild confession was lovely, and felt completely deserved. And of course the sex scene. I won't lie, I expected a bit better from Javi there, but I did like how utterly /human/ it was. Capturing that humanity, the imperfections in each character is something you're really good at (more on that later).

AFTERSHOCKS

Ah, my emotionally constipated babies who really need to work out their communication issues. I do love them, though. And this short series did a really good job of delving a bit deeper into Ears's and Javi's psyche. Kudos to you for dealing with the medical "aftershocks" of living through an explosion AND using that experience to move your emotional plot forward. These two need to grow a lot before they can get to a stable point in their relationship, and you really manage to convey their insecurity and fear of commitment/intimacy while making it clear that they're in it for the long run and that theirs is a relationship that WILL work out so help them God.

IF I FALL

Ouch. Punch me in the gut while you're at it, why don't you?

But seriously, "If I Fall" is SO FUCKING GOOD. Don't get me wrong, it's angstier than an image of Jesus on the cross (don't judge me, it's Holy Week and I just got home from accompanying my grandma to church), but it somehow works beautifully. You, my dear, play heartstrings like they're a fucking guitar and I AM HERE FOR IT.

You're doing an amazing job at making me feel everything these characters are feeling, which is both awful (bc pain) and impressive.

Also, if anything happens to Ana I will cry, because she is adorable and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Also also, if anything happens to Ears I will cry, because she is badass and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Also also also, if anything happens to Javi I will cry, because he is loving and wonderful and has suffered way too much already and really deserves a break and some cookies.

Basically, I am really invested in the well-being of these characters and can't wait until they're happy and safe again (please tell me they will be, my heart can't handle much more pain).

A quick note on the angst complaints: yes, this story is way angstier than most other fics out there and it can be a bit too much at times, especially considering how many chapters of pain it's been. BUT it's obvious that "If I Fall" NEEDS this amount of angst to get where it's going, to send the message it wants to and to properly develop its characters. The pain is as important to this story as flour is to bread. You may not like eating flour on its own (I don't think anyone does), but you love bread (because bread is amazing) and you must recognize that bread NEEDS flour to work. It wouldn't be bread otherwise. And eating the flour as part of the bread even makes you like the flour because the bread is just DELICIOUS.

I fully understand and sympathize with the people who have elected to table "If I Fall" until it's completed so they can binge read it knowing there's a happy ending in sight, but in case you're feeling a bit self conscious about all the angst, please know that your story is beautiful not in spite of the pain, but rather /because of it/.

PS: No, I'm not high/drunk, I just really like bread

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Silly thing to comment on, I know, but I do feel like it's important that you know how useful your ANs have been. There are many details in the story that I simply wouldn't fully get without reading your comments at the end of each chapter, and I appreciate your writing a hell of a lot more knowing how deeply you understand and care for each one of your characters. Plus, it is obvious how much work you've put into researching a country and a time period that are (from what I gather) unfamiliar to you, and I really do believe you've done an amazing job of it.

JAVIER PEÑA

My boy. I love your characterization of this complicated character, and I have eagerly read each and every one of your headcanons about him. I can't really say if your version is fully faithful to the source material because it's been a while since I saw Narcos, but your Javi most definitely reads like a real person. He's fairly consistent as a character, and I feel like everything he does is perfectly natural for him to do as a character. He makes for an unconventional yet deeply interesting romantic lead, and so far I have thoroughly enjoyed all his POV chapters/scenes.

OCs

I know you've gotten some flack for making her into an OC halfway into the story, and while I get why the sudden change may have felt like a disappointment for some, I don't share that sentiment. I firmly believe that this fandom is unfairly harsh towards Original Characters and their creators, and I don't really understand why. Listen, I love Reader fics, and consume many Reader fics. I have read dozens, maybe even hundreds, and I can safely say that I've only ever "inserted" myself in approximately 10% of those stories. Reader characters are not as blank as their writers may want them to be. They can't be. They're characters, and character have personalities and moral values and senses of humor and a bunch of other things. Reader characters may not have a backstory or a physical description attached (and even that's not guaranteed), but they're still characters.

And on a more personal note, pretending they're actual blank slates is naive at best and insensitive at worst. Reader characters are American coded 99% of the time, and white coded 95% of the time. Not every readers is white nor American, even if that's the predominant demographic on Tumblr. When I read a JavixReader fic about a woman who speaks exactly zero Spanish, I know she's not me. The story may be beautifully written and have an amazing plot and character development, but the Reader *isn't me*. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that, and some of my favorite xReader stories feature a "reader" who couldn't be more different from me, but it's something that enemies of OC fics should take into account. Particularly if they are white and/or American. But I digress.

