#ic; transitional decades

[annieqattheperipheral]

Thoughts in Fourteen Seconds of Silence

*retrieves mic from mike

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ok think of words think of words think of french words???

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oookayyy i paused too long they've started cheering. ok pause again. take it in. this is pretty awesome

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well hot dang i paused and reflected too long and now I'm realizing i rly am king shit and i don't think I'm inaccurate in my conclusion??

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ok ok im not actually royalty pls keep ur clothes on

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alright fine folks lets get this show on the road I've got an early golf date w cole tmr morn

a message from mike and nick

[piscespetals]

summary: in which sevika becomes your roommate. read part two here

content: this fic is 4-5 chapters long. i'm still trying to figure out if i should condense it to 4 or keep it at five. mostly gay pinning, fluff, angst and small slivers of smut (not very good at smut writing but i'm trying)

word count: 5k

thanks for reading!

Chapter One

It all started when your best friend told you she was moving out…

You both shared a flat, and for the last near decade or so, everything had relatively been good.

Until it wasn't.

“I know it's kind of bittersweet but,” Mel shrugs, looking down at the ice cream cone in her hand. Remnants of the vanilla treat gather above her top lip. You almost say something but she licks it away with one clean swipe of her tongue. “Alicia has been talking about this for almost a year. And I think it's time we take the next step.”

Alicia is Mel’s long-term girlfriend. Honestly, you should’ve seen it coming. It's a miracle that they haven't already moved in together considering how long they’ve been in each other’s lives. You should be happy for them. You really should. But a part of you keeps thinking about the upcoming renewal of the lease and the empty space that’ll fill up Mel’s side of the apartment once she leaves.

The two of you have been living together for a huge chunk of your adulthood. Honestly, the thought of returning home to Mel has been your norm for almost as long as you’ve been filing tax returns.

And now—she’s moving.

Leaving.

Just like that.

“Oh,” She croons. Her ice cream cone nearly falls as she scooches closer to you. “Don't cry.”

Your tears drip down your cheeks before trailing the slope of your jaw.

You aren’t surprised. This reaction is warranted. You aren't good at goodbyes.

Actually, no—this isn't quite a goodbye.

But it sure as hell feels just as painful.

There's not enough breathing exercises that’ll prepare you for the life transition that's doomed to happen. A chapter of your adulthood is closing right before your eyes. Mel will move out, marry Alicia, and have annoyingly cute babies. You’ll be the designated bestfriend–turned–aunt that will always feel stuck; left behind. 

It will be horrible.

“Nothing will change,” Mel comforts. She tries to multitask the art of devouring her ice cream while slinging her free arm around you. Her bubbling optimism is nearly comedic compared to your wallowing spirits.

“Everything will change!” Your voice cracks, body jerking as your lungs cause you to inhale sharp uneven gasps. “You've replaced me with Alicia as your roommate. Is she asking for the best friend title too?”

“Oh god—babe,” Another lick of her ice cream. She's trying to contain her laughter. The nerve of her! “I’ll always be your best friend. You know that.” She squeezes your shoulder. “Everything will be okay. I promise.”

Your eyes burn more and another melodramatic wail leaves you.

The image of you–old and decrepit–in a nursing home comes to fruition. You're in the bed, smelly and miserable, while Alicia and Mel stand before you. They're old too, but far more beautiful. Far more accomplished. Less lonely. Still married. Still happy. 

Oh, and their kids are probably there in the room too; asking Mel why “their Aunt hasn't been properly groomed?”

Mel is absolutely wrong.

Everything will certainly not be okay. 

After a few days of sulking, you have a change of heart when Mel says, “I think I’ve found you a new roommate.”

Suddenly, the imminent doom of Mel moving out doesn’t seem so harrowing. Of course it still saddens you–she’s your best friend after all–but you’re no longer burdened with the stress of trying to find her replacement. 

You and Mel butt heads about a ton of senseless things, but she never disappoints you on the most important matters. 

So if she thinks that someone is suitable enough to be your roommate, then you have hope that she’s right. 

“Who?” Your head snaps up as you look at her. She stands on the other side of the kitchen island, elbows leaning against the wooden countertop and chin resting in her palms. You were mopping the floor–a truly rare occurrence for you–when Mel came out of her room to announce the good news. 

“You know how Alicia goes out with her teammates every now and then?” 

Your memory travels to the brief conversations of Mel mentioning this in the past. Alicia used to be a college athlete during her undergrad. Apparently, she still has a budding relationship with a few of her old teammates, and likes to go to dinners with them to catch up every few months. 

“Well,” Mel continues. “Her friend, Sevika, hasn’t been able to come to the dinners these last few years because she lived up north for a while. But she’s back in town. And I guess she doesn’t like the place she’s at. Apparently, it’s too close to the city. Too hectic. She’s been looking at places in our neighborhood. And when Alicia mentioned it to me, I just figured...”

You nod slowly in understanding, “Oh.”

“I mean, it’s kind of working out perfectly…rather coincidental but I just thought it would make you feel better if your next roommate wasn’t a complete stranger.”

“Do you know her well?”

“I’ve hung out with Sevika countless times before she moved away.” The brown irises of Mel’s eyes become distant; as if she’s drifting off to another time. “God, that feels like so long ago somehow... But I think you’d like her.” Her lips pull into a small smile. “She seems a bit remote at first but it’s all fun and games. I promise.”

“Okay,” You shake your head, trying to wrap your brain around it all. “And you’re sure that she’s–I mean, not that I don’t trust your word. I’m just nervous, I suppose. She isn’t like–”

“Sevika’s good people,” Mel laughs, gazing at you with understanding. “But I get it. So here’s what I was thinking… We can host a brunch and invite her over? That way you can meet her formally and get to know her. Maybe show her around the place? As much as I want this to pan out great, it’s still your decision to make at the end of the day.” She pauses a few beats, trying to gauge your reaction. “What do you think?”

Your hands fiddle with the top of the swiffer handle as you weigh your options. You had put together a more elaborate and time consuming plan prior to today; which would have consisted of flyers and roommate interviews and even Facebook posts. Of course, posting to Facebook would have been the last resort; an addition to the plan that you only added out of mere desperation. But it was a plan nonetheless.

Mel’s offer is more tempting. 

“Okay,” You sigh, squeezing the handle of the swiffer. “But if this doesn’t work out, then you owe me ice cream.”

She beams, clapping her hands together excitedly. 

“And not the cheap kind,” You add. “I’m talking Cold Stone.”

Mel doesn’t appear to be fazed. Instead, she turns on her heels, making her way back to her room. “I’m gonna call Alicia and let her know!” The exclamation has a song-like lilt to it; a clear indication of her delight.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting off a grin while you carry the swiffer to the trash can.

Your thumb absentmindedly plays with the stringy bracelet decorating your right wrist; a gift that Mel gave you over ten years ago when the two of you first became friends. It’s nearly falling apart now, but still a staple piece in your daily attire. You find yourself looming over the possible outcome of tonight’s gathering–for the ‘nth time–as your stomach stirs with unease. 

It’s not like you haven’t been obsessively ruminating over this very evening. It’s all you’ve been able to think about ever since Mel helped you plan it last week. But despite all of the preparation, your mouth still remains dry.

You’re seated at the dining table, with Mel to your right and Alicia right across from her. Sevika faces you directly, which is a circumstance you tried to desperately avoid upon Mel’s suggestion.

“How do you guys like the food?” Mel asks. “I can proudly say that I’ve managed to keep the kitchen intact while I was preparing it.”

Alicia’s eyes twinkle when she glances at her girlfriend. “It’s good, honey. Thank you.”

A pair of alert grey irises flicker to you: Sevika’s. 

The woman studies you with a gaze that is piercing and direct. She takes you in fully–something that she’s been doing all night–which makes you feel as if you’re under inspection. You can’t decide whether or not you like that about her.

“It was nice, Mel.” You reply. You wolfed down your food the minute your plate was served. So now you’re just awkwardly waiting for everyone else to finish their meal.

You usually don’t eat so quickly, but the task gave you something else to distract yourself with, rather than Sevika’s scrutiny. 

But despite doing everything possible to avoid her stare, you can’t help but notice the calm and leisure way she eats her food. From what you’ve gathered, she doesn’t seem fond of mixing meals with conversation. But there’s still a pleasant way that she dines. 

The oscillation of her jaw, especially with every chew, is a trait that you find particularly distracting…

“So, are you enjoying your return to town?” Mel inquires, turning to Sevika. She’s always had the talent of conversing with the least willing. 

It takes a few seconds for Sevika to shift her gaze away from you.

You feel your muscles relax when she does.

“Yeah, it’s been good,” Sevika’s voice adopts an amiable timbre; a pattern you’ve picked up on every time she addresses Mel. “The traffic sucks on the east side, but that's nothing new.”

Mel hums in understanding. “Well, I think you’ll like it here.The people are quieter. Life is slower.” 

That’s when Alicia takes that as her cue to wrap her arm around Sevika’s shoulder. They’re both nearly the same height, only Alicia is leaner. 

“It’s good that you’re back home,” Alicia butts in. “You’re getting wrinkles. You’ve been frowning too much.”

Sevika rolls her eyes. “I’ve been perfectly fine.”

“Is that so? I heard…”

You’re ripped from their conversation when Mel wraps her fingers around your bicep. She leans into your ear, whispering, “Let’s go to the kitchen.” 

You follow her without question.

It’s not until you’re grabbing the fruit salad out of the refrigerator when she says, “How are you liking her so far?”

You bite the inside of your cheek while carrying the dessert to the counter. 

“I don’t know.” You try to sort through your feelings to find some sort of opinion–anything–that can help you identify your stance. But it’s to no avail. “She’s a bit intense, don’t you think?” 

“Well,” Mel snickers. “I suppose.”

You glance up at her, noticing the way that she’s covering her smile with her hand. She flutters her eyelashes coyly, “But is that not a good thing? You’ve been staring at her all evening.” She continues, wiggling her eyebrow.

“Please don’t.”

“What? I’m just saying…”

“There’s nothing that needs to be said.”

“...the tension has been palpable ever since you laid eyes on her. You don’t have to make it into a bad thing, babe. You both are grown adults here.” 

Your jaw is clenching when you mutter, “Well, you're off-base on this one.”

You think you hear her laugh again, but you don’t have the energy to entertain it. Instead, you turn around and march back to the dining room.

Your eyes are slightly droopy from the combination of wine and dinner that sloshes in your belly.

Under the haze of the ceiling lamps, you stand with your arms folded across your chest.

“This would be your room,” You’re mumbling. Sevika hums beside you, only a few feet away. She’s so far yet so close. Too close.

Yet not close enough.

You feel silly for thinking such thoughts. 

It must be the wine.

The floorboards creak underneath her weight as she inspects the room. It has a fair amount of space in it. It’s larger than your room for sure. The connecting bathroom is smaller than yours though–a bargain that you and Mel made over a decade ago.

Sevika travels to a nearby wall, inspecting the paint job for a few seconds before peering at you.

