#i just know that emotionally inarticulate man would fuck up

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #26 – The Late Americans by Brandon Taylor

This was my monthly dose of high literature, chosen because I subscribed to the author’s substack for a while and generally liked it. After somehow accidentally grabbing historic fantasy and dystopian sci fi, this time it did was actual proper adult contemporary litfic, even! So y’know, horizons successfully expanded.

The book is honestly a caricature of what an outsider would guess contemporary litfic to be. Meandering and plot light, eight different POVs whose chapters’ are largely character studies of their own interiorities and relationships, deeply preoccupied with the process and structures that produce Fine Art, about a bunch of miserable queer grad students in Iowa City. It did at least refrain from having a character actually be an author attending the Iowa Writers Workshop so like, not totally free of restraint here, but it’s still nearly overpowering.

Saying ‘plot light’ is still almost overstating it, really. Each chapter is a vignette from the perspective of a different character, with varying levels of personal connection to the other protagonists. Some individual characters have little arcs, but none exactly undergo a profound transformation – the book is largely just a study of them, their relationships, their damage and their neuroses as they drift through a year of their lives.

The characters themselves are all resolutely unexceptional. No prodigies, no savants, no stars in the making – they are all talented and dedicated, but in ordinary and unremarkable ways for their milieu. It’s precisely that ordinariness that Taylor seems most interested in – how people conceive of their relationship to art when they’ve devoted everything to a craft that only barely seems to love them back.

The relationships between the characters is the other real driver of the book. They’re all..kind of dicks? In the thoughtless, inarticulate, emotionally-illiterate-lashing-out way of incredibly stressed people in their mid-20s (though exaggerated a bit for effect. Or at least, I hope so). Everyone is broken and jagged, and rubs up against everyone else only with violence and force – resentful friendships, unhappy romances, comfortable enmities. No one ever makes a clean break with anyone – no one shows much sign of being able to even if they wanted – and what character growth there is is a matter of compromise and accommodation, making peace with the people you love around you whatever their shortcomings.

The characters are all very well-drawn, their neuroses and struggles believable and mostly compelling. There’s probably one or two too many of them – at a certain point I did start having trouble with whose tragic childhood (they of course all have tragic childhoods) or insufferable emotionally unavailable boyfriend was whose – but in the final analysis they all mostly worked for me. That said, the two female POVs seem almost..tangential? Less connected to everyone else, less richly examined, less grounded and dirty and vicious. Which is a bit unfortunate, both in terms of the novel’s overall strength and because almost literally the only other women with lines in it are a bunch of deeply unkind caricatures of poetry/literature-as-activism types in one of the character's seminars.

Speaking of relationships – if you don’t know what the stereotypical litfic sex scene looks like, this book overflows with examples to learn from. Partially just trying to be true to life about a cast of horny gay guys in their mid-20s – if you draw a chart of who fucked who I’m pretty sure it connects every man in the main cast – but the book also just tries to get a lot of characterization and symbolism across through sex scenes, and ends up devoting more word count and flowery prose to them than anything I’ve ever seen besides outright erotica. All the sex scenes do have a fascinatingly vast variety of valences and tones, though – some are passionate and romantic, some flagrantly exploitative or transactional, some are just something to do on a boring break in the middle of nowhere. The sex can get a bit monotonous, but at least it’s never one-note.

Taylor’s very interested in the culture of like, capitalized prestigious Fine Art, its production, and the relation of the university to both. The book, broadly, seems to take the point of view that the whole edifice is one great machine for chewing up and spitting out hopes and dreams. It’s a recurring theme that even among these people who have dedicated their entire lives to poetry or dance of the piano are unable to spend it making the kind of art they want. And that’s not even getting into how all the people you’re supposed to be making art with are the most insufferable pieces of shit to ever see the sun.

And on the note of insufferable pieces of shit – there’s also just a very strong recurring theme of class. Getting a MFA is largely the province of people who don’t really have to care about a near-future paycheck, and the cast is divided between those who fit the description and feel varying amounts of repressed guilt and awkwardness about it, and those that have to work some job to pay the bills and display a remarkable amount of restraint in not decking at least one classmate a day. The irony of art imagined as activism or world-changing being near-exclusively the result of elite educations and trust funds is bitter and plentiful, especially among the poets.

It’s, I think, a very sort of subtle humour that across the first half or so of the book the really poetic prose and most evocative imagery is used near-exclusively to describe the vulgar, low-class survival work that the less fortunate half of the protagonists do to support themselves – meal prep in a hospice kitchen, preparing cuts of beef in a slaughterhouse, recording porn of oneself to post online – while the actually art they create isn’t much described at all. This doesn’t last, but it’s a very funny joke while it does.

The book is, on a sentence-to-sentence and page-to-page level, really quite beautiful. Unfortunately, it ends up feeling like less than the sum of its parts. There’s a bit of a running narrative connecting half or so of the protagonists, who really are major parts of each others lives and enrich each others narratives with an outside view – and then the rest only appear outside their own chapters as cameos, if that. Exactly one characters gets two chapters from his POV – the first, and about halfway through the book – and he’s one of the people who barely touches the rest of the cast, so it’s not like he’s actually the protagonist or propelling the narrative. You end up with a novella and a bunch of short stories that, put together, are both constantly hitting the same beats but also lacking any real through-line tying them all together and pushing things forward. Which really isn’t helped by the fact that the ending reads like someone gave Taylor a maximum wordcount 5 pages before he hit it and he just did the best he could.

[coffeeandteaintheevening]

Erik jolted awake; it was quiet, too quiet. It was the first time since the first fall that he woke up feeling lost, no idea where he was or even what time it was.

A hummin sound coming from his right made him forcefully turn his head to face the source of the sound.

“Woah man, calm down, you’ll give yourself a whiplash”

The older man recognized that youthful and incredibly annoying voice. The silver-haired teenager looked at the man, a smug smile dancing on his lips while he sharpened a knife that looked different to the one he had before.

“What?” Erik said, rubbing the back of his neck, not really paying attention to what the kids said

Peter walked over to to him, leaning down and passing him the freshly sharpened knife

“Whip-lashhh… Here ya go old man, I found this while you were snoring, you’ll need it”

Erik took the knife, unphased by the kid’s comment.

“What time is it kid?”

“A little past nine I guess, if that clock works correctly. The screaming and hissing calmed down about an hour ago, I think we’re good for the night”

Erik nodded as he toyed with the knife in his hand. He looked over at Peter who laid down using some rugged clothes as a makeshift pillow.

The older man took a spot by the door, his turn to be on the lookout. He couldn’t help but look at the kid as he slept, innocence painting his youthful features as he curled into himself to preserve warmth. Erik felt his parental instincts kick in but restrained himself for acting them out. He no longer was a father, a dad, that part of him died as he witnessed his family being torn apart. This was a random silver haired teen that stumbled in his way and would leave him at the first chance he got, if Erik didn’t abandon the kid first.

They traveled together for three weeks; two people were always better than one. Peter was young and fast; he could slip into any place and make it out before anyone noticed him. Erik was the brains and as much as Peter hates to admit it, he was also the muscle. They worked well together, but neither would admit that to the other.

“Peter, for fucks shake, will you shut up!” Erik said, rubbing circles on his forehead to calm down his headache.

“Look, all I’m saying is that twinkies are the most essential survival item and they’re also fucking delicious”

“Peter, I don’t care about your disgusting twinkies, just answer my damn question!”

“Yes, I did forget to grab the bag”

Erik laughed, he was so frustrated, so angry at the teen before him who forgot a bag filled to the bream with items essential to their survival.

Peter was terrified, that was not the reaction he anticipated. He was going to die at the hands of the most emotionally inarticulate adult man he had ever met. He looked at the Erik in confusion and pure fear. It was obvious that he fucked up, he knew the moment they made it to the barely standing building they were currently using as a shelter.

“Look man, I’m sorry, I panicked, those things are fucking terrifying- “

Erik cut him off by raising a hand. The teen shut his mouth.

“Peter that’s the third time you fucked up in four days. Do you think that this is a fucking joke?”

“No…”

“It sure seems like it! This is serious Peter. We wake up every day not knowing if we’ll make it until tomorrow. People are dying and we might be next. I am responsible about you when you dive headfirst into the most dangerous situations for the fucking thrill!” Erik yelled, glaring at the shocked teen before him, whose eyes started getting glossy.

“Why the fuck are you responsible for me, you’re not my fucking father, so stop acting like you care about me like you won’t leave me the minute you find your way out!” Peter screamed back, wiping a stray tear with the back of his sleeve.