HANNAH AARONS

Your character is amazing. She's strong, smart, confident, independent and an all-around badass. She gets kidnapped while pregnant and still focuses on problem solving and survival. But she's also overly guarded and mistrustful, and really needs to work on her communication skills. There are times when I absolutely love her and even admire her, and other times when I want to whack her with a slipper. She's no Mary Sue, but remains interesting and likeable throughout the story. She feels wholly human and real, and that's no easy task. I like her, I am invested in her, and I can't wait to see what's next for her. She's a compelling and three dimensional protagonist in a complex story who never fails to draw me in. I love her. She's your baby, and you should be proud of her.

Also, quick question about personality types: I know you've typed Javi as ESFP and Ears as ENTP (100% agree on both, btw), but have you given any thought to their enneagram types? I personally have always seen Ears as being somewhere on the thinking triad, maybe a 7 or even a 6w7, but I'm not too sure about Javi. 9w8 maybe? He could also be a 6w5 🤔

PARTING THOUGHTS

Basically, I love your story, your characters and your writing in general. You are a fantastic storyteller and wordsmith. You get into the heads of incredibly different characters personality-wise (Ears, Javi, Berna...) and manage to capture all of their complexities and quirks every single time. And it doesn't feel like it's something innate for you either. To me, it seems that you have put a lot of work and effort into understanding each and every one of your characters, who they are, why they do what they do and what they want. And let me tell you, all that effort has been more than worth it. "Better Love" is a fanfic, but it wouldn't be out of place in a regular bookstore, if I'm honest. I don't know what you do for a living or if you've ever considered writing professionally, but you clearly have the skills and the drive to create some masterpieces.

You are amazing and your writing is a gift. Thank you for sharing it with us, and have a nice day! ~ 🍪

~

My friend, I apologize for hoarding your first ask. I’ve been sitting on it because I’m not gonna lie, I enjoy going back and rereading it. It gave me a lot of comfort when I was in a pretty dark place, both personally and in regards to my writing, and I was reluctant to send it out into the the abyss of Tumblr where I might never see it again. 

That’s not fair, though. You put just as much effort into sending me that review as I put into my writing, and I apologize for never responding to you.

Okay, anyway, so twice now, you’ve made me cry. In a good way, I promise! 

I absolutely love your bread/flour metaphor. It made perfect sense. I want the emotional release of Javi and Hannah’s reunion to be earned, and in order to do that, the angst has to come first (there are also a few plot “ingredients” that have yet to make their appearances). Thank you very much for understanding that, and for voicing it so eloquently.

I appreciate your comments on my research and characterization. You’re correct that I’ve put a lot of time and effort into crafting a universe. In a lot of ways, I’m doing my best to stay true to the source material (regarding culture and timelines in particular), and in others, I’m branching into my own territory. 

On that note, I’ve never once regretted fully embracing Hannah Aarons’ identity as an OC. She’s stayed consistent in my mind from the beginning, and it was a relief to finally share my vision of her with the audience. And for the record, I totally agree with you regarding “reader” characters. Every reader insert echoes the perspective of their author, no matter how vague the physical description. I can only imagine how grating that must be from the perspective of a non-white, non-american reader. Thank you so much for sharing your insight! I will certainly keep it in mind the next time I write a “reader insert” fic.

Okay, enneagrams! I am much less familiar with enneagram than I am MBTI, but I agree 110% that Javi is a 9 with a strong 8 wing. I waffled back and forth on Ears a little, but eventually landed on 8w7 for her. It came down to the eight’s deepest fear, which is being controlled. That’s Ears all over, and the fact that she and Javi share that eight willfulness means that they might butt heads a little, which also seems very appropriate for them. Big thanks to @remusstark for her insight into the eight frame of mind - our conversations helped solidify my decision on this. :)

Anyway, I’m just rambling now. The big take-away point that I want you to get is that I am so, so grateful to you, both for your insightful feedback and your dedication in making sure that I actually saw it. You are an absolute gem and a deep thinker, Cookie-Anon, and if you ever feel like sliding into my DM’s, I’d welcome the opportunity to get to know you better.

Mad love and soft hugs, 

~ Jay

[moonstruckbucky]

The Recruit (2/?)

Summary: Becoming a SHIELD agent had been your dream and finally, you’ve achieved it. You’re at the top of your class in every field except one—hand to hand combat, and it doesn’t impress Captain Rogers in the slightest. Instead, it seems to convince him you’re useless, setting off a tense relationship between the two of you. In an effort to bridge the gap, Bucky offers to help you train to earn your way back into Steve’s good graces. What could possibly go wrong?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes (not Stucky)

Warnings: Some language. More angst a la Steve.

Notes: I don’t do taglists so please don’t ask.