Despite the warmth emanating from the heating system, a cool shiver runs through you. 

Your voice dips with humor when you explain that, “Mel painted it a while back.”

You examine the way she pushes her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose. A vein from her right forearm flexes due to the movement. 

She smiles, poised and reposeful. 

“Figures,” That’s when you notice the fullness of her lips—her prominent cupid's bow, and how well they look when spread into a grin like that.

She stretches her arms above her head, back arching as she seemingly holds back a yawn. You fight the urge to do the same, eyes trailing over her physique before you can stop yourself. Sevika looks strong–really strong. Her arms are thick bands of pure muscle and her broad shoulders barely concave from the movement.

She’s wearing a long-sleeved button up, which has a toffee silk-like material. You don’t realize how low her black slacks are sitting on her hips until the hem of her shirt rises. A happy trail peaks through, as well as deeply grooved muscles. 

The sight feels sacrilegious and simultaneously pious. Your eyelids are heavy, droopy, when her muscles relax and her arms fall to her sides. You draw your attention back to her face. She’s caught you, eyebrows lifted and lips pursed to the side–an attempt to mask her amusement? You don’t know. Or at least, you don’t want to. 

With the sudden pounding of your heart, you gesture behind you, “I can show you the laundry room?” Your desire to escape has never felt so prominent until then.

You're beginning to realize that she makes it hard for you to breathe when you’re around her.

Laughter rings in the air between everyone–Sevika, you, Alicia and Mel–while Alicia tells a funny story about a customer she had a few days prior. You’re wearing one of your nighttime sweaters now, a glass of wine in your hand, while all of you sit in the living room. 

Sevika cards her hand through her hair. It’s no longer in its bun, meeting the sides of her face with buoyancy. The length is much longer than you initially thought, stopping a few inches below her neck; a feathery cut that frames her face quite perfectly.

She sits with her legs parted, left arm resting along the back of the couch. Her fingers lay a few inches from your right shoulder. With a mere flex of her hand, she’d be able to touch you. 

Amidst the ring of Alicia’s voice–she’s going into detail about another story now–you turn to Sevika and ask, “Are you a heavy sleeper?”

You receive a better angle of her chiseled jaw when she tilts her head, expression contemplative while she thinks of an answer. You aren’t sure why it takes her so long since it’s not necessarily a loaded question to ask, but still—you allow her to think.

“Not really,” Her eyes dart back to you. “Is that a deal breaker?”

“I'm not sure,” You blink through a daze, overcome with an unexpected wave of tranquility due to her regard. “I listen to music sometimes in the middle of the night. It helps with my insomnia.”

“...Well, is it loud?”

“Not all the time. But you may hear it faintly.”

A nod. “Then that’s fine with me.”

You swivel the wine in your hand, “Besides going out for work, a lot of my hobbies consist of me being at home. You’ll probably see me a lot.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m not incredibly messy or dirty but…” Your palms sweat from the loose confession. “I’m not a neat freak. And I don't like mornings. I'm really grumpy any hour before 11. Like—I will not speak if I can avoid it. And I’m a terrible cook.”

She looks away from you momentarily, lips rubbing together as her hand flexes. You grow rigid at the motion; she’s only inches away from coming in contact with your shoulder. Then her fingers relax. She looks back at you. Her lips part, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Her left eyebrow twitches. “You call the shots. If you don't think it’ll work, I can look into renting somewhere else.”

“I'm just trying to be transparent with you as much as possible.” 

You don't want any surprises. The last thing you need is the false hope of thinking this will work just to ultimately have the infamous roommate disagreements that you've heard too much about. 

You got lucky with Mel. 

For 13 years, you’ve managed to have the best roommate dynamic. But now she's leaving soon. And you fear that those 13 years have just been a fluke.

If Sevika is truly serious about moving in, you need to make sure that it'll be a right fit.

“Do you have any kids?” You find yourself asking.

She lets out a gusty breath; a dry chuckle mixed with a hint of disbelief. For a second, you fear that you've offended her.

But then she's replying, “God no.” She grins with her head slightly shaking. You swear she leans a few inches closer as she adds, “Do you?”

You blink. You swallow. You try to not get distracted by the swirling grey of her irises. They're quite pretty. Too pretty. Unbelievably pretty.

“Definitely not.” 

Her grin widens, “Okay, so we at least have that in common.” She allows her eyes to flicker to other features of your face; your eyebrows, then your cheeks, then your nose. “Are there any other incriminating questions that you have?”

“Of course.”

She laughs again and her eyes fall shut. There's a part of you that wants to draw closer to her at that moment. But you remain where you are; as if you’re resisting the tug of a rope. 

“Okay,” She mutters, voice a gentle hum while her lips remain pulled into a grin. 

“Does that annoy you?” You find yourself asking. It’s a silent test. You want to know if this will turn her away. Is she willing to answer your long list of questions? And if she is–will you find something about her that you don’t like? 

“No, I don’t mind at all.” Her eyes flutter open slowly, blazing a stormy grey when they land on you. “Ask however many questions you need.” 

Her hand flexes once more. This time you feel it. It’s the slightest graze, and too fleeting for it to feel real. The tip of her forefingers brush against the material of your shirt, at the very top of your bicep, before she’s running her hand through her hair. It could have been an accident–a mere sweep due to her close proximity–but you guess you’d never truly know.  

Your breathing falters. She blinks at you with a placid expression, seemingly unfazed. 

“Okay,” You clear your throat, shifting your weight restlessly. You try to put more distance between you two by subtly scooting a few inches to your left.

“...Going to get some more wine. Be right back!’ Mel calls. 

The bubble around you and Sevika bursts.

You’re submerged into the sound of the TV playing an Old Navy commercial. Alicia stares at the screen with droopy eyes, feet propped up in the recliner chair and hands clasped together as they rest on her stomach. She hums lazily at Mel’s announcement. Faintly, you begin to hear Mel rummaging through the kitchen: the clanging of silverware, the rush of running water, then the thump! of a closing cupboard. The calming livelihood of Mel and Alicia’s existence buzzes around you. But you somehow find yourself turning back towards Sevika because, although you don't want to admit it, she’s a new enigma that’s hurdled into your life. 

She beholds you with remarkable patience, elbow now resting against the back of the couch as she cradles her temple with her hand. 

“So…” She says, voice laced with an expectation. She’s waiting on you.

“Right,” You nod. You shake your head in an attempt to clear the brain fog. Must be the alcohol... "Do you smoke?”

Sevika does smoke; she has a preference for cigars. 

She’s a tattoo artist, which you never pinned her for. But after a few seconds of contemplation, it makes sense. She tells you that it’s been her career for a long time now.

She’s quite the morning person and a bit meticulous about her living environment. She likes to cook and happily divulges in burning incense. She doesn't have very many friends, but the ones she does have are practically her family—who, she assures with an unwavering gaze, are people that, “You will love.”

She doesn't watch much television, but she does have a knack for sports. “I like to have my friends over on game days,” She admits, sending you a sidelong glance. “Would that be something you're okay with?”

Not much time passes before you're nodding your head yes.

Sevika has no siblings and no parents. Her parents passed away a while back–a fact that you seemed more saddened by than her–and left her their house, which is why she moved out of town a few years ago.

When you ask her why she’s decided to return, she doesn't answer. 

It’s your only question that makes her come to a full stop.

When the night ends and she’s getting ready to leave the apartment with Alicia quickly behind her, it’s the only question that's lingering in your mind.

And after Mel closes the door, bolts it shut and asks, “Any red flags from Sevika?”

It’s the sole reason why you find yourself hesitating, wanting—for some strange reason—to tell Mel yes. Even though every fiber of your being knows that the true answer is no.

Sevika’s vehicle is exactly the sort of car you’d picture her in. A sleek black Ram 1500 sits in front of you. Your eyes are wandering. You can't help it. You don't want to make it into a thing. It's only a truck after all…

But you've always admired cars, especially the big shiny ones.

 “I would have showed you this days ago had I known you’d be so pleased,” Sevika muses. That's when you draw your attention back to her. "I didn't know you liked cars so much."

She's gazing at you with the smallest form of a smirk on her face. You want to wipe it off; you feel vulnerable somehow. Exposed.

Your blink wordlessly, breath shallowing and palms clamming up. 

How is she so infuriatingly good looking? 

Then, as if you've suddenly become aware of everything else about her, you're taking the rest of her body into account. Her bulging biceps are flexed due to the moving box in her arms. Small beads of sweat collect at the base of her neck…some sliding into the dips of her collarbones. Her hair is pulled into a low bun, highlighting the clenching of her jaw as she chews her gum; minty breath wafting towards you. Your stomach dips. 

“Shut up,” You mutter.

Her grin widens. She laughs. You struggle to suppress one yourself. 

She doesn't say anything else.

You stand awkwardly by her truck as she turns to walk into the apartment. 

A part of you doesn't know what to make of this. Here you are, moving a woman that you've just met into your apartment, with no idea of how this will turn out.

You feel like you're floundering through life. Surely, everyone else your age is settled down with a family and a secure living environment—not stressing over the prospect of a new roommate. This situation feels too…juvenile. It would make sense for a younger version of yourself to be facing roommate insecurity. It would make sense for your younger self to grow uncharacteristically flustered and perturbed around someone like Sevika.

But not now. No—certainly not now.

The sound of Sevika’s footsteps pull you from your reverie. When you glance in her direction, the first thing you notice is the quirk of her eyebrows. You shift your weight, wringing your hands as you work up the courage to say, “I can help,” You clear your throat. “If you want.”

She’s in the middle of grabbing another box from her car but stops mid-reach from the sound of your offer. She cranes her neck, lines appearing in her forehead as she mutters, “I’m good.”

You take offense to that. Does she think you're weak? That you're not strong enough to carry a few stupid boxes? Or worse—has she already found a reason to dislike you?

Goosebumps trail up your back.

“I’m strong enough, you know.” You find yourself tilting your chin up defiantly. 

“Is that so?”

“I may not be ripped like you,” You fold your arms across your chest and you hear a snort. A fucking snort! “But I don't do pilates for nothing."

That's when she stands upright, two stacked boxes now in her arms. She manages to rest them on her left hip, closing the back door in one swift motion.

"Yeah?" Then she’s tilting her head slightly, appraising you with an expression that nearly sets you on fire. "You think I'm strong?"

The world around you spins and you're nearly knocked off balance.

There's a part of your spirit that uncurls. Heat plants a seed in your gut then burns, burns, burns.

Perspiration has gathered at the base of your neck, and one bead of sweat drips down the slope of your spine. Then another. You're scowling at her, a reaction that she seems to enjoy, when you feel the drip of one more.

She takes your silence without question. Her irises trail down to your crossed arms then back up to your face before continuing. “You don't have to lift a single one of those pretty fingers for me.” Then you feel her warmth—her touch—at the tip of your chin. It's a small brush with her index finger, yet strong enough to tilt your head before she's pulling away. Then she's grabbing the boxes with both of her hands, snickering under her breath while adding, “But since you seem like the adamant type—be my guest, darling.”