“I’m here because you find me useful Lehnsherr, you think I don’t know that? You might think I’m stupid, but I’m not. I made a fucking mistake, or two, but what the fuck am I supposed to do? You think that I’m not scared cause I’m fucking terrified man! I lost everything just like you did. If you wanna go, leave. It won’t be the first time a man walks out of my fucking life”

Erik shut his open mouth, he couldn’t think of anything to reply, Peter was right.

They stayed silent, Peter’s sniffles breaking the quiet atmosphere from time to time as he tried to calm himself down.

They stayed separated and silent for hours, unable to stay at each other’s presence for more than a few brief moments. Erik wandered around in what seemed like the ruins of a dining room, trying to distract himself from his own emotions. He cared for Peter, the walking nuisance was impossible not to like, and that’s what made him stayed so long, longer than he had initially planned. He made plans to leave, right there, right now. It was for the best, the teen didn’t need him, he was smart and quick, he could survive on his own.

Peter’s ear-piercing scream cut his thoughts short. He sprinted over to the room he last caught glimpse of the kid. The silver-haired boy was struggling against the Carcass (another word for corpse) that had him cornered. Erik grabbed the closest thing he could find, a bronze lamppost sitting on top of a dusty table. He swung the weapon with force, hitting the monster that stumbled back a few steps. Peter’s rigged breath pushed Erik over the edge as he launched at the creature before him mercilessly until it no longer posed a threat, dying for a second, much more permanent time.

The older man rushed to the shaky teen, engulfing him into a bone crushing hug.

“Are you okay Peter?” Erik said while he brushed the teen’s silver hair in an attempt to calm him down. Peter nodded slowly, trying to comprehend everything that happened.

“That was cool old man, disgusting, but very cool” Peter said, but his usually fluent sarcasm was not there. The joke came in the form of a broken whisper followed by a barely audible chuckle by Erik.

Peter tried to register what happened. In one moment, he was practicing his knife throwing skills and the other he was attached by the most hideous creature walking on earth that looked so similar to the one that he witnessed murdering his mum and little sister.

Erik held Peter close. Moments ago, he was making up his mind on when and how he would leave the teenager in his arms. The thought alone made him squeeze his arms tighter around him. He couldn’t save his family, but he saved Peter, the weird spazzy teen that stole his heart with his weird sarcastic remarks and twinkie obsession.

They stayed like that for a few more minutes before the got up to find a new, uncompromised shelter not far from the previous half collapsed building.

As they settled in for the night, Erik offered to take the night shift, high on adrenaline from before, but also concerned about Peter who was a breath away from death.

Peter had snuggled in the makeshift bed, already half asleep.

Erik looked at him, like the first day they met, the innocence still lingering in his features as the moonlight illuminated the tear stains on his cheeks. He smiled at himself.

“Goodnight kid” he whispered, not really thinking Peter could hear him

“Goodnight dad” Peter answered, his brain to tired to register what he said, before eventually falling asleep seconds later.

Erik stared at the teen as something awoke inside of him. He was a man that lost everything until this boy with silver haired entered his life. The term dad fell from peter’s lips so casually, just like his daughter used to say it after their third bedtime story. He found a new purpose in life, a purpose in the form of a 5’ 11”, hyperactive teen.

He might not have gotten his old family back, but he would create a new one with the boy sleeping peacefully in a bed made of rugs.

Unbeknownst to both, they were more family than either of them could even imagine.

Imagine this: a Zombie apocalypse AU (no powers) where Erik is just surviving on his own, having lost Nina and his wife during the original fall. But one day while he’s scavenging in a town he sees this kid being chased by zombies. Erik goes to save him, it turns out the kid is Peter and despite Erik’s initial protests, Peter just tags along with him.

fast forward a bit and they find out that they’re actually father and son and I just-

Sorry. I had this idea and needed to share it with someone.

please bc this is the perfect opportunity for a sad, lonely gruff man to accidentally and aggressively adopt (/discover he’s his father) a reckless, scrappy kid that they would now do anything for I LOVE IT YOU’RE HIRED

[myloish]

saw a tweet where someone was like, "if fearne lied about the coin toss and imogen found out, imogen would be sooo pissed" and a reply that went, "i think imogen's a mature person who would be able to see that fearne was under stress and did what she had to do."

and i think both of those scenarios are possible, but I lean towards wanting the former because inter-pc drama is. my. favorite.

it's like, i'm sure imogen is capable of taking that information in stride. but that's a lot less engaging than a traumatized, emotionally exhausted imogen receiving even more bad news about the loss of her favorite person in the world and being incapable of being a good person about it. logically, she knows the situation was fucked no matter what. she knows if she had been the one with revivify and it had been the same situation, her heart would be in tatters if even if she'd gotten laudna back. but she's tired. and she's hurt. and she's angry.

one of my favorite moments of the vox machina campaign is the big scanlan fight that leads to him temporarily leaving the group.

scanlan had been on a downward spiral for some time, was literally developing a drug habit, in a sort of space where VM members are picking up on some stuff being wrong, but scanlan continually lying and pushing them away.

and then scanlan goes down in battle. VM, devastated, do everything in their power to bring him back, and eventually succeed. but even then scanlan needs rest, and while he's asleep the others pull a prank by (googles) tying him up and covering him in pudding in front of his daughter. swag.

(but he's scanlan! he's the scan-man! he's goofy, he loves a good laugh! it's a welcome-back-from-the-dead gift! hee hoo.)

when scanlan wakes up, he's pissed. he's humiliated. he lashes out at the group, tells them they ruined his image in front of kaylee, that they don't care about him, they only like him for what he provides, he spits out the iconic What Is My Mother's Name?

and VM are on the defensive! he's caught them on the back-foot! they try to tell him that they do care, they just moved heaven and earth to bring him back to life! but people are shouting, they're inarticulate, they're messy. and you're still 100% aware you're watching people sitting at a big table playing pretend, but it feels visceral and real.

and i think that's a lot more interesting than scanlan understanding that every member of vox machina has a lot of baggage and they don't mean to fail him, so he just won't say anything about it. it's more interesting for vax to clock percy across the jaw for getting his sister killed. (it would have been more interesting for caduceus to be explicitly upset at how the nein treated his petrified family.) it's more interesting for laudna and imogen to have a falling out after the broken rock incident.

(points at FCG. the metaphor)

so yeah, i saw a single tweet suggesting imogen be the bigger person in a hypothetical scenario and it inspired this is a very very long way of saying, while i understand that group cohesion and playing together nicely is important at the table, I Am Tired of Characters Being Nice, I Hope More Of Them Go Apeshit

[chuuya-centric]

down CATACLYSMICALLY 🤕

character: chuuya nakahara

genre: fluff, smut

warnings: gn afab reader, no pronouns used, alcohol mentions / use ? unorganized as FUCK — read at your own risk 🚶 these r also much longer than i originally intended 🤒🤕 they get kinda bad at the end bc im lazy asf and just wanted to be done with these im sorry yall LMAOO

↬he he i he he i i hhnhshgghfgg

↬lord please god passionate+romantic sex with this man is all i ask you for please ill never ask for anything ever again 🙏🙏🙏

↬now i would like to start this with a disclaimer by saying chuuya is usually vv rough and passionate and would manhandle your ass 😁🤞 however these hcs will be like 🧍 slow ................. and passionate ??? not gentle per se but just romantic amd uhm very much "love making" if u will 💯

↬sensual ?? i think ????