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist

Steve’s beginning to wonder if he should see Dr. Cho. Headaches have plagued him almost every day since he humiliated you in the gym. He knows that’s exactly what he did, and he almost felt compelled to commend you for keeping your cool in front of Bucky and the other agents. He also knows his treatment of you was more than a little unfair, but his ego wouldn’t allow him to rein it in. You had to learn, had to toughen up. If you couldn’t, you were useless to him and to SHIELD.

His uniform is tight across his chest as he straps in - a last minute mission mandated by Director Hill to scope out potential Hydra activity. He chose Bucky to accompany him, knowing the brunet has been itching to whoop some Hydra ass.

Now, Bucky stands in the jet, strapped to the nines in black leather and weapons, both visible and concealed. His dark arm glows under the blue lighting in the jet. He looks ready for a fight.

“You got this, right?” he asks. He knows he doesn’t need to, that Bucky wouldn’t have agreed if he didn’t think he could handle it. But he does anyways, just because.

“Yeah, piece a’ cake,” is Bucky’s reply as he cracks the knuckles of his flesh hand. “Let’s see how they feel about Frosty the Snowman exacting his revenge.”

Steve remembers when Bucky was afraid to joke about his time as the Winter Soldier. It hadn’t been too long ago, really, that he was shying away from anyone who dared utter the moniker or even Hydra. Now that he’s in recovery, he’s found dark humor in his experiences, can make a little light of what he’d gone through.

Steve aims a pointed look at his friend. “We’re not killing anybody, Buck. This is just intel.”

Bucky scoffs, waves dismissively. “We say that every time, and then every time, shit goes south. And if this was “just intel”, you would’ve brought one of the rookies to test them out - not me.”

“None of the rookies are ready for a mission yet,” he retorts, sliding his hands into his gloves. Bucky raises his eyebrows, feels a little wary about what he’s going to say next.

“Agent L/N seems to be able to handle herself.”

If Bucky wasn’t so in tune to both his best friend and in people’s body language, he would’ve missed the way Steve’s entire body goes rigid. Instead, he crosses his arms as Steve makes a show out of a long silence, purposely hesitating in responding.

“Agent L/N needs improvement,” is what he finally settles on. Then, because he’s not really sure why, he follows it up with, “She shouldn’t even be an agent.”

Bucky’s incredulous. “Why? Because of her knee? I’m missing an arm, as you so eloquently pointed out the other day. Should I not be an Avenger because of it?”

“It’s different, Buck,” Steve replies sharply, crystal blue eyes blazing when he finally lifts head to glare at the other man. Bucky’s hardly phased, simply crosses his arms over his chest patiently.

“How is it different? By your logic, no one with injuries or handicaps should be an Avenger, or an agent, or even military.” Steve’s silent. He knows Bucky’s right, but he won’t, can’t, admit it. His friend’s voice is soft as he asks, “Why are you so much harder on her than the others? What is it about her?”

“Leave it alone, Buck.”

The tone of his voice rings in finality - he won’t discuss this anymore, and Bucky is frustrated over it. He knows his friend is stubborn, pigheaded really, but he’ll get Steve to crack - eventually. For now, he lets it go, moves to the front of the jet where Clint is at the controls.

Meanwhile, Steve stews in irritation. The very topic of you is enough to have his face heating, fists clenching, and while he knows it isn’t really fair - he doesn’t really know you, after all - he can’t help it. Almost everything about you is enough to grate on his nerves. His therapist would tell him he’s projecting, but he can’t seem to stop.

The mission ends up being a bust. Absolutely no intel on Hydra activity whatsoever. Just a warehouse with a number of homeless people taking refuge inside it. So Steve and Bucky end up nearly buying out an entire grocery store out of nonperishables to keep them fed as the weather gets colder. Might as well turn the trip into something positive.

When the quinjet lands on the platform, Steve breaks away from Bucky. His post-mission routine, regardless of the outcome, is a solid two hours in the gym. Tony is on his ass for how many punching bags he goes through, but it’s the only way he knows how to level his head out again. He makes a quick stop at his room, changing into gym clothes, but when he gets to the gym door, he freezes.

It’s occupied. By you.

For a few moments, he just waits outside the door. Waits to see if you’re finishing up, and when you start on a new workout, he blows out a breath. He’s not sure if he should go in; you mere presence is enough to keep his concentration off his workout, but he feels the anxious energy in his veins.

He needs this workout, so he enters the gym.

You look up from your place on the bench press station, face hardening when you see Steve waltzing over to the squat rack like he owns the gym. White hot rage coils in your belly, an autonomous reaction to his presence. Since his public humiliation of you in front of other agents, you’ve been on the defensive around him, but you keep your head down and obey orders like a good little soldier.