Your legs tremble when she brushes past you.

For the rest of the evening, you allow her to settle into the apartment without your help.

“Sevika?” Your voice is scratchy from lack of use. “Can you help me?”

You're frustrated because you can't find your favorite mug. The entire kitchen is spotless—a sort of clean you haven't seen in ages. You're grateful for Sevika—truly, you are. But due to how organized it all is, you now have difficulty locating everything. The way she cleans and sorts through the apartment is completely different from your way. 

Irritated, you call her name again. But no answer.

You know that she’s in her room because her door is closed. It’s only been a few days since she’s moved in but you’ve started to notice that she likes to leave it open when she's not in there. 

You sigh, storming to her room. You have a taste for tea, something you've been craving all morning. And now that you've finally finished your work, you’d been so excited to drink it. 

But now you're completely turned about by the state of the kitchen. Nothing is where you usually keep it.

“Sevika!” You practically bark, voice growing thin. “Are you awake?”

You're about to knock on her door—a disturbance that would surely wake her if she's in a deep slumber—but then it flies open. And there she stands, wearing a pair of boxers and a tank top. She appears to have just showered, hair seemingly damp and towel in her hand. That familiar woodsy scent of hers hits you like a tide wave, but this time it’s tenfold stronger than what it usually is.

“Is there a reason why you're shouting my name at 10 AM?”

You swallow thickly. Your mouth has suddenly become dry. “I can't find the mugs.”

Sevika blinks slowly then mutters, “What?”

“The mugs. They're a type of cup, cylindrical in size? Often used to drink things like coffee, tea, hot ch-”

“They're in the cupboard by the refrigerator.”

“...”

“...”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Why are they in there? I’ve never put them there before.”

“You could barely reach the cupboard they were originally in—”

“That's why I have a stepping stool!”

“So I figured it would be easier if they were moved to one that's more accessible for you. I told you about this Tuesday. Do you not remember?”

“...You never told me that.”

“Yes,” Her jaw grinds. “I did. You were talking to Mel on facetime and nearly ate shit when grabbing that awfully gaudy mug you like,” Oh. “So I told you that I would move it to the cupboard by the refrigerator,” Oh. “And you looked me right in the eye, smiled and said you thought that was a great idea.” Fuck. “...Do you not remember that?”

That’s right.

You did say that.

Your heartbeat skips from the piercing silence.

God, she's going to think you're crazy now.

Sevika sighs. 

Shoving down a mountain of guilt, you shift your weight, “I’m sorry. I don't think I actually processed that conversation when it happened.”

She isn't quick to reply, and you're not sure where to go from there. So you add, “Um, would you like some tea?”

As a peace offering, you make Sevika a cup of tea the next morning too.

The third day is when you have to go back to work, so you force yourself awake earlier than you want. There's still a small chip of guilt weighing on your shoulders that morning, so you fix Sevika a cup of tea again.

You also do it for that following morning because it's Saturday. Who wouldn't want tea on Saturday?

Sunday is a lazy day for Sevika. But somehow she's already in the kitchen when you stumble in at a harrowing 8am. She's waiting for the toaster oven to sound when you pull two mugs out of the cupboard. Even after the appliance dings, she lingers with you in the kitchen, silently eating her toast while you prepare the kettle. Ten minutes later, she’s drinking her tea while her elbows lean against the island counter. 

You hold onto your mug tightly and listen to the chirping of the birds in the distance. The only other sound that is audible are her even breaths. 

You don't know how you've settled into such a routine after 8 days of living with her. But somehow, standing in the middle of the kitchen together with nothing but comfortable silence, you think that you’ve found the oasis of serenity.

[the-blue-fairie]

Art by @shes-an-iso – commissioned by me and posted here with permission

Realization.

It is ten years ago and I am watching Frozen.

It is ten years ago and I am watching Elsa transform herself into her truest self, watching her spin threads of blue around herself, seizing power for herself – radical self-actualization.

The glint of Elsa’s ice dress reflects in my eyes as I watch Elsa strut into the sunlight – and I do not have words for why I am so moved.

I do not have words, but the shimmer stays.

It is ten years ago and I am choosing to become a part of the Frozen fandom.

I have lurked in fandom circles before, but never posted a thing, never made an account.

It is my first time being part of an online fan community – and, as awful as fandoms can be at times, this fandom – for me – ten years ago – is truly a community.

I begin to make friends in the Frozen fandom.

Some of these friends are trans.

The gleam of Elsa’s hair in the rose-gold dawn shines again in my eyes, and shyly, I begin asking questions of my friends.

Realization is nothing without the words to process it – and my friends give me words, my friends help me to understand.

I am a trans woman.

It is in this online space that I first take the name Liza for myself, since this online space is the only place that I can allow myself to be.

I build for myself. My blog is my own ice palace. What I cannot sculpt in daily life, I carve within online spaces – offering my writing, my thoughts, my edits, my soul to the world.

Everyone here knows me as Liza.

Even as I’m in the closet to my family for years, in here, I am Liza. My friends know me as I am, and as Liza is all they will ever know me.

But I am in the closet. For years.

(It’s why Do You Want to Build a Snowman still breaks me.)

In the closet more out of some misplaced sense of duty to my family than out of dread, though I am scared. Always scared. And then in the closet because I feel it’s better if I bury this. Not better for me, but for them. If I’m bleeding inside, it doesn’t matter. I can put on a show. I have fine-woven gloves. Well-taught decorum. Be the good girl you always have to be, etc.

(Maybe it’s my fault I’m in the closet for years. Anons on this site have told me that in the past. I don’t have it as bad as others in the closet, I’m just a coward, the fault is mine, the fault is mine…)

Fuck off.

(People blame Elsa for the thirteen years in the same way, placing the blame on her and not the tutelage that trained her, because her parents loved her, you see, and love becomes a convenient means of shifting blame to the victim.)

In June 2016, after the Pulse shooting, I make a post about how I’m never going to come out. I am terrified, heartbroken, mangled by grief – but my friends are there for me. My friends send me messages of support, of compassion.

I still cherish the memory of those.

Years pass. When I finally come out to my father, I can barely say the words, barely look him in the eye.

It is ten years since Frozen and I have come out to my family – far too late. I have been on HRT more than a year now.

(My dad still misgenders me when he thinks I’m out of earshot. He resents when I get frustrated with him over this.)

It is ten years since Frozen and I am Elsa on the North Mountain, staring into the whirlwind of an uncertain future, defiant and scared.

And I know – I know – that I didn’t process I was trans because of the film – it was because of the friendship of fellow trans people, trans people who happened to be Frozen fans a decade ago – but my journey of self-realization, my time in the closet, my creation of a sense of self, are so entwined with memories of Frozen that I can’t help but think of it when thinking about my own transition…

Can’t help but think of Elsa, hips swaying, arms outstretched, flashing, radiant –

Happy tenth anniversary, Frozen.

And thank you. Thank you.

(This is okay to reblog. In fact, please do. It is a sliver of my soul that I offer to the world.)

[swan-of-sunrise]

Let It Out, and Let It In

Summary: Spiraling under the immeasurable weight of his trauma, Steve desperately seeks out the company of his girlfriend and, after experiencing a panic attack in her presence, unexpectedly finds himself opening up to her about his mental health.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings/Disclaimers: Disclaimer for a detailed depiction of a panic attack and a frank discussion about Steve Rogers’ trauma

A/N: Hi guys! I've been an MCU/Steve Rogers fan for damn near a decade now, and it hasn't escaped my notice that Steve's trauma has a tendency of being overlooked and overshadowed. So today, we'll be getting a glimpse of his ongoing mental health struggles (I promise you it's not all angst!) Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Let It Out, and Let It In September 2015 The Home of (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and Sam Wilson, Washington D.C. (Superhero Snapshots Masterlist)

“Should’ve called ahead, Rogers,” Steve chastised himself under his breath as he knocked three times on (Y/N)’s front door. He shoved the hood of his sweatshirt off his head and roughly combed his fingers through his hair, the poor attempt to straighten up his appearance for his girlfriend doing very little to distract from his spiraling mental state.

Like many, Steve didn’t exactly have fond memories of high school. While everyone around him seemed to struggle a little as they transitioned from awkward adolescence to mature adulthood, he always felt as though he was one massive step behind them without any hope of catching up. One aspect of high school he did appreciate, though – apart from his friendship with Bucky and his beloved art – were his English courses; he devoured each of the novels, plays and poems that they were assigned to read and thoroughly enjoyed writing themes that analyzed their deeper meanings. One of his favorite books had been The Great Gatsby and even eighty years later, he could still recall the telling exchange that Jay Gatsby shared with Nick Carraway towards the beginning of their friendship: ‘You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me.’

The brief line of Gatsby’s dialogue managed to stick with Steve long after he’d finished reading the book, initially because he couldn’t imagine how one’s life could become so lonely but eventually, because he’d come to understand Gatsby’s words all too well; he suffered the loss of his mother and Bucky, went into the ice in 1945 and woke up to find that nearly seventy years had passed him by, grappled with the losses of all his fellow Howling Commandos and helplessly watched as the last personified tie to his past slowly succumbed to dementia. Like Gatsby, Steve preferred the company of strangers; they made it easier for him to ignore the crippling loneliness because they never bothered to try and get to know the traumatized twenty-seven-year-old man behind the red, white and blue shield.

Things began to change for him not long after the Battle of New York. He befriended Natasha, one of his fellow Avengers, and she tried her best to acclimate him to his new life; maybe it was a result of all she’d suffered at the hands of the Red Room or because she was just incredibly adept at reading people, but Nat knew that he was struggling and in her own unique way, she did everything she could to be there for him. He met Sam and (Y/N), leaving his apartment for his usual morning run around the National Mall wearing a serious scowl but departing for his S.H.I.E.L.D. mission afterwards with a truly happy smile on his face; Sam soon became one of his best friends, the VA trauma counselor understanding his difficulties with adjusting to his new life but never treating him differently because of them, and he found himself falling in love with (Y/N), the historical-fiction novelist bursting into his life like sunshine on a cloudy day and making him feel truly seen for who he was instead of the larger-than-life mantle he carried. And with the help of (Y/N), Sam and Nat, he grew closer to his fellow Avengers, even finding himself beginning to view them as his family and accepting the fact that he wasn’t alone anymore.

But while Steve had slowly grown to love and appreciate his new life, there were still some days when the reality of his situation would weigh heavily on his mind and it was only a matter of time before he’d break down into a full-blown panic attack; he did his best to hide his struggles from his girlfriend and friends, not wanting to hurt their feelings or make them feel that they weren’t enough for him, but it was becoming harder and harder for him to pretend that everything was all right. It was one of those awful days that saw Steve impulsively asking Nat to land the Quinjet at Joint Base Andrews on their way home from a mission in Argentina; the assassin did as he asked without question, but he could feel her concerned gaze following him as he walked down the ramp and marched across the airstrip alone. Ignoring the mounting pressure in his chest, he elected to do what he’d often do before the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and take a walk through the streets of D.C., following in Jay Gatsby’s footsteps and surrounding himself with strangers to avoid addressing the memories of his old life that were clawing their way to the forefront of his mind.