↬hhndhsgh ik we're all horny and just wanna be used like a ragdoll but please hear me out yall

↬emotional and passionate sex !!!!!!!!! this usually happens whenever chuuya gets drunk (bc i think he is a v emotional drunk, and if he's w his s/o i think he gets vv sentimental / touchy-feely

↬ofc if you say no or reject his advances he wont do anything other than cling to ur side but if u dont do anything to stop him you will 100% be in his bed by the end of the night 🔥🔥

↬starts out as him havin a lil too much to drink nothin new yk and then he gets more touchy / physically clingy than usual 🧎

↬a lil off topic but he would absolutely fight anyone who tried to flirt w you / anyone who looked at u the wrong way LMAOOO not saying u have to babysit him but 🧑‍🦯🧑‍🦯 taking him back home would be the smart thing to do as to avoid bar fights

↬but back on track i think chuuya would refuse to leave your side 💀 he would be all over u so unless ur into like hardcore pda u fr better take him home 💀💀

↬he's a horny menace 😕👎

↬okay so blah blah blah yall r back home now what ? now he rlly starts getting emotional 🚶 he's just so grateful to have u in his life and he loves you so much and what if he's not good enough for you ???? how could u love someone like him ?????? what if— please just shut him up with a tender kiss 🤒☹️ tell him u love him very much

↬he............hhbbgdgshhhh i was talking to @chuuyasbf ab this but dhshsbhhhhhh we came to the conclusion that he'd like smother u in kisses oh my fucking god 💔🙏 like he'd just cover your mf face in kisses and i— bursts into tears

↬now by this point this is where he'll start communicating his feelings thru actions rather than words so please expect a very heated makeout session (that leads up to the best sex of ur life 😏)

↬"he just goes “oops, missed a spot *kiss* oops, theres another one *kiss*" - @chuuyasbf and i honestly could not agree more please 🧎🧎 hhnbbhghghh

↬but back to the makeout session it started after u shut him up w that kiss yk and u were both just sitting on the couch, originally basking in the others presence, before the words just started flowing so ofc u gave him a lil kiss n told him he was enough and that u loved him so so much and he pulled you back for another n another til u were sitting on his lap w his tongue in ur mouth

↬and things progressed n progressed n next thing yk he's got you intoxicated (his kisses r life changing ok 🤨🕶️🤏 even if he were sober it'd just be hjndhdghgggh) but like yall know when ur grinding against them n they buck their hips up a lil ? yeah <33

↬HE'S SO HANDSY OMFG ESP IF YOURE SITTING IN HIS LAP 🙏🙏🙏 after he's pulled you as close to him as humanly possible (im talkin chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip — he is a very intimate person and greatly enjoys physical touch argue w the wall ab it) his hands go from finding purchase on ur hips and guiding your movements to pulling at ur hair to feeling u up to running his fingers up n down ur back to helping you take your shirt off. he cannot for the life of him keep his hands to himself

↬in reality he'd shift you onto his thigh before making ur neck his next target for his kisses (and hickies)

↬when you start whining for more and saying his kisses aren't enough, thats when he'll sober up enough to be snapped back to reality n to carry you to his room 🧎 or so you thought 😚

↬confused, u didn't get the hint until he bounced his leg, once, twice, oh— and even after you'd understood what he wanted you to do, he'd grab ur hips and completey take control of the pace n grind u against his thigh almost agonizingly slow, all while leaving some awfuy dark hickies on ur lower neck n a handful on ur collarbones

↬ofc theres some muttered praise and "i love yous" as well. he'll tell you how good you look, getting off on his thigh like this

↬he'll take u back to his room only after you've cum against his thigh 🧎🧎 consider it a warm up LMFAOO

↬when he finally does get up from the couch, he'll probably use his ability to help stablize yall a little 💀 (he had a lil too much to drink pls dont clown him)

↬whereas he'd normally toss u onto the bed, this time he took his time to set u down gently before settling down in between ur thighs and— hey wait a damn minute when did this mf find the time to get your pants off huh—

↬aye speaking of which i think chuuya is rlly big on eye contact regardless bc its honestly just vv intimate to him 🧐🚶

↬yall know when they like ............. when theyre like caressing / holding your thigh n looking up at u n they kiss ur inner thigh while maintaining eye contact or whatever ...................... <33

↬i think his praise kink especially shines thru when he gets drunk bc he will take his mf time covering you in kisses and hickies all while showering u in praise n telling u how beautiful u r and ab how much he loves you

↬he knows his words usually tend to be / sound harsh, but at the end of the day he loves you sm more than words will ever be able to convey :((

↬def tries to make up for that (when he's drunk 🙄 emotionally inarticulate ass 🚶) by showering you in praise and doing his best to be tender and gentle

↬and to be fair he'd be content w smothering u in praise and kisses for the rest of the night n probably would if u let him 🧎🧎 please snap this mf back to reality by yanking his hair n whining for more

↬in which case he will be happy to oblige 😚 he's def the type of person to get off on his partners pleasure so that being said this mf will make sure u cum on his tongue at least twice before properly fucking you

↬whenever hes drunk he tends set a rather slow pace but dont let that fool you 🧎 the entire thing is so fucking intimate oh my lord you will be seeing stars by the time he's done w you

↬his thrusts r much deeper n more precise than usual and he puts one of ur legs on his shoulder and has the other pressed up by ur head it really just enhances everything yk ?? 😁😁 (mating press kinda ??????? not exactly but)

↬he ends up alternating between leaving (more) hickies on ur neck n shoulders and actually kissing you as well (your lips r gon be bruised asf by the end of it all sorry 🔥💯)

↬even drunk he loves to overstimulate you omfg 🤤 loves seeing you get all teary-eyed from the pleasure (even better if u actually cry 😏🕶️🤏) bc to him it shows that he's done a good job

↬aftercare w drunk chuuya is a lil sloppy tbh 😕 probably immiediately passes tf still inside u after pressing like a final kiss to ur forehead LMFAOOO

↬but dw he makes it up to u in the morning !!!!! after taking care of his hangover first tho 💀 once he's feeling better himself, he'll def offer to draw u a bath and, lets pretend he has the day off here, after that all he rlly wants to do is cuddle for the rest of the morning

↬do not bring up how clingy he was last night LMFAOOO his face will get so red so fast (unless ofc thats ur goal in which case go right on ahead 😚😚😚)

↬please do, however, kiss his forehead and tell him that u love him n that he did a good job last night

[starter-library]

「BO BURNHAM MAKE HAPPY STARTERS」

“You should not laugh. You should not forget about your problems”

“We are all dying”

“The world is not funny”

“Entertainers are not here to help you”

“Never listen to them. Never give them what they want”

“Don’t be Pavlovian. I’m looking for actual answers here”

“Yeah, we got a room full of potheads here”

“If you don’t give a fuck about the law let me hear you say “Fuck the police””

“Good call, I have no idea what’s going on over there”

“What are they fighting about?”

“I can’t wrap my mind around exactly why I’m here”

“Look at the world I don’t know why I’m here”

“I would love to tell you that everything is fine”

“You wanna be happy, well get in line”

“Did you not think I was gonna use it idiots?”

“If I could change don’t you think that Id do it?”

“I know the road looks tough ahead”

“Just cause it’s true doesn’t mean that it’s right”

“You don’t know where I’m going. Don’t act like it”

“{He’s/she’s/they’re} right there, I fucked {his/her/their} mother”

“Honesty’s for the birds, baby”

“I think country music gets a bad rep”

“If you’re writing honestly, that is art”

“It’s a fucking scarecrow again”

“You deserve better. I’m not saying I’m it, but I’m the guy that says you deserve better, you go get better, you say “Thank you, weird man. Bye.””

“I saw a gorgeous dick”

“We all want love”

“If you want love, lower your expectations a few”

“If you want love Just pick someone and love {him/her/them} and if {he’s/she’s/they’ve} got a thing for feet say “fuck it, sweep me off them””

“Lower you expectations a lot. You might think your dick is a gift I promise it’s not”

“We all deserve love. Even on the days when we aren’t our best”

“Original does not mean good”

“Life’s toughest problems don’t have simple solutions”

“We shouldn’t fight to stay together just to fight again”

“Even though it’s not gonna go any further, I swear I don’t regret a second of it”

“You’re angry. I can see that. But you don’t need to make this harder than it has to be”

“I tried to speak to you but you won’t listen”

“Eat a dick”

“Honestly are you fucking five. I am trying to talk this out and you won’t even listen to me”

“I’ve got my father’s temper and I’m emotionally inarticulate so rather than being emotional and vulnerable I did a quick switch because I’m hurting inside and I’m trying to hide it”

“I didn’t think you’d cry for me, I didn’t think you cared”

“I had a privileged life and I got lucky and I’m still unhappy”

“The arrogance is taught, it’s cultivated”

“You want me to be funny and make a point? Nah”

“Can I say my shit? I got lots of shit to say”

“The truth is my biggest problem’s you”

“I want to please you, but I wanna be true to myself”

“A part of me loves you. A part of my hates me. A part of me needs you. A part of me fears you”

“I don’t think that I can handle this right now”

“Look at them, They’re just staring at me like “Come and watch the skinny kid with a steadily declining mental health and laugh as {he/she/they} attempts to give you what {he/she/they} cannot give {himself/herself/themself}”

“They don’t even know the of this right now”

“I know I’m not a doctor. I’m a pussy, I put on a silly show. I should probably just shut up and do my job so here I go”

“You can tell them anything if you just make it funny, make it rhyme. And if they still don’t understand it then you’ll run it one more time”

“Good night. I hope you’re happy”

“Good, it’s just us”

“On a scale from one to zero are you happy? Cause you’re on your own from here so are you happy?”

“I’m open to suggestions, are you happy?”