You do it to appease him, but you aren’t happy about it. Not at all. It makes you feel subordinate - which, technically in rank, you are - but even worse, it makes you feel about two inches tall. He doesn’t act this way with other agents. He’s tough, yes, but never nasty in the way he is with you. It only leads you to believe it’s personal - for whatever reason, he just doesn’t like you.

Gritting your teeth, you turn back to lifting, grunting lowly with the effort. While you work out, your mind wanders.

Bucky’s salve has so far done wonders for your knee. When you push it, there’s only a dull ache beneath the surface. It’s there, but manageable. You’ll have to arrange to have Shuri send more, and you’ll get Bucky a gift basket maybe as thanks.

You’re still a little thrown by Bucky’s friendliness towards you - being best friends with Steve, you’d wrongly assumed he’d be just like him. After all, all the stories you’d heard of the two involved them getting into trouble in some way or another. You’re pleasantly surprised to learn it’s not the case at all - the two of them, while similar in some ways, you’ve noticed, are like hot and cold.

Where Bucky is extremely mild-mannered and gentle from what you’ve gathered, Steve seems the opposite - coarse, abrasive, quick to anger. It forces you to give him a wide berth whenever you’re around him.

Today is no different. The two of you dance around each other as you work out, and you can see the pinched lines in his face that tell you your presence bothers him just as his does you. When you step up to the fly machine beside him, he slams the weights down hard. Bristling, you find a different machine.

It goes like this for another twenty minutes - you find a machine, and he’s quick to push you off of it. You know you don’t necessarily have to leave, but being so close to him makes you angry all over again, voiding your work out completely. You’d come to work off your stress, and he’s only adding to it.  It’s as he swipes the treadmill you’re walking towards that you throw your hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” you growl, louder than intended as it echoes in the room. “I’m leaving.”

As you turn to go, his super hearing picks up, “Fucking asshole.”

When you slam the door behind you, Steve feels a little bit badly for cutting your workout short. He knows, maybe better than a lot of people, how good it feels to work off stress. He hadn’t missed the deep frown on your face each time he pushed you off a machine despite there being plenty of space for the two of you. Honestly, he’s surprised you went with it as long as you had, and even he can admit that last move was a pretty dickish one to make. You just make him so angry and flustered, and he knows he should address the why, but he isn’t ready to - not yet.

You’re cursing under your breath as you storm the hall up to your living quarters. They were optional when you signed on as an agent, but seeing as how you didn’t have much of a life to begin with, you didn’t see the point in having your own apartment.

Your quarters are basically an apartment anyways, though you share the space with your roommate, Julie. She’s a good agent, smart, though a little hot-tempered if you’re being honest. Can’t really take a joke, either. But she’s clean, quiet, doesn’t cause trouble.

In the middle of your muttering towards the elevator, you completely miss Bucky leaning against the wall beside it, smirking a little as his hearing picks up on you cursing Steve’s name. When you finally do see him, you startle, jumping backwards a little with a hand over your heart.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you gasp, and Bucky has to swallow thickly against the imperfect thoughts skittering across his brain. Instead, his smirk widens and he pushes off the wall.

“What’s Steve done now?”

You look confused, until it registers, and then you wave a hand around your ear. “Right, super hearing. He thwarted my workout.”

“Thwarted?” he snorts, eyes glittering in amusement. You scowl, but your mouth twitches a bit. Bucky is one hell of a mood-booster.

“Yes, thwarted. Basically forced me out of the gym with his planet-sized temper tantrum.” The vitriol is back in your voice, and Bucky sighs, shakes his head a little at the absurdity of his best friend.

“Since he won’t, I’ll apologize on his behalf. I really wish I knew what’s gotten into him,” he replies truthfully. You frown, both because the easiness is gone from his face and because you don’t mean to talk badly about his best friend, his Captain.

“Probably that shield of his shoved too far up his ass,” you grumble, brightening when Bucky laughs. Smiling softly, you add, “You don’t need to apologize for him, you know?”

Bucky likes the softness in your gaze, feels himself go mushy on the inside. Needing another reason to talk to you, he nods down at your knee.

“How’s it feeling?”

You kick your leg out a couple times, grinning happily. “Feels good. That salve really works, so thank you. I might have to get you a new bottle, though.”

He brushes it off. “Don’t worry about it. Shuri sends it every month or so. I can have her add a few bottles on for you, if you want?”

He preens when you flush, cheeks warming and eyelashes fluttering. You scratch your arm nervously, peek up at him under your lashes.

“You don’t have to do that for me, Buck.” It’s the softest, gentlest he’s ever heard you speak, and your eyes betray how much his offer really means to you. It makes your heart pound, makes you even more aware that it’s just the two of you in this hallway. It’s as intimate as when you were in his room that first time.