With the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face and his hands shoved into its pockets, Steve trudged down North Capitol Street with his eyes downcast, prolonging his return to his dark and impersonal apartment and the panic attack that would inevitably follow. Dusk had already fallen and downtown, the city’s nightlife was beginning to ramp up; restaurants were packed with families visiting the historic city and cheerful groups of friends pulled one another into the bars and nightclubs, while couples walked arm-in-arm and took in the glimmering lights that illuminated the city’s imposing monuments. It wasn’t until Steve walked past a bookstore and caught sight of (Y/N)’s debut novel, For Queen and Country, proudly displayed in the window that he felt his mind beginning to clear and a small smile tug on his lips. In that instant, Steve was engulfed by an overwhelming need to see his girlfriend and he continued walking down the street at an increased pace, spurred on by the sunshine that might succeed in breaking through the bleak isolation he found himself consumed by.

Steve forced himself out of his musings just as the door swung open to reveal (Y/N); he was pleased to see that she was dressed for a comfortable night in, with a well-loved Lauryn Hill concert t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, but it was evident by the white strip adhered to her nose and the hair towel balanced on her head that he’d interrupted her evening. “Steve!” (Y/N), unaware of the guilt he was experiencing for interrupting her relaxing evening, smiled broadly and opened her door wider. “I’ve really got to stop listening to Sam; that lying Birdbrain told me you guys wouldn’t be back from Argentina until tomorrow.”

“The mission wrapped up a lot quicker than we’d initially anticipated, so Sam’s off the hook fir lying this time,” Steve replied with a small smile as he shoved his fidgeting hands into his pockets. “I, um, I’m really sorry that I didn’t call or text you before coming over, but I was on my way home and I…anyway, I can leave if I’m intruding-”

“Don’t be silly, you’re not intruding!” Standing the side, (Y/N) allowed him to step through the doorway and closed the door before turning to give him a sheepish smile. “After spending all day going over my book’s first draft with Greg, I treated myself to a bubble bath and I may or may not have fallen asleep in the tub; I woke up in lukewarm water and my fingers were all pruney, but it was a damn good nap.”

“You’ve been working hard on your novel, sunshine; if anyone deserves a little rest and relaxation, it’s you.” Steve slipped off his sneakers and neatly placed them near the entryway table, straightening and chuckling when his girlfriend launched herself into his arms and nuzzled her face against his chest. “Did you miss me?”

(Y/N) nodded and tightened her arms around his waist. “I always miss you whenever you’re away on a mission, sweetheart.”

Steve’s heart melted and before he knew it, one of his arms was holding her close while his hand was guiding her face upwards so that his lips could meet hers; their kiss was slow yet passionate, with each of them doing all they could to savor their rare moment of peace, but his initial reason for visiting the historical-fiction novelist made its presence known in his mind and saw him give her one last kiss before pulling away with a forced smile. “Me too, baby. I just…I really needed to see you.”

(Y/N)’s head tilted to the side as her (Y/E/C) eyes studied him but to his surprise and overwhelming gratitude, she didn’t ask him what was wrong or if he was all right. Instead, she took both of his hands in hers and playfully swung their arms while giving him a coy smile. “I was about to try my luck at cooking dinner and since my culinary skills aren’t exactly up to par, I could really use the assistance of a big, strong Avenger. Do you know if any of them are brave enough to accept this dangerous mission?”

“I think I’m up for the challenge, ma’am,” Steve impishly replied and his overstated authoritative tone made (Y/N) giggle as she led him into the kitchen to prepare dinner. “Can I, um, ask what’s on your nose?”

“Oh, it’s for unclogging oil and dead skin cells from pores! It’s a little gross to remove but at the same time, kind of satisfying. Did you want to try one out for yourself?”

“…Sure, why not?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

While helping his girlfriend cook dinner wasn’t quite as dangerous of a task as she’d made it out to be, Steve certainly had his hands full with making sure she didn’t over-season or burn anything in her eagerness to prove her minimal culinary skills; most importantly, however, cooking alongside (Y/N) helped to take his mind off the incapacitating loneliness that drove him to her doorstep in the first place. They sat at the dining room table to enjoy their chicken parmigiana with angel hair pasta and broccoli and (Y/N) even brought out a pricier bottle of red wine to enjoy with their food, a gift she claimed was sent by Tony and Pepper to congratulate her for winning the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Historical Fiction. Steve listened to (Y/N) talk about the last-minute touches being placed on what would soon be her second published novel with rapt attention, voicing his amazement when she revealed which of her favorite authors would be joining her at an upcoming writing convention and chuckling as she told him about the playful argument she’d gotten into with her publisher about certain spelling choices in her draft.

After they finished their meal, they cleaned up the sizable mess they’d made in the kitchen, with Steve washing the dirty dishes and (Y/N) drying and putting them away; they fell into a comfortable silence while they worked, and he found himself focusing on her soft humming as he deliberated over whether or not to open up to her about the complex emotions he was fighting to control. He loved his girlfriend with all his heart, but it was because of his love for her that he hesitated to fully open up and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why: he was not only afraid that he’d hurt her feelings if he told her that he still struggled to acclimate to the twenty-first century, but he was also afraid that the truth would only serve to drive her away. The memory-wiping device from that Will Smith alien movie Tony made me watch could solve all of my problems in the blink of an eye, he sullenly thought with a sideways glance at a blissfully unaware (Y/N) putting away their dishes, you can’t miss something that you don’t have any memories of.

With the kitchen scrubbed clean and the comforting sound of a light rainfall outside echoing throughout the cozy home, Steve and (Y/N) took to the couch to watch some television. The historical-fiction novelist dissolved into a fit of giggles after applying a cleansing strip to Steve’s nose and he happily indulged her by posing for the selfie she all but begged for his permission to take. After she took several pictures and disposed of their cleansing strips, he pulled her into his arms and soundly kissed her, finding that the dark cloud that hung over him was slowly but surely dispersing the longer she kissed him back.

“Do you feel like watching a movie?” (Y/N) breathlessly asked after they’d finally separated for air. A knowing smile was beginning to spread across her face as she realized they’d moved positions during their impromptu make-out session; the historical-fiction novelist was lying flat on her back while he held himself above her and as he deviously grinned down at her, she twirled her fingers around his sweatshirt’s drawstrings and shrugged offhandedly. “Not that I have any problem with continuing our current activities, of course-”

“Neither do I.”

His girlfriend’s smirk widened at his hasty reply. “But TCM’s been airing a really good screwball comedy marathon all day, and I was thinking that we could give it a watch. I guarantee that my world-famous Milk Duds-and-popcorn concoction pairs excellently with a glass of top shelf red wine and 1935’s Top Hat, so how ‘bout it?”

Steve’s smile instantly dropped at her otherwise innocuous statement. His lungs began to restrict, his vision blurred and it was as though someone had suddenly flipped a switch inside of his hippocampus; all at once, jarring flashes of cloudy memories flooded his mind and overtook his vision.

Bucky dragging Steve along on another double date and insisting that this one would be different than the other failed dates he’d arranged…his throat constricting as his date scowled at the sight of him…sitting in a darkened theater beside the highly displeased woman and throwing his best friend an envious look as he smoothly draped an arm over his smitten date’s shoulders…trying his damndest to enjoy the hit Astaire & Rogers musical-comedy so that his night wouldn’t be so miserable…

“Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

Fists tightening in anger when he saw a furious-looking man dragging his date up the aisle while she begged him to calm down…staggering to his feet in the alleyway behind the theater and throwing another punch at the laughing man, only for him to easily dodge and shove him against the nearby dumpster…fighting to catch his breath as he crumpled to the grimy ground and panicking when he recognized the tell-tale signs of an oncoming asthma attack…frantically grabbing at his pockets in search of his asthma cigarettes, fully conscious of Bucky’s shouting and his date’s frightened scream but unable to stop the black dots from invading his vision…

“You’re having a panic attack, Steve, so I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that for me? C’mon, sweetheart, just breathe.”

Bucky’s hand colliding with his bruised cheek and stunning him back to consciousness long enough for his best friend to practically shove a lit asthma cigarette between his lips…inhaling the smoke and clutching his ribs as his body was wracked with a violent coughing fit…calling out for his mother the moment he regained his breath, only to break down into heaving sobs when he remembered that she’d been gone for nearly six months…

“Steve, look at me.” The sudden feel of his fingers pressed against a soft warmth finally forced Steve’s eyes open; although he was crouched in the corner of his girlfriend’s living room instead of a dingy alleyway behind Bay Ridge’s Alpine Cinema, his chest was still heaving under the strain of regaining his breath and his entire body was trembling. He focused on the blurry figure and realized in a flash of fear that it was (Y/N) kneeling on the floor before him, looking calm and composed as she held his hand against the side of her neck and gently spoke to him. “Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, like this.” The historical-fiction novelist completed the breathing exercise and nodded in approval when he shakily copied her. “That’s it, you’re doing so well, sweetheart. What are three things you can see?”

“You,” Steve automatically replied, making his girlfriend smile as his eyes darted around in search of two more items. “Sam’s bowl of wine corks…the lamp that you found at that estate sale a couple of weeks ago.”

“Good, good, but don’t forget to keep on breathing. What’re three things you can hear?”

He took another deep breath and released it before answering. “The rain falling on the rooftop above us…the refrigerator’s ice-maker refilling itself…the ticking of the clock in the entryway.”

(Y/N)’s eyes searched his and he spotted the flicker of trepidation that briefly flashed across them while she studied his features. “You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Now, can you touch three things for me and tell me what you feel?”

“Y-Yeah…” Steve swallowed thickly, his stiff fingers slowly flexing against the skin of his girlfriend’s neck as he focused on all he could feel. “Your pulse. It’s strong and steady. I can feel the warmth of the blood flowing through your veins.” Emboldened by her encouraging nod, he brought his other hand up to rest flat against his chest and stretched out his fingers along the material of his sweatshirt. “My sweatshirt’s soft, and my fingers catch on its embroidered logo…” He lowered his hand to touch the living room’s hardwood floor and winced at the unpleasant sensation. “The floor’s cold. All I can think about is the moment I crashed the Valkyrie into the ice.”

The historical-fiction novelist raised her arms but suddenly halted her movements. “Are you up for a hug right now?” Instead of answering, Steve wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a tight embrace; he buried his face in her neck and squeezed his eyes shut as her arms draped around his shoulders, savoring the weight of her warm body pressed against his and practically preening when her fingers rhythmically carded through his hair. “You can talk to me, Steve. Whatever it is you have to get off your chest, I’ll listen.” He could feel her press a kiss onto his hair. “And if you want to just sit here and enjoy the silence, then I’ll be more than happy to oblige you. I…I don’t want you to be afraid of letting me in; you deserve to feel safe enough to express yourself, sweetheart, no matter what.”