“What the fuck kind of question is “am I happy?””

“I really wanna try to get happy and then I think that I could get it if I didn’t always panic every time I’m unhappy like I’m owed some life where I’m always like happy which is stupid cause I wouldn’t even want it if I got it”

“Oh god my dad was right”

“You’re everything you hated, are you happy?”

“Hey look ma, I made it. Are you happy?”

[azure-steel]

@mercyxkilling​ said: mercy drew in a breath, steeling herself for the impending confrontation that awaited her once she crossed that threshold. she’d gotten into a fairly heated argument with cloud while they were on their last assignment and she probably... no, she KNEW she could have handled it better. but being emotionally inarticulate rendered her incapable of having a constructive conversation as opposed to a screaming match.

but she needed to repair this. they couldn’t continue to work together if things felt so off. so with that she stepped into the mess hall and sashayed across the room to his table, but before she spoke the woman turned to give a few of the crew sitting nearby a sharp look as she cleared her throat. they needed no more than that, recognizing this as a signal to get the fuck outta dodge.

once they were gone she seated herself not in a nearby chair but on the table. mercy maintained a bit of distance between them, but made sure they were still close enough that he’d be able to read her expressions and know that she was coming from someplace genuine.

“i know that you’re prob’ly still mad at me, but i hope you’ll still give me a chance to explain myself.” but then she was quiet for a long time after that opener, and she turned away so she could avoid his gaze. “i’m really bad at this. but i’m gonna give it my best shot. so just... listen.” reaching up she ran her slender fingers through her hair as she searched for the right words, looking nothing like her usual confident self. “i yelled at you. and i’m sorry i did. i shouldn’t have, and i acknowledge that. i was wrong. don’t tell anyone that, though. i have a reputation around here.”

mercy was trying add a bit of levity to the situation. she’d never been good at handling anything too heavy. and admitting to being wrong or talking about something like this was uncomfortable probably not only for her, but for cloud as well. but she had to do this.

“i just need you to know that... i’m not mad that things didn’t go as planned or that the deal fell through. there’ll be others and it’s not like we’re hurting for money. i was mad because... i saw you out there, and you were just... i don’t know, my man, it was like you just were holding back or you gave up or you didn’t care. i don’t know what’s going on, and you don’t have to tell me anything unless you want me to know. that part is fine. what isn’t okay is watching you convince yourself that you can’t do something or that you aren’t capable or whatever. i can’t say for sure but i know there’s something going on up there.”

she lifted her gaze to look at him and pressed a finger to her temple to emphasize her point before going on. she was speaking pretty fast, clearly trying to push through everything because she has no idea what she was doing.

“i just. i would never, ever ask you to do something that i wasn’t fully confident that you were capable of handling it. and not only handling it, but fucking crushing it. i would never set you up to fail because, despite what it might seem like, i actually care how you feel and want what’s best for you. you’re part of the crew now. i’m here to support and protect you. so you need to know that no matter what you think of me or what you have in your head holding you back... you’re absolutely better than what you think. you need to give yourself more credit. so the next time you and i go out, promise me you’ll do better. because you absolutely can and you absolutely will, because you’re capable of handling anything i ask of you and more.”

and then she heaves a sigh, as if that was the signal that this whole awkward experience was finally over. mercy then stood up straight again and motioned over her shoulder.

“yeah, so. this was real weird so i’ll be in my cabin so i can spend the next foreseeable future stressing about what i said. let me know if you need me okay? my door is always open.”

before she left, though, she made it a point to rest a hand, gentle and light, upon his shoulder, lingering for a moment to offer him an uncertain kind of smile. at least, though, it was genuine. and with that she disappeared into the corridor so she could retreat to her room. Unprompted Ask - ALWAYS ACCEPTING

He’s had a face like a slapped backside since the unfortunate spat. Cloud was no stranger to confrontation, hell, sometimes he even thrived on it given the right circumstances and on occasion the wrong circumstances. What he didn’t enjoy was being chewed out in front of colleagues for a mistake he’d made in the field. Cloud knew he’d fucked up, fucked up majorly and with consequences which affected the entire crew, but there was something about Mercy’s humiliation tactics which didn’t sit well with him.

In fact it settled in his guts like a stone.  Though he guesses all of this isn’t aided by the fact that his failing was down to something so very deep rooted and difficult to shake; a very simple lack of self-confidence, despite the cocksure demeanour he enjoyed fronting. Though he worked well under pressure there were instances - just like this one - where everything just went blank. 

Still, if she was going to scream at him the way she had done, he would have much preferred it been away from the many ears who had been unfortunate enough to witness it. Though he guessed a bullet to the back of the head would hurt far less than how she’d bruised his ego just now even if he was already dragging it behind him after that sorry show he put on today. Still, this hadn’t stopped him yelling back, cussing her out and ultimately throwing his hands in the air and stalking off. He’d been advised by a couple of the guys that perhaps retaliating wasn’t the best course of action, though they were swiftly met with a steely gaze and a sour expression, deeming Cloud practically off limits to anyone else for the remainder of that day. 

He was used to being on his own anyway, he liked it this way, right? With any luck they’ll just drop him off on the nearest moon and leave him there. Wouldn’t be the first time.

That was until the very source of his foul mood appeared within the archway of the mess, and she was making right for him. Needless to say that Cloud didn’t feel ready for another throat slitting, though rather than physically remove himself from the situation he chooses to remain seated (with his feet crossed upon the table of course in his act of immature defiance) and offer the woman a disdainful glare.

It seemed however, a verbal lashing wasn’t what she had in mind, and it showed mostly through her offset expression as well as the casual way she settled herself upon the table, though this was after she’d shot her men a glare of her own to disperse them from the hall, and Cloud was certain one of them had offered his ‘Sorry, man, you’re on your own’ face as he upped and left. He didn’t motion to shift his feet to make way for her though, Cloud was nothing at all if not utterly childish when it came to matters of discipline and it was rather apparent that he held issue with authority; and if Mercy had learned anything today it was the fact that Strife did not like being proven wrong. 

So the sullen expression remained even as that irritation towards the woman who pulled him up on his failings began to turn inward, even when his gaze had sunk so low beneath the weight of that knowledge - that he was a liability, and it wasn’t until now that he realises there’s no worse feeling than knowing you are the weakest link in the chain. And yet there was something good to be taken from all of this, Cloud knew, because she wasn’t casting him aside but offering a chance to better himself, a chance to prove her right, not wrong. 

When was the last time anyone had this much faith in him? When was the last time he’d been offered this level of compassion? Cloud couldn’t quite remember, and it only made this whole situation sting that little bit more. 

He remains silent throughout her spiel, arms folded defensively, legs still supported on that table in the guise of a barrier between them and allowing the shame of what happened that day to filter into his face. And he had no grounds to argue or defend his corner, because he knew, deep down in his heart of hearts, that everything Mercy said... was right, not that this knowledge made it any easier to hear. Cloud reacts only to that hand on his shoulder, gifting the contact only the slight lilt of his head and a glance out of the corner of his eye. The woman vanishes out of sight then, leaving him to lament on the events, how he could have performed better, how he could have done things so differently... how he’d actually deserved to have his hide tanned for such a blatant blunder on his part. 

And Mercy had enough about her to apologise for her outburst when she really didn’t need to... surely that said far more about him than it truly did about her. 

Cloud isn’t entirely sure how long he sits there, feeling sorry for himself and just wondering for the life of him how to let it go and move on. Maybe it was his turn to clear the air instead of sitting back and doing nothing like usual. Upon exiting the mess hall, he’s actually surprised that he catches her only moments away from vanishing into her cabin; the urge to bail was strong and his legs threatened to turn him right around and retreat back the way his came, though it seemed his mouth was working faster than his basic impulses.

“Mercy... wait...” he calls, though not without the hue of uncertainty hanging in his tone and he stands there for a moment just staring back at her, to gain his bearings and muster the courage he needs to just close that insufferable distance. 

“I don’t want you going in there regretting you spoke to me. ‘Cos this ain’t about you and your management style, yeah? It’s about me and my inability to just... let go.” There’s a crease to his brow, uncertain, defensive and he swallows audibly in a frail attempt to gather himself and simply offer an explanation. 

“I don’t wanna make excuses, but... there’s a lot about me you don’t know, and I ain’t sure I’m ready for you to hear it. Not yet. But, I’ve never been a part of anything before, not really. Always on the outside looking in, no handles of control, just... freefalling and hoping for the best. Always just... the rat. Disposable, easily replaced, only good for making up numbers, you know?” Cloud’s unable to maintain eye contact with her, and not for the want of trying, and with a brisk hand through his hair does he puff out an exasperated sigh, frustrated with himself it seemed before delivering a non-committal shrug. 