“It’d be my pleasure, doll.” The pet name comes too easily, he thinks, but he hasn’t a mind to care. Not when you flush so prettily. “Can I walk you up?”

“Sure.”

Chapter Three

[braindeacl]

So a Zombie and a Mara Walk Into a Bar | Eilidh & Marley

SETTING: The Perfect Pint. TIMING: Before Marley went into the portal. PARTIES: @detectivedreameater & @braindeacl SUMMARY: Marley and Eilidh discuss the strangeness of the town over a stiff drink.  WARNINGS: N/A

The Perfect Pint, a wonderful instance of wandering turned discovery. Eilidh found herself drawn to the place at infrequent times, a feeling of longing compelling her forward. It wasn’t the same as she remembered. It never would be again. But, confusingly, the compulsion still remained, despite the sting. On this instance, the place was sprinkled with what looked like a few frequent patrons, and a dash of new, but overall, the crowd was sparse. She looked up to the screens decorating the walls from every angle. Each displayed a different game, and none seemed to be live. Slow night. Perfect. While a pub of drunk, passionate men was fun and brought a sense of nostalgia that both filled and ate at her chest, it was a dreadful setting for storytelling. And even better, the low occupancy made her easy to spot. The lone woman at the bar. The woman’s attention turned elsewhere, the first thing Eilidh noticed were long locks of black hair. It reminded her of the sea during a storm. Then, the dark waves receded as she turned closer, revealing a face. Revealing sunglasses.

“Feasgar math!” She called over to Shane, the owner, who returned with a cheerful, “Dia duit! The usual?” With her nod, he began his work. Black pudding was pulled from the fridge and dropped into hot oil. As they cooked, he prepared a glass of whiskey. The empty barstool next to Marley became quite familiar with Eilidh, then. Her eyes briefly glanced at the edges of scars that peaked beyond the surface of the glasses. A flash of curiosity struck her eyes, but then calmed. “Marley Stryder? Pick your poison.”

Marley wasn’t sure going out for drinks was really the best idea, but she was back at work and she’d been feeling much better lately. She still didn’t understand what exactly had happened after her accident, but one day she’d just woken up feeling refreshed and fine. Well, mostly fine. Her ner normal fine, at least. She’d settled the sunglasses on her face, and thrown on her favorite leather jacket, before heading out to the bar they’d agreed to meet up at. The Perfect Pint. It was neither perfect, nor pint, but they served up a good one, and, really, that was all that mattered to Marley. She didn’t even mind getting to the bar early, taking a seat by herself and glancing around the joint to see if there was anyone there she recognized. Even in this small town, in this small bar, there wasn’t. Most of the other cops hung out at Al’s or Shannahan’s, close by bars in case they got a call. She was just getting ready to flag down a bartender to order a drink when a voice interrupted her and she looked up to meet tender, brown eyes and a smiling face. Something about them seemed...off, but Marley wasn’t about to delve into that. Not when she didn’t really care.

“You must be Macleod, then, “she said, turning to face her. She could see eyes tracing over her scars. “Whiskey works for me.” She looked over at the bartender and nodded. “Double. Neat.” Facing the other woman again, she watched curiously herself as she settled. “So, you come here often? I know that sounds like a cheesy opener, but, well--” she motioned to the bartender, working away at their drinks, “you seem pretty familiar.”

At the mention of her name, Eilidh nodded to confirm. Smile curled higher at the observation. “Only sometimes.” And it was true. She probably would be a regular if she could experience all of alcohol’s benefits. “Ol’ Shane took a shine to me ‘cause he knows if he’s mean I’ll tell everyone what he’s actually muttering about.” Shane yelled something across the bar in Irish Gaelic, causing Eilidh to chuckle. Done with her food, he placed it on a plate and slid it to her. Two glasses of whiskey were placed in front of them. Upholding the deal, she set a bundle of cash on the bar, which contained a generous tip. Probably another reason why they liked her. Securing her glass, she motioned it to Marley, then to the few behind the bar. “Sláinte.” Slightly tipped back, she took a sip, letting it swirl around in her mouth. Simply enjoying the texture and smallest hint of taste. The only things she could enjoy. Placing it back on the bar with a clink, she beheld her food. Blood pudding, with extra spices added. A lot of extra spices. Before taking a bite, she turned her attention back to Marley. “What about you?”

Marley was intrigued. She raised a brow, though it was hidden behind aviators that fit perfectly to her face, hiding the red glow behind them. “You speak Gaelic?” there weren’t many people that still did, though she supposed the language was more common here, considering the fae population. Was Macleod fae, perhaps? Marley’s thoughts went temporarily to Lydia and she felt her stomach churn. She shoved the thought down by lifting her whiskey glass and taking a hearty sip. “Not really. Not here, at least,” she said, “I got my favorites, not that I mind this one.” She observed the other woman’s food, not unaware of what black pudding was, curiouser with each passing moment. She didn’t often indulge in human foods, though she had been more lately, since she’d been living with Erin. “You been in town long?”