Steve didn’t know how long they sat there in silence before he rested his chin on her shoulder and stared unseeingly at her cozy living room as he finally found his voice. “The first thing that people told me after coming out of the ice was how lucky I was. They told me that surviving the crash and the ice was a blessing in disguise and that I’d have a shot at living a better life – and they were all so damn pleased with themselves as they were saying it, too, like they could claim that they did their one good deed for the day by convincing Captain America that he was better off in the 21st century – and none of ‘em could understand why I wasn’t as happy as the rest of the world was. Fury arranged for me to see a therapist, but I stopped going after the first appointment because I could see that it’d be more of the same ‘be grateful for what you’ve been given’ shit; there was no one I felt that I could talk to, and then after Loki and the Battle of New York happened…well, most everyone stopped trying to get to know me after that. The lack of any genuine companionship meant it was easier for me to hide and even numb my feelings, but when I found myself bonding with you and Nat and Sam, I…I started to become afraid of driving you all away.”

Steve pulled back far enough to meet (Y/N)’s eyes, only realizing he’d started to cry when her hands delicately cradled his face and her thumbs brushed his drying tear tracks away. “Were you afraid of how we’d react if you admitted that you still think about your old life?” There was no hint of judgement in her expression or hostility in her eyes, only patience and consideration, and Steve found himself silently appreciating his girlfriend’s kindhearted nature as he nodded. “Sweetheart, I want you to listen to me very carefully: depriving yourself of emotions is to deprive yourself of humanity. You’re human, Steve, and you’re allowed to feel however you feel. The people who love you love you for who you are and while I can’t speak for Sam or Nat, I want you to know that I’ll never, ever ask you to repress your emotions for my sake.”

“(Y/N)…” Steve softly started as one of his hands moved to caress her cheek. “No matter what, I’m always gonna have these memories of my life without you in my head. I have no way of knowing when or even if I’ll be settled into my new life. Doesn’t that…doesn’t that bother you?”

His girlfriend smiled patiently and shook her head before countering his question with one of her own. “If our roles were reversed and I was the one who’d come out of the ice instead, would you still love and accept me for who I am?”

“Of course I would, sunshine,” Steve replied with conviction.

“Then believe me when I say that I’ll always love and accept you, sweetheart, no matter what.” With tears beginning to well in her own eyes, (Y/N) leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto his forehead. “Please, please believe me.”

Steve’s heart nearly broke at the desperation that laced her plea and he hurriedly nodded. “I believe you, baby.” He gently coaxed her to look up and into his eyes; the unabashed love that he saw emanating from her tear-filled eyes melted something deep within him, encouraging him to rest his forehead against hers and brush the pad of his thumb along her flushed cheek. “I believe you.” They stayed there for an undetermined amount of time, with their arms wrapped around one another and their eyes closed while they relished the warmth of one another’s embrace and listened to the steady patter of rain outside. When Steve felt his heartbeat slow to its usual pace and his limbs stop their trembling, he trailed his hand down from his girlfriend’s cheek to rest against her chest, in the space directly over her heart; he wasn’t sure why, but the steady beating of her heart against his palm was soothing to him. “Thank you for helping me through all of that; if I’d gone through it alone, I’d still be spiraling right about now.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, about how often do you go through a panic attack?”

Opening his eyes, Steve considered her question for several moments as he took in the consideration that was written across her face. “A couple of times a month,” He replied with a wistful smile. “They started right after I came out of the ice, but they’ve been happening a little more frequently lately.”

(Y/N) offered him a sympathetic smile. “You know, I may not be a Certified Kick-Ass Counselor like Sam is but if I learned anything from working with him down at the VA, it’s that acknowledging your feelings can be a great first step towards healing.” He hummed thoughtfully and took in her words as her fingers smoothed down his rumpled hair. “When you start to feel another panic attack coming on, you can always give me a call and I’ll do whatever I can to help you through it, okay? You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I’m not sure how it’ll live up to this…” Steve’s arms wound back around the historical-fiction novelist’s waist and pulled her in close with a content smile on his face. “But I promise you I will.” The familiar jingle of their local ten o’clock news sounded throughout the living room, causing him to give his girlfriend an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, we’re probably missing that screwball comedy marathon you wanted to watch, aren’t we?”

“It’s okay, I’ll just head down to Barnes & Noble one of these days and buy the Blu-Rays. Besides, I think that now’s the perfect time to introduce you to one of favorite comfort movies, but only if you’re up for it.”

Steve, touched by the consideration she was continuously showing for him and his mental health, swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and pressed a chaste kiss onto her lips, pulling back after a moment with a playful grin. “I’m up for anything, so long as it’s with my best girl…and her world-famous Milk Duds-and-popcorn concoction, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” (Y/N) readily agreed as she fought the smirk of amusement that was threatening to spread across her face; after extricating herself from his embrace, she hopped to her feet and offered him her hand, lacing her fingers around his once he stood and leading him into the kitchen as she continued. “We’ll make my not-so-secret recipe, pop open another bottle of pricey wine, and then we’ll be all set to watch 1978’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band!”

“That’s the Beatles, right? So, does that mean the movie’s about the album?”

“…You’ll see.”

Needless to say, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was one of the strangest movies Steve had ever seen, but it was also one of the most entertaining movie-watching experiences he’d ever had; he chuckled at all of the corny yet earnest moments, watched in admiration as his girlfriend sang along to each and every one of the Beatles songs that played and even caught himself tearing up at the few emotional moments, all while indulging in some delicious popcorn and wine. Steve’s arms were holding (Y/N) close while they lounged across the couch and it was then, as the historical-fiction novelist in his arms sang her heart out to the film’s absurd yet catchy version of ‘Get Back,’ that he realized he felt more grounded in reality than he’d felt in a long, long time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, Steve was returning to his room in the Avengers Facility after a long intelligence briefing with the rest of the team when he spotted a box sitting in front of his suite’s locked door. I don’t remember ordering anything online, he thought to himself as he cautiously picked up the box and brought it inside; their mail was regularly scanned and checked for explosives and biological weapons upon arrival and while Steve was fond of bidding on used vinyl records on Ebay, he hadn’t logged into his account since well before his mission in Argentina.

“Please don’t be another ‘Over The Hill’ shirt from Tony,” He sighed under his breath, setting the package down onto his bed and retrieving his pocket knife from his dresser drawer.

Steve carefully sliced through the packing tape and pushed open the cardboard flaps, his head tilting to the side when his eyes landed on a misshapen bundle of bubble wrap inside. His interest piqued, he unfurled the piece of bubble wrap and his brows rose in surprise when a large stuffed black and white cow tumbled out onto his comforter; a small card was attached to the sky-blue bow around the stuffed animal’s neck, and he wasted no time in detaching it and reading its brief contents.

Sweetheart,

Meet Buttercup the Cow! I did a little research and found out that weighted stuffed animals can help reduce feelings of anxiety and even ground someone who’s experiencing a panic attack; whenever you begin to feel yourself spiraling or getting lost in your memories, hold Buttercup and imagine that I’m right there with you, giving you the biggest hug imaginable.

With all my love,

Your Sunshine

Steve’s eyes prickled with unshed tears as he placed the heartfelt note down on his dresser, right beside the framed sketch he’d drawn of his beautiful girlfriend long before they began to date. He picked up the stuffed cow and tested its weight in his hands before hugging it tight to his chest; he could already feel his shoulders relaxing and when he nuzzled his cheek against the soft fabric, he realized that the clever historical-fiction novelist had sprayed some of her perfume – Design by Paul Sebastian – onto the stuffed cow. Breathing in the familiar notes of tuberose and jasmine, Steve briefly closed his eyes as he smiled to himself and thought about how much he loved his girlfriend and her kind heart.

A brilliant idea suddenly came to Steve’s mind and after setting Buttercup down on his pillow, he pulled a jacket on, tucked his wallet into his back pocket and scooped up his motorcycle’s keys, hurrying out of his suite and down the hall to the common room; Sam was in the middle of making a sandwich while Wanda and Vision sat together on the sofa debating their favorite sitcoms, the counselor looking up from his half-made meal and flashing him a welcoming smile. “Hey, man, we’re gonna do a little team bonding and watch Modern Family while we eat lunch; you want a sandwich or a wrap?”

“Thanks for the offer, Sam, but I’ve gotta go run an errand,” Steve replied with an apologetic look and twirled his keys around his finger. “Do you happen to know where the nearest Barnes & Noble is?”

“Um, I think there’s one up in Kingston…?”

“1200 Ulster Avenue.” They both looked over at their android teammate as he nonchalantly continued. “According to all available data, the store sees low to moderate business around this time, and the traffic appears to be light.”

An impressed Steve gave him an appreciative nod. “Thanks, Vis.”

Their exchange caught Wanda’s attention, causing her to look up from her box set of DVD’s and arch a curious brow. “You usually detest going out on errands. Is everything all right?”

“Yep, I’ve just got some Blu-Rays I need to buy.” He flashed his befuddled teammates a grin as he brusquely headed out of the common room. “I’ll see you guys later!”

As he jogged down the steps and crossed their private parking lot towards his motorcycle, the cell phone in his pocket chimed; he swung his leg over and sat as he pulled his phone out to check his text messages, chuckling to himself after reading his friend’s brief message.

Sam: If you show up at Booksmart’s doorstep with a box set of old Cary Grant flicks, she just might ask you to marry her on the spot 😂

Glancing up towards the floor-to-ceiling window in the common room and spotting an amused Sam watching him, Steve grinned and gave the counselor a teasing salute before revving up the engine and taking off. I can’t think of a better outcome than that, he thought to himself as he sped down the road, a truly happy smile spreading across her face at the mental image of someday marrying the love of his life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: And there we have it! I promise, the next one-shot will be a little happier and although I haven't decided which movie/show I wanna tackle next, I'm sure that little series will be happier too! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ziGMhEsAw833GQ9eV44nR?si=6dfead09c76848d5 

Stumblin’ In Book VII: “Superhero Snapshots” Masterlist 

Stumblin’ In Book II: “Age of Ultron” Masterlist

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[alienssstufff]

LAST LIFE APOCALYPSE AU MASTERLIST

A very intensely written Life Series au by ME!

All general updates questions and lore can be found in the #last life apocalypse au tag! This post in particular will act as a masterlist regarding the timeline, worldbuilding and lore of the au. I wish to (hopefully) keep updating this post as more characters and arcs are revealed. 

IMPORTANT YOU VISIT THIS LINK FIRST BEFORE ENTERING (It’s pretty): > Last Life Apocalypse AU Intro (Talks about the mechanics)

Now without further ado - lets begin:

TIMELINE (Summarised)

The timeline of the AU is defined by two major arcs:

The past PROLOGUE 3RD LIFE that is the childhood of majority of the cast (location: their childhood town)

LAST LIFE PRESENT day that takes place in the woods (the main event - when the Apocalypse starts)

These are arcs that involve most if not all of the cast members from their respective seasons.