“You give me a chance that I never thanked you for, and then I do so by screwing up. And I deserved everything I got thereon after, I did. You ain’t telling me shit that I don’t need to hear, or even shit I don’t already know. Usually they don’t bother at all and I go on floundering to the next problem until I fuck up again.” He’s rambling, he realises, and he rubs the back of his head somewhat bashfully, uttering a chuckle through his nose, a low and deeply unhappy sound. 

“I let you down. I let you all down and I take full responsibility for that, I’ll own it because it’s mine. I promise it won’t happen again, I’ll do better in future, yeah? Just... thanks, for not giving up on me. Enjoy your evening, Mercy.” Cloud leaves it there with a single respectful nod before he’s turning on his heel and making his way back down the hall, just eager for a scalding hot shower to wash away the unpleasantness that was today. 

[unadulteratedkr]

rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 favourite  works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc) and link them  below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world.  tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original) so we can  spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

tagged by the talented and indomitable @ajoblotofjunk! I considered saving this for when I eventually HAVE 5 completed works, but I thought it would be a nice way of keeping myself focused, and also share a little bit of what you can expect from me next! So we’re celebrating my future as well as my recent past, since I’ve only been an active creator in this fandom for a few months

1. My Fair Maiden: This fic is my baby and she’s responsible for me writing for the J/B fandom in the first place! I messaged @ajoblotofjunk to see if they knew of any existing My Fair Lady AUs and then just decided to just write it myself within like... a week of my rejoining Tumblr after about a 3 year hiatus. It’s been such a learning curve, but every time I go back and re-read bits of it for the chapter I’m working on, I love seeing how much I’ve progressed as a writer; going from directly translating dialogue from the play to fit the characters to learning to step back and just pull from the play only when I need to. It’s a blast writing this, and I can’t wait to keep sharing it with y’all.

2. It’s Only a Matter of Time: GUESS WHAT, IT’S ANOTHER STORY I CAN BLAME ON @ajoblotofjunk 😂😂😂 (Also a little bit the fault of @ladyinredfics‘ original post that started our feelings chat in the first place) All it took was me saying, “Just wait, there are SO many Eliza Hamilton/Brienne parallels that will fuck you up” and the rest is history. I genuinely couldn’t go to bed after we chatted about Eliza/Brienne feels until I had written about half of this one-shot and outlined the second half. The icing on the cake was definitely me losing my mind over how much show!Jaime shared with A. Ham. I loved writing this for a couple of reasons. One, I challenged myself to see if I could come up with a stylistic way of storytelling unique to Tarth, hoping by doing so, I could explore the journey Brienne had experienced through love, betrayal and eventual forgiveness without it just being her saying “Hey this is what my life and emotional arc was when I fought in like six wars”. Two, this fic has my favorite final line because I shamelessly stole from the acutal writings of Alexander Hamilton, and damn, the man had a way with words I can only hope to attain.

3. All Full with Feasting: If I ever find the opportunity to get drunk near or with Gwendoline Christie, I will need a chaperone to ensure I don’t yell at her for starring in The Video That Started It All. Halfway through watching Gwen erotically eat food, I felt my brain short-circuit, and it wouldn’t let me resume normal thinking until I shamelessly forced one Jaime Lannister to take a thinly veiled Gwen!Brienne home and give her the loving attention she so clearly deserved. I also liked that it felt like... smut that I believe in? Like, Jaime’s inner monologue about not understanding people that talk about how sweet a woman tastes is literally my own internal monologue (sorry not sorry if that’s TMI ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

The next two are WIPs I’ve only outlined!

4. Untitled Jaime/Brienne/Margaery piece: This one.... it’s gonna be a weird one. There are three things you’ll need to know. One: Margaery is a ghost in it. Two: she’s not quite haunting Brienne, but she’s hanging around B because she doesn’t know how to pass on to the other side. Three: Margaery died before Brienne could tell her she loved her. Add a kind but emotionally inarticulate Jaime Lannister to the mix, and you’ve got a lot of mess for two people and a ghost to work through. This fic is why I wanted to throw my hat into the ring on writing smut in a non-serious manner first, because I wanted to get some practice in before I apply it to this story. Because there’s going to be some smut that gets complicated, and I needed to know I could write it at all before I started writing it for this. I play in this fic’s sandbox about twice a week because I know I’m not quite ready to write it yet, but I know finishing My Fair Maiden and allowing myself to continue banging out one-shots and eventually prompts will give me the confidence in my skills to make this story work.

5. Murder on the Valyrian Express: This one is probably going to be a pretty standard AU adaptation, but I’m really looking forward to imitating and playing with Agatha Christie’s deep dive into the psychology of murder. Here’s a slice of the synopsis for you: when  Petyr Baelish is murdered on the train journey from Essos to King’s Landing, Varys Edderkopp learns he used to be known as Littlefinger, the man responsible for the death of Lyanna Mormont.

I don’t know if any of my creator mutuals haven’t already been tagged yet, so if you haven’t... consider yourself tagged!

[hxh-secretsanta-2017]

Here’s My Secret Santa gift for @patch-of-shore !!

The Chrollo/Phinks pairing was one I’d always found really cute but had never tried my hand at, so writing this was a really cool opportunity for me and was honestly such a blast! I’ve seen a lot of fics that explore these two at the beginning of their relationship so right off the bat I knew that I wanted to write them a little further in their relationship; past the initial awkward phase and past their first I love you, but just reaching the point where they start to work through real roadblocks like insecurities and doubts… Also I threw them in our world where Chrollo is a poet and Phinks really loves Starbucks.

Anyways, sorry for my stupid rambling. I really hope you enjoy! Merry Christmas!!

Idiots, Muses and Stupid Starbucks Drinks

Phinks’ feelings were officially cancelled. Sure, without things like emotions he would lack the ability to cry, or love, or enjoy really delicious frozen Starbucks drinks, but Phinks had few qualms about terminating every single one of those abilities in himself. Forever. After all, it had been that exact, unfortunate combination of abilities that led him to the place he now found himself; wrapped tight in Chrollo’s arms and trembling from the combined effects of an overflow of emotion (manifesting itself via violent sobbing) and the bitter chill of the winter scene they found themselves immersed in. So whatever it took- a deal with the devil, black magic, ritual sacrifice- he was ready to give it all up.

His night hadn’t started this way. As with all good scenes, there was a build-up; of suspense, of insecurities, of upset. But upon later tracing the whole saga back, Phinks was unsure if he’d ever overcome his irritation at the fact that a coffee run had been the first domino in this obnoxious chain.

“Ah, Phinks, you’re back,” Chrollo startled out of his work, belatedly acknowledging his boyfriend’s reappearance on the balcony of their little apartment.

Chrollo’s gaze met Phinks’ own. He stifled a small gasp. No matter how many times Phinks would see Chrollo inspired, he was certain he would never get used to the shock of it. Despite the bags below his eyes appearing deep enough to give Mariana’s Trench a run for its money and the bite of prolonged exposure to the cold staining his face with a harsh flush, Chrollo was practically overflowing with ethereal beauty. Phinks was pretty damn sure the universe was trying to kill him in that exact moment. Pools of deep obsidian glinted in the soft light streaming from the bedroom that lay just beyond the glass door, betraying for a moment what their owner held within; passion, wisdom, and perhaps a touch of madness. Even compared to the cityscape that lay three stories beneath them, all tiny and twinkling and sleepy in the quiet fall of snow, there could be no contest. This may have been the view that Chrollo himself sought when the words were stuck and he needed inspiration, but Phinks would argue that Chrollo had it beat on every account.

“Oh, I nearly forgot what I sent you out for!” Chrollo exclaimed, breaking Phinks from his gawking. He eyed the cup in the blond’s grasp, receiving it gratefully when Phinks crouched down to the ground where he sat and placed it into his cold-numbed hands. Regardless of whether he remembered asking for it or not, Chrollo seemed pleased in the fact that, one way or another, he had a coffee warming his hands and dispelling the chill in his bones. “I’m not sure I even realized how cold it was before being reintroduced to warmth…”

Phinks frowned, moving from his squatting position to join his boyfriend on his makeshift seat of pillows and blankets snatched from their couch and bed. “You should come inside. How long have you been out here?”

“Not long enough. I’m still writing, Phinks. I’ll be alright.”

“Can’t you work in our room? You can still see the city through the door…”

Chrollo’s eyes fluttered shut and his head fell backwards to rest on the glass of said door. “It’s not the same as out here. Out here I can feel it, you know?”