Eilidh nodded. “Aye, I do. Not the same as he does. But I know enough.” It was one of the few languages she was able to hold onto after… the incident. Which she refused to consciously make that connection. Instead, she took a testing bite of her food. The level of spices allowed enough of a tingling on her tongue to register as something good. It reminded her of the food she would prepare in times of old–when they actually took the time instead of eating the flesh raw. A habit which has still stuck with her. She took another bite, and before it was fully consumed, she continued. “Not too long. Lots of things are still a mystery to me.” Which was true, but she wouldn’t reveal the full extent to what she knows. The food was briefly ignored as her full attention rested on Marley. “Maybe you’ll shed a light? Rumor has it you’ve been here long enough for some interesting stories.” That spark of curiosity filled her eyes again as she playfully referenced their previous correspondence.

“Still something, right?” Marley said, raising her glass to take another sip. The alcohol burned but it felt good. Being here and in her mind felt good. She watched curiously as the other woman bit into her food. She could smell it, the spices, but she didn’t know what it was or what they were. Human food was...such a mystery to her still. The most adventurous thing she’d tried was peanut butter and pickles on a dare as a teenager. She could still remember the horrid taste decades later. “A fan favorite?” she asked, nodding at the plate, as she swirled her drink. Let out a chuckle. “I’ve been here long enough for plenty of those, yeah,” she answered, crossing her legs as she leaned back in her chair, facing Macleod fully. “What do you wanna hear about first? The case of all the missing heads or the flayed bodies? Or maybe something less exciting to start, like how Dark Score lake turned to glass. You hear about that one, yet?” Whatever story she wanted to hear, Marley was willing to share. She had an inkling Macleod had more to herself than she was letting on, but everything would come in due time. Until then, Marley wanted to enjoy the challenge, and the company, and the whiskey. 

“Oh, yes. They know how I like it.” With the main components of blood and fat, it was one of the few plates Eilidh bothered ordering. Others had too much filler—carbs on carbs with maybe a touch of foliage. But being completely carnivorous, those foods were pointless, sometimes downright sickening to her. She took another bite, letting it sit on her tongue, the spices penetrating and offering a hint of flavor. She eyed the matching space on the bar in front of Marley, noting it was sparse. “Just a liquid diet for you, then?” Upon Marley’s next words, those eyes snapped back to her face, flashing with that same intrigue as before. Missing heads. Flayed bodies. Such words could surely be applied to multiple cases, based on what she knows of this place. But the lake. She remembered that. When first encountered, she thought it was just ice. It had been winter, after all. But the more she had looked, the more the details weren’t right. Ice had imperfections—a sign that indicated it was there. But none could be found. Just a solid, almost invisible barrier. With malicious intent seeping into the air. “I saw it, actually. You ever figured out what caused it?” Her line of work would surely increase the chances of that locked wisdom. The real question is if she would share even a crumb with Eilidh. 

“Not much for bar food,” Marley answered, shaking her glass and making sure the bartender saw how nearly empty her glass was. He nodded and pulled out a glass for another one. “Besides, my--” she paused, feeling the word already trying to slip out as she swallowed the first half of it, “--friend is obsessed with making home cooked meals so she’s always bringing me leftovers and shit.” And neither statement was a lie, not technically. Marley didn’t like bar food, and Erin was often bringing her food even if she didn’t really eat it. She smiled, clicked her fingers against her glass, eyeing the difference between the ice inside and the smooth crystal exterior it sat in. She remembered looking at the lake and seeing the smooth surface of it, only to come back a bit later and see that it had shattered into millions of tiny pieces. Clean up was a bitch. They had to bring in outside volunteers from the forest service and even recruit town members who were eager to volunteer. Now it sat as an empty crater, with chunks of glass still reminding those who visited what had happened. “Would you believe me if I said it was magic?” More specifically, magic that had encapsulated Bloody Mary and the Sandman. Best to test the waters first.

Eilidh slipped over another bill across the bar. But her charity wouldn’t last forever—watching someone get drunk was only amusing when other matters weren’t at hand—and she made a mental note not to pay for the next. Unless Marley began to offer something juicy. “Ah. That’s sweet.” She detected the awkward pause in the statement. A secret not wanting to be revealed. Which was understandable, she was a stranger after all. Still, a part of her wanted to know, as she did with all things. But something much more intriguing presented itself. Despite their online discussion hinting to Marley’s knowledge of those things left unsaid, she hadn’t expected magic to come out of her lips. She seemed so pragmatic. And those like that were usually so tough to crack. But this town would make a believer out of anyone. Unless Marley had been connected to magic all along. “Yes.” She leaned in closer, eyes searching. A crumb finally offered, and she intended to bite off more. “What kind?” She had suspected, practically knew, such a source when first discovered, though she lacked the knowledge to decipher more. Magic kissed the world in many ways, but how certain people utilized and manipulated such energies was mostly lost to her. 