[BETWEEN ARCS] Between these arcs occur smaller events - big to some but not on a scale to affect everyone. This is the transition period after the cast graduate from Middle School and go their separate ways before reuniting (by fate) in the Last Life Woods. Events that happen in the between arcs take inspiration from the CC’s other respective series beyond the Life Series.

Some current inspirations: Evo SMP, Hermitcraft (various seasons), Scar’s TCD series, Bdubs’ SOTF. More about their involvement as updates progress.

[SCU SPIN-OFF] Consider this as an epilogue describing the state of the planet decades after the main cast has died. Not considered a ‘major arc’ as it is not focused on the main cast but exists solely for worldbuilding purposes (because I like it :] ).

WORLDBUILDING

Setting of Last Life takes place in the woods, think of American national parks or camping grounds on a road trip, or the Walking Dead (the telltale game not the show)

CLIMATE: Generic American woodlands climate but with a less generic winter weather. As the situations for the player’s get more dire, so does the environment around with forecasts for an oncoming snow blizzard from Magic Mountain as the world fades to white.

It is also during this time of year and climate where a creature known as the Wither is rumoured to roam the lands. It is a cryptid that unlike most woodland creatures, the Wither wakes from hibernation only during the Winter when it is cold enough and feasts on a very specific carnivorous diet. In reality this is known as the Patient 0 of the Bogeydisease, born and mutated within the labs of the Research Facility, leading to the downfall desolation of what is now known as the Abandoned Observatory.

MAIN LOCATIONS:

SOUTHLANDS (Camp Southlands) - Were once a popular camping hotspot before the apocalypse. The people who survived there were once camp counselors (Grian, Impulse, Mambo, Martyn, Jimmy). The grounds acted as both a family resort and a summer camp for kids  where they are divided into one of the five factions supervised by each counselor: -MARTYN Counsellor of Athletics and house of the GREEN CATS -IMPULSE Counsellor of Cooking and house of the YELLOW SUN BEARS -JIMMY Counsellor of Safety and house of the BLUE DOGS (formerly blue canaries) -MUMBO Counsellor of Crafts (shop) and house of the BLACK MOTHS -GRIAN Counsellor of (shenanigans) Arts and house of the RED BIRDS

FAIRY FORT (Fairy Fort Reserve FFR) - A geographically enclosed area dedicated to protecting the land and the endangered animals that are shelter there. Ownership of the Fairy Fort was passed along the generations of Lizzie’s family tree. The people who survived there are park rangers with Lizzie as their lead. They have current beef with the Southlanders as there are many things they disagree with and compete against.

ICE FORT (Shade-E-E’s Gas) - As it’s located near the center of the map, the ethubs ‘Ice Fort’ is one of the only ounces of urban infrastructure out in the woods. Upon arrival of the Apocalypse, it is a fortified Shade-E-E’s gas station barricaded by the only employees Bdubs and Etho (the manager). It once acted as a pitstop to drivers and travelers alike and is the only place in the woods that has a working cellphone tower and final connection to the outside world dubbed as “Etho’s Tree”.

TEAM BEST HIDEOUT / ROCKTAPUS (Abandoned Observatory/Research Centre) - An abandoned observatory squatted on by Skizz that doubled as a bunker that was originally built in preparation for a nuclear fallout. Upstairs the observatory contains secret government documents regarding information about the Bogeydisease and the Wither cryptid - Indecipherable to all except for Tango who understands them. Downstairs the bunker’s monitors are linked to several surveillance cameras in the woods.

GASLIGHT GIRLBOSS GATEKEEP (Scottage Club) - A retreat saved for the rich and elite. While the Scottage Club has its HQ here, holiday properties of its patrons are scattered all across the map (the secret green lives hideouts).

MAGIC MOUNTAIN - Kept off limits just for how dangerous the place is, no one ever goes there. Rumor has it the mountain has magic capabilities that can drive a man insane. The last human sightings near Magic Mountain were two lone hikers who by arrogance wished to conquer and come back surviving the woodland’s most treacherous point. And while they were never seen again, they say if you look very closely with a spyglass, you can catch glimpses of a small, broken up hut at the top.

THE NETHER (NETHERLANDS not-the-country): The NETHER is the closest town over from the Last Life woodlands and is home to facilities such as a Fortress Dept Store and a camping & fishing shop known as The Bastion. While hypothetically the cast could escape the woodlands to live in the Nether, it is because of the high value resources that can be found in these stores that attract both surviving scavengers and zombies alike - making the town very dangerous to defend.

The ‘nether portals’ in this au are the vehicles each team has on them to travel between locations. The Nether may be the closest town there is, but even walking there on foot is extremely dangerous - especially considering the apocalypse and the harsh elements.

BOGEYDISEASE

For legal reasons, I dropped biology in highschool as soon as I could - I do not know shit about diseases and how people develop medicine. This is a fictional disease. TLDR; I am talking out of my ass.

[Origins of the Bogeydisease and the L.I.F.E antidotes pending (secret!)]

Transfer of the disease in its early stages of evolution could only be transferred if bacteria had direct contact with the host’s bloodstream. At best (?) in small amounts the host would experience a fever and shivering. At worst the host would feel extreme fatigue, most likely dying of starvation/dehydration due to it being unaware of their hunger (and fatigue - the disease manipulates the brain into thinking the host is not fatigued). 

Nature of the disease (well.. virus) as it continues is designed to adapt with the changing environment. While most samples were not able to survive its effects, some victims of the Wither’s bite would survive and exhibit a second stage of the disease’s effects. If the host were to survive the initial stages of the disease, once the disease has fully adapted to the body of its host it would evolve in order to prolong its survival. This is evident by physical alterations of the host’s appearance.

Not just physical changes but behavioural as well. The host would act more akin to serving its natural instincts, more inclined to the hunt and the tendency to keep itself alive. 

People who are in the second stages and beyond of contracting the Bogeydisease are considered Red Lives. It is possible to cure Red Lives out of the Bogeydisease as long as the disease has not evolved to its later stages. WHEN a person is cured using a L.I.F.E antidote they may experience side-effects [explained in the INTRO]. In some instances, ex-hosts may retain some of the traits afflicted when they were Bogey.

Later stages of disease evolution. The disease and its hosts show strong similarities to how rabies can be passed between hosts. And based on how a host reacts to the disease, hosts of the disease are classified into two types:

Host is overwhelmed by the effects of the disease and dies early. If the body and surrounding scene are left untreated, the disease will continue to live on in the decomposing body and grow a special fungus that feeds off the remains. The fungus and its disease reproduces by its spores which allow the disease to not only infect the environment around but also proves the possibility in contracting an airborne variant of the disease.

Host grows accustomed to the effects of the disease exhibiting the aforementioned loss of higher brain functions above (incapable of reason and rational thought). Movements grow erratic, constantly moving as a means of maintaining fixed body temperature. For colder climates the diet of hosts relies on feasting on warm bodies. Failure to do so will induce drowsiness in the host, placing them in a slumber in order to regain energy and try again. Hosts also show signs of excessive salivation and occasional bleeding. Direct exposure to any of the host’s bodily fluids is another method in contracting the disease.

[ REMINDER THIS IS AN ONGOING AU , MORE TO BE UPDATED ]

[fuzzywitchcollector]

It's kinda funny, so I first learned about Bridget as a character before strive came out. I loved Bridget's XX design, and I got kinda obsessed with the character, thinking "wow a boy that wears girl clothes and everyone thinks is a girl, that's just like me!". This was before I came out to myself as trans ofc.

After I finally decided to go through with this whole transition thing though, that's when Bridget was released for strive, her first new game appearance in almost a decade. It was great to have this character I loved being in a game again, but more than that, it turns out she realized she's trans too!

It's funny, a lot of people were saying "oh why'd you have to make Bridget trans! Now we have one less example of femboy representation in media!", but for me I felt represented by Bridget in all her forms. In my opinion, she's amazing representation for people that aren't too confident about this whole gender thing at first, and that's okay. Her being fun to play as is just the icing on top.

[apod]

2023 August 25

A Season of Saturn Image Credit & Copyright: Andy Casely

Explanation: Ringed planet Saturn will be at its 2023 opposition, opposite the Sun in Earth's skies, on August 27. While that puts the sixth planet from the Sun at its brightest and well-placed for viewing, its beautiful ring system isn't visible to the unaided eye. Still, this sequence of telescopic images taken a year apart over the last six years follows both Saturn and rings as seen from inner planet Earth. The gas giant's ring plane tilts from most open in 2018 to approaching edge-on in 2023 (top to bottom). That's summer to nearly the autumn equinox for Saturn's northern hemisphere. In the sharp planetary portraits, Saturn's northern hexagon and a large storm system are clearly visible in 2018. In 2023, ice moon Tethys is transiting, casting its shadow across southern hemisphere cloud bands, while Saturn's cold blue south pole is emerging from almost a decade of winter darkness.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap230825.html

[godsfavdarling]

01 new beginnings

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!oc summary: After nearly two decades with the FBI, Dr. Spencer Reid makes a career shift to teaching at Georgetown University. There, he shares an office with Dr. Brittany Reed, a sociologist. warnings: none for this chapter words: 3,9k

Spencer stood amidst the scattered boxes in the office, meticulously arranging his belongings on his new desk. The scent of fresh paint mingled with the faint aroma of coffee, signaling the start of a new chapter in his life. His gaze wandered to the other desk in the room, its pristine surface a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

The desk was neatly organized, adorned with a half-finished iced latte, stacks of glossy women's magazines, and an array of black pens. A closed laptop sat at the center, flanked by notebooks and a sleek black purse resting nearby. Spencer couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity as he surveyed the items, each one offering a glimpse into the personality of his mysterious officemate.

Lost in thought, Spencer was startled by the sound of the door opening. He turned to see a woman entering the room, her presence commanding attention. She was tall and elegant, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders and piercing gray eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses. Dressed in a chic black blouse and wide-legged suit pants, she exuded confidence and poise.

The soft lighting of the office accentuated the delicate features of her face—the slight curve of her lips, the subtle arch of her eyebrows, and the gentle contours of her cheeks. Her long black hair framed her face like a cascading waterfall, adding to her allure.

"Dr. Brittany Reed, I presume?" Spencer said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

The woman flashed him a warm smile as she approached. "That's me. And you must be Dr. Spencer Reid," she replied, extending her hand.

Spencer shook her hand, feeling a surge of awkwardness at the physical contact. "Yes, that's correct. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Reed."

Brittany chuckled, her laughter filling the room. "Call me Brittany. And isn't it funny how our last names sound so similar? Reed and Reid!"

Spencer couldn't help but smile at the coincidence, though his mind was still racing with thoughts and observations. He watched as Brittany settled into her desk, effortlessly navigating the space with a grace he could only admire from afar.

"I hope you don't mind my mess," Brittany said. "They're doing some renovations in the department, so we'll have to make do with sharing for now."

"No problem at all," Spencer replied as he sat down, trying to sound more relaxed than he felt. He couldn't help but observe Brittany. She had an easy going demeanor, and her laughter filled the room as they kept talking.