He didn’t. But he knew that it mattered. And he knew what it meant; Phinks wouldn’t be able to make Chrollo go inside right now if he had a SWAT team backing him. “I know,” he exhaled, “I’ll stay with you.”

“Phinks, you don’t-”

“I’ll stay with you.”

A small, grateful smile lit up Chrollo’s mouth and eyes as he met Phinks’ stare. Slowly, fluidly, Chrollo leaned forward and brushed their lips together.

“Thank you,” Chrollo’s words were consistent with the kiss they followed; gentle and sweet and taking nothing for granted.

“Y-yeah. It’s nothing.” Phinks’ gaze found the floor, equal parts flustered and emotionally inarticulate. Out of desire to have something, anything, to do with himself, his hands found his own nearly-forgotten drink.

A hiss of discomfort fell from Phinks’ mouth. In his close-encounter with forgetfulness, it would seem Phinks misplaced one pretty important detail; the drink he ordered himself was cold. As soon he came into contact with the clear, trademark Starbucks cup, his already cold-numbed fingers ached in protest. His hand slid to grip the cup where its rim met the base of the domed cap, fingers no longer subject to a quick and thorough freezing as they now contacted only plastic.

“Phinks, what the hell is that?” For the first time that night, Chrollo looked at Phinks minus that look in his eyes; the spell of perfect concentration and inspiration had broken.

Phinks grimaced inwardly, “Uhh… a chestnut praline frappuccino?”

“You’re-” Chrollo fought and failed to keep the amused smirk off of his face, “You ordered something frozen? Do you even realize how cold it is right now?”

“Yes, of course I do. I’m- We’re outside right now…” Phinks shuffled microscopically away from the man beside him. Despite the cover of night already obscuring the reddened shade of shame from view, Phinks still reflexively turned his embarrassedly flushed face out of sight.

Chrollo closed the tiny gap the other had made and then some. “I think I’m just having trouble understanding why…”

“Huh?”

“If, you know, you can feel and everything, then why in the world would you order something that’s as cold as the weather?”

Phinks’ mouth dropped open for a moment before clamping shut again. He huffed his breath sharply through his nose, considering where he wanted to start with this. “It’s one of the holiday drinks,” he said plainly.

“Starbucks offers hot versions of all of their holiday drinks, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Well, yeah, but they just aren’t as good. This is my favorite drink from there and it’s only available during this season, so…” Phinks shrugged, hoping this would suffice as all the explanation he needed to give.

“Alright, but- Wait a minute…” Chrollo cut his thought short in favor of another, “when we went out to Starbucks with Nobunaga and Feitan the other day you got one of those generic espresso drinks. Not a holiday drink at all. If you love this drink so much then why didn’t you get it then?”

“Uhh, yeah. Those two would have ripped me to shreds for it,” despite the levelness in Phinks’ voice, it would be hard to miss the undertone of bitterness that coupled it, “I would never hear the end of it.”

“Well, it is the middle of winter…”

“Oh, great. And now I won’t hear the end of it from you.”

“Phinks, I’m not trying to upset you. I just genuinely can’t understand why you would go out of your way to make yourself more cold right now. And furthermore, why you didn’t get the drink you wanted the other day. Why were you were so scared of how your own friends would react?”

“I wasn’t scared! I was just-”

“Phinks, you were. You were afraid of their judgement and so you chose something that you deemed as safer,” his thin brows bunched together in concern. “Are you really so caught up with their opinion of you?”

“Wha- Alright, that’s enough, Dr. Phil. I thought you had poetry to write or whatever.”

The way Phinks projected himself in that moment, eyes cast down and guarded and arms crossed indignantly against his chest, was like the physical embodiment of a shop closed up for the season. Chrollo allowed his eyes to clench closed for a moment, breath coming slowly. It was possible to get through to Phinks right now, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that any kind of direct approach would only result in failure and hostility. After all, a closed-up shop wouldn’t very well leave the front door unlocked; you’d have to be a little more crafty if you wanted to break in.

“Phinks,” Chrollo’s voice was gentle, barely above a whisper, “I’m just concerned.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” Phinks snapped exasperatedly, causing both men to jump minutely. Genuine conflict between the two of them was not familiar territory.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know! Just… whatever you’re trying to do, don’t. I just want to ignore this. So just go back to doing your poet stuff and I’ll just sit here and enjoy my stupid fucking drink.”

“You can’t be serious…” Chrollo tried to keep the giggle from bubbling past his throat. He really did. But his experience of bodily betrayal proved unavoidable. “You’re really going to drink that? Out here?”

“What, you don’t think I’m serious?” The words tore out of Phinks’ mouth in a way that spelled out just how irritated he was. No matter how stupid the premise might have been, attempting to make light of the situation was probably not the best move.

The small smirk on Chrollo’s face was quickly swallowed. “At the very least, I hope you aren't…”

Rather than answer, Phinks leveled a look of stubborn determination at the man beside him and raised the green straw of his frappuccino to his mouth.

“Phinks, don’t.”

With his free hand, Phinks conveyed a certain gesture to the man he loved as he drained the contents of his cup. Said man simply looked on in stony silence, deeming it ineffective to attempt to intervene.

Only when Phinks moved the newly emptied cup away from his lips did Chrollo say a word. “Very mature. But if you’re quite finished with whatever tantrum you’re throwing, we ought to get you inside. You’re shaking.”

Try as he might to will it away, Chrollo was right. Phinks was practically a phone set to its its highest level of vibration. But despite every cell in his body begging to be given solace in the warmth of their apartment, Phinks refused to give in.

“No! I told you I’d stay out here with you.”

“I don’t care about that now. There’s no way we’re staying out here with you minutes away from freezing over.”

“So it is true?” The words were soft and felt a little bit broken. When Phinks was only met with a look of confused guilt, he continued, “I fucked up your focus. You were inspired, Chrollo. I could see it. But almost as soon as I got here it left you. You fought to stay out here; to work more, and now you’re giving up. Because of me.”

“Phinks-”

“No. Let me finish. You’re right. God, of course you’re right. I care too much about what people think. I do stupid stuff to prove stupid points and end up making everything worse. I always end up miserable because that’s how I always end up making everyone else feel. And now I’m sitting on our balcony, freezing my ass off, and probably proving nothing to my boyfriend except for the fact that I’m an absolute fucking idiot and not even half good enough for him. Not that it was much of a secret. But, God, I am so stupidly in love with you, Chrollo Lucilfer, but I can’t for the life of me understand why the hell you would ever decide to settle for some idi-UMPH”

Phinks’ words were cut short by a quick tug on his coat collar that resulted in a crash of lips and a sense of love so urgent he couldn’t possibly miss the message behind it; “Do you understand now?” He was trying. He would understand. A hand moved to cup his cheek and he leaned into it, allowing himself to be open; vulnerable. He embraced the new rhythm they set. When Chrollo pulled away, thumb softly caressing Phinks’ gentle flush, it didn’t feel like he was losing anything. Sure, he had lost some contact with him, but the feeling between them in that moment was one of wholeness. One that meant they were okay just to exist, so long as the other was there.

The pad of Chrollo’s thumb swiped beneath Phinks’ eye. “You’re crying.”

“I-” Phinks pulled back, wiping both hands down his face and examining them to find that they were, in fact, wet. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Phinks breathed out a laugh as tears continued to well up in his eyes. His vision blurred, distorting the image of Chrollo before him into vague shapes of ivory and black and grey. His chest heaved, transforming a laugh into a body-wracking sob. And then the tears fell, sensations of warmth and wetness along with the taste of salt overtaking his face.

He honestly wasn’t even sure why he was crying. He wasn’t feeling sad or frustrated or anxious. In fact, he was feeling more content than anything. At least, he was pretty sure he was. Perhaps he was relieved, or letting out bottled up emotions, or just overwhelmingly in love; or maybe some combination of them all. Whatever it was, there was a lot of it. The overflow of emotions channeled itself through his tears.

Phinks felt an arm snake around his waist, bracing him against a strong and steady body as he shook from the combined efforts of the winter air, his sobbing, and a goddamn Starbucks drink. The blond buried his face in the crook of Chrollo’s neck, effectively soaking the exposed section of his sweater. Chrollo’s opposite hand laced itself through Phinks’ hair, working soothingly in time with his whispers of reassurance.

“I love you so much. That’s right; you. I love you and I choose you and no matter how many idiotic things you do, I’m still going to be right here. I don’t expect or want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy. And if that means drinking frappuccinos in the middle of winter then so be it. I’ll just always have to be there to warm you up.”