“Sweet, yeah,” Marley mumbled, tapping her fingers on the side of her glass. She noted the slight look of annoyance and wondered why it might’ve been so easy to feel that way after only buying a stranger their second drink. Marley could remember all the multitude of drinks she’d bought other women she wanted to take home from the bar, but, then again, it seemed like Eilidh’s reasoning was different from those. Eilidh’s admission to magic came as a slight surprise. Usually people tried to bargain it away, to explain that it probably wasn’t real, or magic was just something else, they didn’t understand, yadda yadda. Eilidh just said yes. Marley shuffled. “Real powerful kind,” she said, “I wasn’t there when it happened, but there’s no way it wasn’t. There were, uh-- some bigger issues in the town at the time. The glass lake supposedly subdued them. But all magic comes with a price, right?” She sipped her new drink. “Or so I’ve been told.”

Made sense. Despite her lack of knowledge, except for the practices she learned in her youth, Eilidh had felt power sizzling in the air. And when the next she visited what remained, as if the lake had been scooped up by a giant spoon, and then whacked, she knew something must’ve happened. Other mysteries had stolen her attention, as it often did in such a town, but she lapped up anything she could learn now, interest grown anew. “Bigger issues?” Bigger issues. Bigger issues. She thought back to that time, many months ago. Was there anything of note? She was fairly certain that had been around the same time that entity in the mirror yelled at her. Something, something, repent for your sins, something, something. And that might’ve been the month she saw a kelpie again for the first time in years. Both intriguing, and the later additionally exciting, but neither screamed bigger issue to her. “A price. Like how it’s a crater now?” Eyes still focused on Marley, eagerly hoping for more answers. Her fingertip pressed against the rim of her drink, tracing that thin path, counter-clockwise. When the circle was complete, she secured the full glass in her hand, and took another sip. 

Marley scratched at her cup, a long nail tapping against the glass. She’d wondered what the glass lake had sounded like, when tapped on. Did it make crackling noises as the ground beneath it shifted to support the weight of the new matter? Whatever had shattered it had been loud. So loud, some of the alarms in town had gone off. Windows had shattered. She only knew of a few species that could make noise like that. “Something like that,” she answered. Eilidh was growing more curious, the less and the more Marley gave her. Her answers were short but informative. She knew how to hook someone in. “I more think the crater was...simply an after effect of whatever happened there. It’s still quite a mystery. I don’t know of anyone who has the full story, start to finish. But I’ve been piecing things together myself. Who knows if I'm right. But,” she lowered her voice, as if this next part were a secret, “I think the lake was used to imprison something or someone.”

An entire lake as a prison. Creative. Though not creative enough, as evident by the resulting crater. Eilidh’s mind wondered as to who or what could’ve caused such a massive display of power. And what they did to warrant the need to place them there—if it were justified or caused by fear or both. The two thoughts congealing into an impressive figure. “Makes sense. Nothing likes to be kept in a cage.” She would know; more than most. Small wrinkles adorned her forehead as eyebrows pressed close, close like those walls had been for all those centuries. The expression lasted a moment before flattening. Wonderous twinkle in her eyes returned. “Guess whoever it was is out and about then? Wonder what they’re up to.” That air seemed angry that fateful day. An anger that wouldn’t simply go away overnight. “Or if they’re back.” 

Marley wondered if Macleod might be talking about herself. But, then again, Marley hated being caged, as a child. Strapped to a bed while she screamed and cried and begged for food. They hadn’t known, it wasn’t their fault, not really. She still blamed them. She flicked at the bartop. “Suppose not,” she agreed, watching her closely. The crowd, though small, seemed to be getting rowdier. Men were shouting at each other just down the bar and Marley’s eyes drew to them like magnets. No fear yet, but chaos. And chaos inspired fear. She ran her tongue over her lips before her attention drew back to her companion. “Could be,” she answered, blinking, drawing herself back to the current conversation. “Not really sure. Maybe they died being trapped in there. Or shattered with it.” She didn’t honestly care. As long as it wasn’t fucking with the town or Erin, she just didn’t care. “But really, that’s not even the strangest--” She had started to pull up the memory of another strange occurrence in White Cres, when someone was shoved against her and her chest thumped against the bar, her drink spilling. It was the two men who had been yelling at each other earlier, and now their anger was in Marley, too. She shoved back on him. “Hey!” she growled, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt. “Watch it.” The man tried to yank away, grinding his teeth at her. “Or what?” he chided.