"So, Spencer, what made you decide to leave the FBI and join us here at Georgetown?"

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing to find the right words. "Well, it's... it's a long story. I suppose I just needed a change of pace, a new challenge."

Brittany nodded understandingly, her gaze curious but non-intrusive. "I can imagine. It must be quite a transition."

"Yeah, it definitely is," Spencer admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I'm still trying to find my footing, to be honest."

She chuckled and said, "Well, at least you won't have to worry about any serial killers lurking in the halls. Just your typical college students—though some of them could probably use a session or two with a therapist!"

"Actually, statistically speaking, there's quite a bit to consider regarding the prevalence of certain behaviors among college-aged individuals," Spencer began, his tone becoming more animated as he delved into his area of expertise. "For instance, did you know that approximately 10% of college students admit to engaging in some form of criminal activity?"

Brittany's eyebrows raised in interest, encouraging Spencer to continue.

"And when we look at specific types of crimes, the numbers are even more alarming," Spencer continued, his words picking up speed as he delved into his analysis. "According to recent studies, nearly 20% of college students report having committed acts of vandalism, while over 30% admit to underage drinking, and approximately 20% acknowledge using illicit substances."

He paused, taking a moment to gauge Brittany's reaction. To his surprise, she was listening intently, her eyes fixed on him with genuine curiosity.

"But it's not just about the crimes themselves," Spencer continued, his voice gaining momentum. "We also have to consider the underlying factors that contribute to this behavior. Academic stress, peer pressure, and socioeconomic disparities all play a significant role in shaping the choices students make."

As Spencer delved deeper into his analysis, he couldn't help but notice Brittany's attentive demeanor. She didn't interrupt him or try to redirect the conversation—instead, she seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"And when you factor in the influence of social media and online communities," Spencer added, his mind racing with data and statistics, "the potential for criminal behavior among college students becomes even more complex. It's a multifaceted issue that requires a comprehensive understanding of human behavior and societal trends... But you probably know about that because you are an expert in how technology influences society..."

He stared at her in awe, struck by her patience and genuine interest in his ramblings.

"Sorry, I started rambling," Spencer said, his voice filled awkwradness.

Brittany smiled warmly, her gray eyes meeting his with understanding. "No need to apologize, Spencer. I found what you had to say incredibly insightful!"

"Thank you," Spencer said, his voice carrying a hint of gratitude as he turned his gaze away from her. Despite his efforts to maintain composure, he couldn't shake the sheepish feeling that crept over him.

"Have there been any studies on the prevalence of criminal behavior among professors?" she asked him, as she walked over to his desk and sat on the edge, her thigh now partially resting on the wood.

Spencer couldn't help but notice the change in perspective, her presence suddenly more pronounced. From this angle, she looked even more captivating, and Spencer found himself momentarily distracted by her proximity.

"Um, well, criminal tendencies among professors are... um..." Spencer's words trailed off as he struggled to maintain his train of thought, his gaze inadvertently drawn to Brittany's intent expression. He could feel her eyes on him, watching him closely as he stumbled over his words.

"Sorry, I, uh..." Spencer felt a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks. He cleared his throat and continued.

"To answer your question, there have been studies that suggest... um, criminal tendencies within academia have been the subject of numerous studies over the years. While it's true that the vast majority of professors uphold the highest ethical standards, there have been instances where individuals within the academic community have been implicated in criminal activities."

He paused briefly, glancing at Brittany before continuing, captivated by her attentive gaze.

"But it's mostly cases of academic fraud, research misconduct, and even instances of embezzlement within universities," Spencer explained, his words flowing effortlessly as he delved into the nuances of the topic. "The pressures of academia, combined with the temptation of personal gain, can sometimes lead individuals down a dangerous path."

As he spoke, Spencer couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for Brittany's genuine interest in the subject. Her unwavering attention fueled his confidence, allowing him to articulate his thoughts with clarity and precision.

"And while these cases are relatively rare, they serve as a reminder that no profession is immune to the influence of criminal behavior," he reiterated, his voice filled with conviction. "It's a complex issue that warrants further examination, both from a societal and institutional perspective."

He paused, his eyes lingering on Brittany for a moment longer before a playful glint sparked in them. "But not many serial killers," he added with a hint of amusement, a small smile playing on his lips.

Brittany chuckled softly, her own smile mirroring Spencer's. "Thankfully, we don't have to worry about that here," she replied, her tone light and teasing.

She gracefully turned and walked back to her desk. Spencer couldn't tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the effortless sway of her hips with each step she took. He found himself captivated by the fluidity of her movements, the subtle elegance that seemed to exude from every gesture.

Unconsciously, Spencer leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing the contours of Brittany's figure as she moved across the room. He felt a rush of warmth flood his cheeks, his pulse quickening at the sight before him.

Once Brittany settled back into her chair, Spencer quickly averted his gaze, focusing intently on the papers scattered across his desk. He could feel the heat still lingering in his cheeks from his earlier observation, and he silently chastised himself for allowing his thoughts to wander.

Her effortless confidence and poise were a stark contrast to Spencer's own awkwardness, and in her presence, he felt acutely aware of his own shortcomings. Her warmth and charisma seemed to draw him in, yet at the same time, they left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

He busied himself with arranging the papers on his desk, his movements slightly fumbled as he tried to regain his composure.

Despite his best efforts to mask his unease, he couldn't shake the feeling of being out of his depth. It was as if her mere presence had a way of unraveling the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.

But even as he struggled to find his footing, Spencer couldn't deny the strange allure of Brittany's presence. There was something captivating about her confidence and poise, something that drew him in despite his own insecurities.

As Spencer busied himself with organizing his desk, he felt the weight of Brittany's gaze upon him. Every so often, he would steal a glance in her direction, only to find her looking back at him with a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

It was as if she could see right through him, could sense the flutter of nerves in his chest and the slight flush that colored his cheeks whenever she glanced his way. Despite his attempts to appear composed, Brittany's perceptive gaze seemed to unravel him with ease.

Spencer couldn't help but feel a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue at the way Brittany seemed to effortlessly read him like an open book.

After a while of engrossed work, a knock on the door interrupted their quiet concentration. Spencer and Brittany exchanged glances before Brittany rose to answer it.

Opening the door, Brittany greeted the woman with a warm smile. "Maya! Come in," she exclaimed, gesturing for the red-haired woman to enter.

Maya stepped into the office with a bright grin. "Hey, Brittany! How's your first day going?" she asked cheerfully, glancing around the room.

Brittany motioned towards Spencer. "Maya, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's our new colleague here at our department. And this is Dr. Maya Cooper, her office's next to ours and she's my friend!" she introduced.

Spencer offered a polite smile, feeling a bit self-conscious "Nice to meet you, Dr. Cooper," he greeted.

"Hello Dr. Reid. That's funny you guys share an office... You know... with the names..."

Maya's gaze shifted between Spencer and Brittany before she turned back to Brittany with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Hey, so I was thinking... Since it's the start of the academic year and all, how about we all go out for drinks later? A little professor integration, if you will," she suggested, a hint of excitement in her voice.

Brittany's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "That sounds like a fantastic idea! What do you say, Spencer? Would you like to join us?" she asked, her gaze lingering on him with a hopeful smile.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, feeling the familiar tug of apprehension in his chest. The idea of going out for drinks with his new colleagues made him feel slightly uneasy. But as he glanced at Brittany, her warm smile and genuine invitation softened his resolve.

"Um, sure, I... I'd be up for it," Spencer replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

The girls' faces lit up with delight at his acceptance, and Maya clapped her hands together excitedly. "Great! It's settled then. Adam and Carly are also coming! Oh, and Brittany, don't forget to ask Lawrence to come along. The more, the merrier!" she exclaimed before turning to leave.

Spencer fidgeted with a pen on his desk, his mind swirling with thoughts about the upcoming gathering.

"Do you and Lawrence know Maya well?" Spencer ventured cautiously, his tone tinged with uncertainty.

"Yeah, we've known each other for a while," Brittany replied with a smile, sensing Spencer's apprehension.

"It's nice that you include him and spend time with both him and your work colleagues," Spencer remarked, hoping to steer the conversation in a casual direction.

Brittany chuckled softly at Spencer's assumption, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Oh my god? Do you think that Lawrence is my boyfriend?" she replied, amusement evident in her voice.

Spencer's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he realized his mistake. "Oh, I, uh... I see, I'm sorry. I just thought..." he stammered, feeling relieved yet still unsure of himself.

Brittany's laughter filled the air, her amusement contagious. "Don't worry, Spencer. It's okay. Also Lawrence is very much unavailable... in that way, at least," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Spencer's confusion deepened at Brittany's cryptic remark, but before he could inquire further, she offered a reassuring smile. "He's gay, Spencer. Very gay! And he's my neighbor and my best friend!" she clarified with a playful wink.

Understanding dawned on Spencer, and he couldn't help but join in Brittany's laughter. "Got it," he replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Brittany asked teasingly, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"What? No, of course not. Why would I..." Spencer started to reply, his voice trailing off as he realized Brittany was joking.

She laughed, the sound light and playful. "I'm joking!" she exclaimed, shaking her head at Spencer's earnest response.

Brittany continued to laugh, finding the idea of Lawrence being her boyfriend utterly hilarious. Spencer couldn't help but laugh along with her, grateful for her easy going nature.

After their classes concluded, Brittany and Spencer made their way to the metro station together, sharing casual conversation along the journey. The excitment of the evening's gathering filled the air as they rode the train to the bar where their colleagues were waiting.

As they arrived at the bar, Spencer took in the ambiance of the place. It was a cozy establishment with dim lighting, exposed brick walls adorned with vintage posters, and a lively atmosphere. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air, mingling with the soft melody of background music.

Brittany and Spencer found their colleagues gathered around a table in the corner of the bar. Maya and Lawrence were already seated, engaged in animated conversation. Two other individuals, Adam and Carly, joined them, completing the group.

Brittany intoduced Spencer with a warm smile as they approached the table, gesturing for him to take a seat beside her. Lawrence, a tall black man dressed in a bright dress shirt and colorful pants, flashed a friendly grin as they sat down.

"Spencer, this is Lawrence," Brittany introduced, her tone light and playful. "Lawrence, meet Spencer. He thought you were my boyfriend!"

Lawrence's eyes widened in mock horror, and he feigned a dramatic gasp. "Oh no, not another one!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I might just have to throw up if I hear that again."

Spencer chuckled nervously, feeling a pang of embarrassment at Lawrence's jest. He glanced at Brittany, who was smiling mischievously, clearly enjoying the exchange.

As Brittany turned to Spencer, her voice laced with amusement, she asked, "So, what'll it be? I'm heading to the bar."

Spencer quickly rose from his seat, a determined look in his eyes as he replied, "I'll order for us."

Brittany raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by Spencer's sudden assertiveness. "Oh, really?" she quipped, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Quit the gentleman act, Spencer. I'm perfectly capable of buying drinks. You can buy me coffee some day. Now, what are you having?"