Ever easily flustered, Phinks nuzzled his face deeper into his boyfriend’s shoulder. He was unsure if he’d ever be used to such declarations of affection. As the heat in his cheeks began to sink along with the tingly sensation that accompanied heavy bouts of crying, Phinks suddenly became quite aware of the situation he was in. Not only had he started a very real argument with the love of his life primarily over a Starbucks drink, but now he was quite literally crying into said love’s shoulder. Just as it had began to calm, Phinks felt the temperature of his face soar once more. At the very least, he didn’t have to worry too much about the cold for the moment. But he’d done more caring and sharing in the past half hour than he had done in most of his life, and he was not a ‘talk about your feelings’ kind of guy. Phinks groaned into Chrollo’s sweater, this sudden self-realization causing him to feel a bit like a burnt out socket.

“I don’t think I want to have feelings anymore.”

Chrollo only chuckled in response.

“Please tell me you won’t tell anyone about this,” another muffled groan, “Especially not Feitan.”

“What? And miss my opportunity to let everyone know that my kisses can bring men to tears? I don’t know about that…”

Phinks lifted his head, leaning away from Chrollo’s embrace and wiping away what was left of his tears with the sleeve of his coat. “Ha, ha,” he deadpanned.

A soft smirk broke out on Chrollo’s face. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone know about these top-secret feelings of yours. Now, come on, we’re going in. You’re only getting colder out here and you’re right; I do have all of my ‘poet stuff’ to get done.”

Phinks spluttered like an old car engine. “I- What? I thought you- being out here, you know… inspired you, and all.”

As Chrollo connected their gazes, Phinks inhaled sharply. Mischief, madness, and a previously missing spark of pure inspiration filled those obsidian orbs.

“Something tells me that I won’t have any trouble finding my inspiration.”

Phinks was beginning to consider uncancelling his feelings. Had they led to a stupid quarrel? A breaching of every wall he’d ever put up around himself? A close encounter with death via freezing? Definitely. But if that was all he had to give in exchange for moments like these- moments where he felt no shame in loving with his whole self, moments where he could exist free from fear of judgement (especially over choice of Starbucks drinks), moments where he was no longer some idiot but a muse for the man he loved- then he was willing to bear it all.

[paullicino]

How I became Agent Mulder

Holy fuck it’s been a hard year.

This began as me writing about a curious parallel. Then it turned into something about writer’s block, about work, then about how the last year has been really difficult for me, then about immigration. Then it became all too self-indulgently biographical and died on its arse, causing me to have to slice into it like a coroner cutting his way toward some bizarre cause of death, trying to understand the corpse in front of him. I don’t know what it is now, beyond the strange dripping of disconnected words wrung out of a wet cloth that I have been twisting for months.

Here, I think, is the story of how I became Agent Mulder, among other things. It features three reasons I was bullied, two plot twists and one impressed girl.

I can always measure how tough things are by how easy it is for me to write. When the going’s good, the words cascade like a waterfall. It’s quantity over quality, but that’s okay, because you can always boil away what’s bad, distill down to the best. It also means that things get finished.

When the going’s bad, I’m left with a collection of miscarried messages, I’m surrounded by abandoned attempts to express and connect. The drafts fester like corpses, haunt me like ghosts with unfinished business, reminding me that good writers are disciplined and consistent, while this one has a mind made of fog and swamps, struggling some days to get even three different things done.

I think about work a lot lately. Work and drive and dedication. So here’s a tale all about that. It starts twenty-three years ago, in September 1994.

I was fourteen and about to start what would be a difficult year of school. Some things would get better. Some things would get worse. There would be less of the chronic bullying that had characterised my first two years, that had driven me to the margins and made me feel dreadful about myself, but I would start to struggle and then fail with my work. I wasn’t used to failure and I didn’t know it was normal. Everything so far had taught me that failure was bad and that bad people were failures.

I was also bad at being anything but myself. In a small town in one of the most conservative corners of England, this really wasn’t the way to behave. I was making all the wrong cultural choices, reading old books (too boring), watching political comedy (too weird) and listening to Queen (too old and, criminally, too gay). There were plenty of people ready to remind me how wrong I was and I spent far too long trying to get those people to like me. I didn’t know how to ask for help or even what help to get. I ended up sharing many of the things I liked with nobody but myself.

Relief of a sort was on the way. That September, the X-Files arrived in Britain. To some people it was a bizarre and baffling new idea, but I understood everything about it immediately. I’d grown up harvesting the Paranormal subsection of all my local libraries (which qualified as “non-fiction,” so was available to all ages), and I’d already borrowed all the encyclopaedias of UFO sightings, Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World and endless florid literature on haunted houses, unexplained disappearances, lost civilisations, spontaneous human combustion and how John F. Kennedy might really have been killed. The X-Files felt like something made by a person with one eye on my reading list.

For a while, I think I wanted to be David Duchovny. I’d cross-referenced those library books with each other, trying to work out which ghost sightings and weird cryptids were credible or bullshit (most of it was bullshit). The cool and capable Agent Mulder did this too, but he was far better at it and had a theory for everything, a theory often too good to share. Not only did he know it all, but he was somehow relentless, impervious. Nothing seemed to get him down. Oh, to be so dedicated. To be so good at something. No matter what, he forged ahead, stoic and independent, everyone else be damned.

He made weird things cool. Pop culture stumbled sideways and UFO sightings became mainstream news, ghosthunters appeared on TV people really thought an alien autopsy video had been leaked. I wrote “FBI” in my wallet in thick, heavy letters just to make a girl laugh (it worked) and suddenly people gave a damn that I knew nonsense about aliens. The X-Files became the perfect antidote to the Spice Girls and a difficult year became not quite so difficult.

Time passed and I struggled a lot, beginning the jagged journey down the fucked-up path I’ve taken to get to the present. I was not relentless or impervious, nor had I learned how to be dedicated. Everyone else was better at studying, better at socialising and better at getting good jobs. I was still dealing with failure and bounced through life like a pinball, still more aware of what I wasn’t than what I was. I had no vision of what I might be. Everything was too expensive, too far, too hard or really not for somebody like me, someone who’d failed to become either cool or capable. When you have one less degree and one more suicide attempt than most people you know, your options seem limited. I certainly forgot about the X-Files and I would later say it was a passing diversion. Only recently did I discover an old photo of my room clearly showing the poster below.

Much happened. I went through periods of working extremely hard, or of working and studying, or of working and studying and scraping pennies together. There was a lot of making up for lost time, a lot of second chances, even a few examples of me being able to ask for help. I tried to catch up educationally, financially, experientially, working at all hours of the day or night, dogged and driven and inarticulate in my frustration.

I wrote a lot. It was the best way to communicate. It was the only way to communicate. It was also my therapy and my trade and, I believed, my only calling. My words weren’t always good but I threw myself into it. Every week I had something to say, for free or for money, as if there was nothing else to do. Perhaps there was, but I didn’t see it. I saw words and their purpose and their power and I’ve always believed they’re one of the most extraordinary tools that we have. I just wanted to be better at them.

Twenty years after watching that first episode of the X-Files, I decided I had to escape England. I thought about pinballing around the world, just trying to drink up so much of anything else. I went to Canada, almost on a whim, and this year decided to ask the country if I could make that choice a permanent one. Plot twist: Like so many people applying for Permanent Residence, I have had to leave the country for an indeterminate amount of time while that application is processed. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

To the surprise of many, the X-Files began filming again, shooting in the same city I was living in, the city in which it began. I’d ended up living in the old X-Files set, and idle curiosity had me return to that show, filling in all the episodes I’d missed, following the arcs I’d lost.

I found a new, very different Agent Mulder.

It was easy now to understand why so many people championed his partner, the infinitely patient Agent Scully. Not only did she display a wide range of skills and competencies, she was also the only person who did not seem to be constantly enraged and frustrated by the man she had to work with. Mulder, viewed with the eyes of an adult, was infuriating.

Even worse, he was me.

The first character trait I could reliably ascribe to him was his throbbing impulse to forever dash off by himself. The amount of times Scully shouts some variant of “What the fuck are you suddenly doing?” in the first two seasons must be in the high double digits. This is further compounded by just how bad Mulder is at explaining what he is thinking, what he hopes to achieve or what the justification is for anything. It’s no wonder that Skinner, his boss, perpetually looks on the verge of a combination aneurysm-embolism-total emotional breakdown. Mulder is about as communicative and comprehensible as a cactus.