Eilidh had been so enthralled at the story slowly being weaved, she hadn’t noticed the steady increase of the crowd. It might as well have just been her, Marley, and their dwindling whiskeys. She had half a mind to preemptively order Marley another, more gifts for her continued answers. But then a man brushed against her extended elbow, jolting her back into her surroundings. Eyes snapped in his direction, a mixture of startle and anger. When their eyes met, his own widened and the patron simply took a step back, the brief touch merely accidental. It calmed her nerves. A second was taken to regain her attention. It shifted back to Marley, electrifying at the hintings of another tale. But then another man interrupted. And this one was less forgiving. As Marley’s body thwapped against the table, a growl rattled in her throat. It only got louder when she made eye contact with the aggressor. “Piss off.” She splashed the remainder of her drink onto the man’s face. As alcohol entered his eyes, he let out a shriek. His friend immediately went into action, tight grip securing her braid. He gave it a hard tug, trying to pull her off the chair. So she sent her nails, her claws, digging into his hand. Her legs kicked widely, most landing on his calves and thigh. And then one finally met the target: his groin. Jackpot!

All it took was one man grabbing one woman-- her companion for the night, none the less-- and Marley was set off. She could punch him, easily. She wanted to punch him. Her fist flew out and connected with his jaw, just as Macleod’s foot came up into another man’s crotch. Marley snorted, but the few seconds were enough for the man who she’d punched to wind his own fist back and swing for her. Sunglasses cracked and flew from her face and she grit her teeth, whipping her head to look back at him. Red eyes glared him down until he suddenly wilted, screaming under her gaze. And, for good measure, she swung her foot up into his crotch as well and pushed him over with the heel of her boot. Wiping her hands on her jacket, she leaned down to pick up her bent glasses. “Don’t touch the glasses,” she snarled at him before depositing them back on her face. Frowned, because they were crooked. Frowned even more because now the rest of the bar was rowdy, too.

Eilidh was not expecting the sound of a secondary impact. Almost as if it was planned, the man suffered a double tap in one go. A laugh blurted out of her. But when the man returned the favor, striking Marley across the face, that laughter died and she was growling again. Her body wanted to jump into action and was cocked to do so. Red eyes froze her onto the barstool—sent a chill down her spine, sent dread into her mind. Whoa. Was she a Mare? The reaction of the man—who suffered under the full weight of that crimson gaze, who crumbled into himself as if it would get him further away, who screamed because that’s all he could really do—confirmed suspicions. Despite the eruption of unease at the sight, wonder still tingled in her eyes. She tore her eyes away, blinking as the forced fear subsided into her true emotions, and was instantly greeted by the first man, having regained himself. Who eyes too were red: from the burn of alcohol and of rage. Her teeth snapped shut with a harsh click. “My turn.” Launching herself onto the man, she used the momentum to send him tumbling onto the ground. Before he could compose himself, she struck him across the cheek. As she revved up another attack, a random patron knocked her down, disrupting the motion. Before becoming engulfed by that sea of passion and fury, she hopped back up onto the barstool. Left the man to fend for himself. “This place got lively!”

Marley stood by as Macleod threw herself at the other man, who was soaked from the drink that had previously been thrown on him. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She was too preoccupied with watching that she didn’t notice the others approaching them, or the bartender, rushing around the side of the counter, grabbing his baseball bat, and waving it at some of the other men who were rushing over to the commotion. She almost forgot, too, that she was a police officer. She wasn’t supposed to incite violence like this, rather she was the one called to stop it. Someone else bumped into her from behind and she swerved to glare at them, too, watching them shrink away, as red eyes pierced them ever from behind the glasses. She didn’t much care anymore. The bartender grabbed at her and then Macleod next as Marley laughed at her statement. “Sure did!” she was being shoved towards the door, but she didn’t much care. “Can’t say I’m complainin’!” 

Eilidh’s eyes locked onto the baseball bat and an amused breath escaped her. “So dramatic! Like this’s anything new.” The bartender paid her comment no mind, only focusing on what needed to be done. When their hands seized her arm, Eilidh snapped her teeth threateningly. Those canines that had met flesh time and time again bared themselves to naïve and apathetic eyes.  Ensnared arm jerked, straining against the hold, on the edge of freeing herself. But her eyes locked onto Shane, who simply shook his head in disapproval. Fucking hell. Those blood puddings were on the line. Her arm relaxed, but a tension still riddled her body. She allowed the bartender to drag her away, back to the door where this all began. The sound of laughter brought up her mood, and she joined in her own. Mirth and hostility danced in her voice. “Too bad we can’t finish the job!” And with that they were shoved out the door.