Can’t you forgive him? Dogged and driven and inarticulate, he just wants to work, he has to work, as if there is nothing else to do. Nobody understands him, his theories are often too good to share, this must surely be why he cares about very little else. Mulder is content to sleep on his sofa every evening and never seems aware that calling his colleagues at all hours of the night or day, or explaining himself after the fact, is perhaps not the most socially or emotionally sensitive behaviour.

You have to watch quite a lot of the X-Files to get a broader picture of this man, to ever know that he’s a fan of Elvis or baseball, that he has few plans for where he’s going in life, that he shares many of the things he likes with nobody but himself. In the rare moments where his frantic pace slows and where he’s deconstructed by other characters, they call him antisocial, wholly inward-facing and a workaholic. His work and drive and dedication is also an obsession, his independence is also his loneliness.

This year I only slept on my sofa once. I made more of an effort to communicate with people in person and to better articulate what was inside me in more ways than just this, than just writing. I did this in part because I saw what Agent Mulder was good at and what Agent Mulder was bad at. I saw that I had become one of my childhood heroes, but I also saw what that person was as an adult and what their life had become. It was eerily familiar and, when the all that work and drive and dedication was stripped away, there wasn’t enough left.

I find it very hard to accept that my life isn’t what it was thirty, twenty or even ten years ago. I keep feeling that time is an elastic band that will pull me back to some previous state of being, that it will undo everything I have tried to achieve, tried to become, and return me to something I’ve been working so hard to get away from. “This is where you should be,” it will say, with a wag of its finger, as it returns me to being broke or unpopular or directionless.

Here’s the second plot twist: I liked being Agent Mulder. I knew how to throw myself into the present, how to bury myself in work and how to always have something to do next. It was often a necessity, but it was also a familiarity. It was a metric by which I could judge myself. It may look bad from the outside, but from the inside you see how everything works perfectly. Maybe I do want to change a little, but I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop, even if I knew how, and I think my stubbornness has taken me places reasonable behaviour never would.

It’s only in times like this, when I can’t do the work and when I struggle, when my frantic pace slows, that I’m not so sure what else I have to turn to. I suppose that’s something I can try to figure out in 2018.

I hope this new year is a reset of sorts. The current one really needs to go in the bin. The future, I hope, is out there.

[woozapooza]

Black Sails: The Verdict

not to be obvious but this was a really good show

If I try to get into all the things I want to say about this show I’ll be writing this post for the rest of my life so I’m just gonna touch on the most important things.

I’m not sure there’s ever been a show that had this much of an emotional impact on me. I woke up in the middle of the night last night thinking about the show. I guess I must have been dreaming about it and dreamed so hard I woke myself up. I’m sincerely hoping that the day is not far off when I can think about this show more calmly. I think I’ll be able to enjoy it more when the very thought of it doesn’t make me drown in feelings. I’m grateful for the BS humor videos on youtube that are helping me take the show less seriously.

I’ve been looking at other people’s reactions to the finale and two things are clearer than ever (and they were already pretty clear): 1. This is a very complex show where no one is ever totally right or wrong. 2. My standards for TV are a lot lower than many TV fans’. I’m impressed by people who are able to be like “here’s why such-and-such episode didn’t make sense/was dissatisfying” and I sort of envy people who are that good at watching TV but I’m a lot more willing than some people to accept what a show gives me and that’s just the way it is. So I understand some people’s complaints about various things about how the show ended, and I also understand the people who have the complete opposite points of view because this show is wicked complex and there are no right answers to a lot of the big questions about it. Anyway, the following are just my onions.

Ultimately I think my favorite character was Silver. I’ve never seen a character with development like his. I know his actions in the finale are very controversial and I’m trying not to take too hard a stance on them in one direction or the other, but I think what he did was ultimately right. He prevented a war that would have been devastating (because it’s a war) and that England probably would have won anyway. It’s not like the fact that the war got cut short means people aren’t going to keep resisting the bad things about the British empire. As for what he did to Flint, I’ve seen some people get very angry with Silver for essentially selling Flint into slavery, which okay yes, but…what was he supposed to do? If he wants to end the war, he has to sacrifice Flint. Flint’s whole identity was built around fighting civilization. If Silver wanted to end the war, he had to end Flint, and the only ways to do that were to kill him or “unmake” him, and what’s the best way to do that latter? By forcibly removing Flint from his life of piracy and reuniting him with the very thing whose loss turned James McGraw into Captain Flint in the first place: Thomas Hamilton. Flint’s life was basically miserable and I can’t see any way Silver could have found happiness for Flint except by reuniting him with the man he loved. It sucks that Flint is basically trapped on the plantation, but he hates the world anyway, so I’m not sure he’d be all that devastated about being shut off from the world for the rest of his life. Plus, it was repeatedly stressed that this is place as humane as it could be while still being what it is—I mean, no one got mad at Thomas for stopping work and hugging and kissing his lover—so it’s not like he’ll be treated terribly. I’m not trying to pretend that what Silver did was totally fine, but he gave Flint the happiest ending realistically possible. What else was he supposed to do?

I know some people suspect that Silver actually killed Flint and made up the story about sending him to the plantation, but not only is that needlessly depressing when the show is throwing a much happier option at us, it doesn’t even make sense. I mean, I don’t understand the logic of literally seeing something happen and then being like “well what if that didn’t happen!” Like, it’s a show, none of it really happened, but there is still a reality at the fictional level and if the show is clearly telling us that an event is part of that reality I don’t understand the impulse to reject that event as real.

It’s striking—and pleasing—that for such an angsty show, the ending was relatively happy. The world changes, civilization wins out, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s lives are over, that there’s no room for them to be happy going forward. Flint gets to “walk away from the sea and find some peace” with his true love. (Also note that he and Thomas were separated for approximately ten years, which is, well, half the time Odysseus and Penelope were separated? So the parallel sort of works. Half works.) Silver and Madi have gone through a very rough patch, but Madi returns to Silver and I have to believe that that means she’s come to see that his point of view is legitimate, that the issue of the war was an impossibly complicated one and the fact that they had different opinions on it doesn’t make either of them wrong, and that he really loves her. I know Silver has a wife in the book (which I CANNOT WAIT TO READ), so I assume we’re supposed to think he and Madi worked it out and got married. I’m more than willing to think that. Jack and Anne are still together (till they put us in the fucking ground!), still doin’ piracy, and Jack got another lesbian for his collection. (Hi, Mary Read!!!) Max is still running Nassau, happy, powerful, able to make the world a better place, and on good terms with Anne and Jack. Featherstone is governor! I love it! Everything sucks for Woodes Rogers, which, while I didn’t really like him, is not entirely fair, to be honest. He was no more a one-dimensional villain than Flint. Billy is, uh, marooned on Skeleton Island, I guess? Well, I know he can’t die yet because he’s in the book. Actually, let me start a new paragraph about Billy.

I know a lot of people ended up straight-up hating Billy, but I didn’t. I don’t want to go into too much detail because quite honestly I’m afraid I’m going to end up saying things that are just factually incorrect but I think Billy had good intentions that led him astray. It’s sad, really. His hatred of Flint was honestly totally justified but it led him to do things he shouldn’t have done, like going through with the raid on that one plantation. I don’t know, maybe I’m going too easy on him because he was so wonderful in the first three seasons, but maybe it’s not a bad thing that I choose to remember who Billy used to be and try to see that person in who he became.

I have a ton more things I want to say but those things will have to wait for other posts. Some of them I won’t be able to articulate unless I rewatch, and god knows when I’ll have the strength to do that. I’m just so fascinated by the theme of stories (one of my favorite themes for any show to have) in particular as it relates to my dear boys Flint and Silver. Both of them take on identities they didn’t start with—civilized lieutenant James McGraw becomes “the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed,” Captain Flint, and tiny precious happy John Silver becomes Terrifying Indestructible Pirate Long John Silver—and we see the stories that spring up around both of those characters but we also see these guys for who they truly are underneath all the legends and ahhhhh I’m becoming inarticulate so I’m gonna just stop that thought here. In fact, I think it’s time to wrap up this post because if I even try to say more I’m gonna be here forever. Oh, but let me just say bless Jack Rackham for that beautiful speech about stories. Whenever a character in a show or movie makes a grand speech on that topic I’m GUARANTEED to just lose it emotionally.

Last thing: the reasons I wanted to watch this show in the first place were simply that it was a period drama about pirates that had quality gay/bi representation. I built it up so much in my head that I was apprehensive about watching it but guess what, it totally met my expectations! The representation was beautiful (I want to say more words on that topic but I’ll save that for another post) and, like, there were pirates. If I may end on a shallow note (which I may because it’s my blog and I’m in charge) anything with pirates is guaranteed to be awesome.