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then replied simply, "Water."

Brittany's eyes widened in surprise, a hint of incredulity in her voice as she repeated, "Water?"

"Yes," Spencer confirmed, nodding firmly.

"You'll have water?" Brittany pressed, unable to hide her amusement.

"Yes," Spencer repeated, his tone unwavering.

"Okay," Brittany said, shaking her head with a laugh. "One water for Spencer."

As she made her way to the bar, Spencer couldn't help but smile at Brittany's playful teasing.

They sat at the table, enjoying their drinks and conversation and Brittany sipped on her second beer, the lively atmosphere of the bar enveloping them.

Spencer couldn't help but notice the way Brittany's hand wrapped around the cold glass of beer, her long coffin-shaped nails painted in a subtle beige hue. The soft clinking of her gold rings against the glass created a gentle melody that resonated in the air

Suddenly, one of the bartenders approached, placing a colorful drink before Brittany and pointing to a guy at the bar, indicating that it was from him.

Brittany looked at the drink with a mixture of surprise and mild disgust, then glanced over at the guy at the bar. "Oh my god," she exclaimed, her expression incredulous.

Maya and Lawrence burst into laughter at Brittany's reaction. "Why would he even buy me a drink? I'm drinking beer. Is he blind?" Brittany wondered aloud, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Well, it's not very ladylike of you. He knew better what you'd like!" Lawrence teased, a playful smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, how could you know what you should drink? He's here to tell you!" Carly added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Spencer watched the whole interaction unfold, intrigued by the dynamics of Brittany's friendship group. Brittany continued to stare at the drink, seemingly at a loss for what to do with it.

"What am I supposed to do with that?" she mused aloud, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Go to him and say thank you. He's not that bad looking," Lawrence suggested with a mischievous grin, eliciting laughter from the group.

"I'll take it!" Maya declared enthusiastically, already enjoying a similar drink of her own. Brittany pushed the glass towards her friend with a grateful smile, relieved to be rid of the unexpected gesture.

As they left the bar, Brittany lit up a cigarette, the glow casting a warm light on her face as they continued their conversation. They debated which way to go home, their voices mingling with the sounds of the city streets.

Suddenly, the guy from the bar approached Brittany, catching her attention. "Hey..." he started, but Brittany turned to him with a polite smile, saying hi.

"So, I was thinking..." he began, but Brittany swiftly interrupted him, her hand reaching out to grasp Spencer's arm as she came up with a quick solution to rid themselves of the unwanted attention.

"Sorry," she interjected, her tone firm but friendly. "I'm here with my boyfriend."

As Brittany's hand gently closed around Spencer's arm, a rush of warmth spread through him, unexpected but not unwelcome. Her touch, though brief, sent a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins, stirring something deep within him. 

And when she casually referred to him as her boyfriend, a small thrill ran down his spine, igniting a flicker of excitement in his chest. Though he didn't say anything in response, the subtle shift in his demeanor didn't go unnoticed.

The guy's expression shifted, his eyes widening in realization. "Oh, right! Sorry, man! I didn't know. Have a great night!" he exclaimed, before quickly turning and disappearing into the night.

"Okay, we have to go. Bye guys," Carly said quickly, her voice cutting through the chatter as she and Maya and Adam hurriedly hailed a taxi that had just arrived.

Lawrence also chimed in, "I gotta go the other way... I might... have a date..." With a wave, he disappeared into the bustling city streets.

Suddenly, Spencer and Brittany found themselves alone, the noise of the city enveloping them once more. Brittany turned to Spencer, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry for what I said back there... I didn't mean to imply..."

Spencer nodded understandingly, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's okay, Brittany. I understand," he reassured her, grateful for her quick thinking in diffusing the situation.

Brittany sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she visibly eased into the conversation. "You know, sometimes guys just let go easier when there's a threat of a boyfriend," she explained, a hint of frustration in her voice. "It's like they can't take no for an answer unless they think you're taken."

Spencer nodded in agreement, glanced at her ciggarete and remarked, "6 minutes."

Brittany furrowed her brow in confusion. "What?" she asked

"That's what I used to tell my mom when she'd light a cigarette," Spencer explained, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "A cigarette takes 6 minutes of your life, so every time she smoked one, I'd tell her that it's 6 minutes less I get to spend with her."

"That's sweet... I'm still gonna smoke. I only smoke when I drink. I don't know why..." Brittany trailed off, her voice carrying a hint of resignation.

Spencer interrupted her gently, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Actually, there's a psychological explanation for that," he began, his tone measured as he launched into an explanation.

"You see, smoking and drinking often go hand in hand because they both activate the brain's reward system. When you drink alcohol, it increases the levels of dopamine in your brain, which makes you feel good. Smoking can have a similar effect, releasing dopamine and other neurotransmitters that produce feelings of pleasure and relaxation."

Brittany listened intently as Spencer continued to explain, his words weaving a fascinating narrative about the intricate workings of the brain and its response to certain stimuli.

"Additionally, there's also the social aspect to consider," Spencer added. "Smoking is often associated with socializing and relaxation, so when you're out with friends and having a few drinks, the urge to smoke can be especially strong."

Brittany nodded thoughtfully, absorbing Spencer's words with interest. "That makes sense," she mused, a newfound understanding dawning in her eyes.

"Yeah, it's all about the brain's response to different stimuli and the associations we make with certain behaviors," he concluded, his voice warm with enthusiasm.

He smiled as Brittany hummed in response, the sound of her exhaling smoke mingling with the cool evening air. He watched her for a moment, noticing the way her features softened in contemplation, her gray eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlights.

As they continued walking, the realization slowly dawned on them that they were both heading in the same direction. Spencer cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

"So, uh, which way are you headed?" he asked, his tone casual but tinged with curiosity.

Brittany glanced at him, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Funny enough, I live just a few blocks from here," she replied, her voice warm with surprise.

Spencer's eyes widened in realization. "Really? Me too," he exclaimed, a sense of serendipity settling over him.

Brittany chuckled softly, a twinkle in her eye. "Looks like we're neighbors then," she remarked, her tone light and playful.

"Yeah, it seems that way," he replied.

[denimbex1986]

'I was about three episodes into the Netflix Ripley mini-series when I decided to read the Patricia Highsmith novel it was based on. A question about the setting of the mini-series sparked my interest in the novel. The series claimed to have been set in 1961, but it gave me feelings of post-war Italy, maybe 1949 or so.

The answer is that the Highsmith novel was published in 1955, which means that it captures a cultural sense of the mid-1950s. 1961 is not too far off from that.

By now, everyone should know that the title character, Tom Ripley, is a sociopath. The word “sociopathy” is not used in either presentation. The acting of Andrew Scott in the Netflix series captures the essence of a sociopath. Scott plays Ripley as awkward, autitistic, and anhedonic — Scott’s Ripley is one off-beat, creepy dude.

The opening scene in the Netflix series is a perfect representation of the sociopath in action. On the spur of the moment, Ripley intercepts a letter from a postal carrier by acting as if he is going into an apartment. He then uses the letter to scam the sender to send a replacement check to him by posing as a bill collector. He has to abandon the cashing of the check when he senses that he is about to be unmasked. The sequence portrays the opportunism of a lot of crime, which has to be the domain of sociopaths who do not hesitate a moment out of guilt or conscience.

In contrast, it doesn’t seem that Highsmith had a developed knowledge of sociopathy. Her Ripley is weirdly bipolar. He transitions from bouts of manic exuberance about his plans to bitter resentment about the injustices he feels he has been subjected to. Highsmith’s Ripley is not nearly as disciplined as the Netflix Ripley. In Highsmith’s novel, for example, Ripley just collects the checks from his victims without ever trying to cash them.

This could reflect the development of the idea of the sociopath/psychopath as a fictional type. We have had decades of tropes and caricatures about high-functioning sociopaths that Highsmith didn’t have. While the idea of psychopathy was introduced in the 1950s, sociopathy had been known since the 1930s.[3] One source describes the history of sociopathy as follows:

While psychopathy was yet to make its premiere in the DSM, sociopathic personality disturbance, or sociopathy, was included in the DSM-I. Sociopathy was developed in the 1930s and consisted of antisocial and dissocial reactions and sexual deviation (Pickersgill, 2012). Differences and similarities existed between sociopathic personality disorder and psychopathy, however psychopathy would not have its own category in the DSM until the publication of the DSM III. In DSM-I, sociopathic personality disturbance, antisocial reaction was defined as a diagnosis for chronically antisocial individuals who didn’t profit from experience or punishment and maintained no real loyalties (Pickersgill, 2012).

This could explain why Tom Ripley is not the smooth and charming manipulator we expect to see in more recent stories involving psychopaths.

It might also explain why Highsmith edges around the homosexual issue.

It seems clear from Highsmith’s novel that Tom is “same-sex attracted.” He is a young man (around 24 or 25) who has been “kept” by a wealthier male who treats him as a possession. Highsmith shares that Tom runs in homosexual circles and poses as a homosexual but is a virgin:

His mind went back to certain groups of people he had known in New York, known and dropped finally, all of them, but he regretted now having ever known them. They had taken him up because he amused them, but he had never had anything to do with any of them! When a couple of them had made a pass at him, he had rejected them — though he remembered how he had tried to make it up to them later by getting ice for their drinks, dropping them off in taxis when it was out of his way, because he had been afraid they would start to dislike him. He’d been an ass! And he remembered, too, the humiliating moment when Vic Simmons had said, Oh, for Christ sake, Tommie, shut up! when he had said to a group of people, for perhaps the third or fourth time in Vic’s presence, “I can’t make up my mind whether I like men or women, so I’m thinking of giving them both up.” Tom had used to pretend he was going to an analyst, because everybody else was going to an analyst, and he had used to spin wildly funny stories about his sessions with his analyst to amuse people at parties, and the line about giving up men and women both had always been good for a laugh, the way he delivered it, until Vic had told him for Christ sake to shut up, and after that Tom had never said it again and never mentioned his analyst again, either. As a matter of fact, there was a lot of truth in it, Tom thought. As people went, he was one of the most innocent and clean-minded he had ever known. That was the irony of this situation with Dickie.

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (pp. 79–80). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

On the other hand, everyone who knows Tom suspects that he is a homosexual. He is fixated on Dickie. He becomes jealous when he sees Dickie with his girlfriend, Marge Sherwood.

In the Netflix series, this backstory is not revealed. There are clues that he might be homosexual and attracted to Dickie, such as the weird scene where he dresses as Dickie, which prompts Dickie to tell Tom that he is not “queer.”

In the book, Tom’s two murders occur after homosexuality is derided. Before Tom murders Dickie, the two men are watching the gymnastics of a group of men that Dickie describes as “daffodils” by quoting lines from a poem. This sets Tom off on a chain of thinking about taking over Dickie’s life after he remembers Aunt Dottie describing him as a “sissy.” Later, Tom justifies killing Freddie Miles for accusing Dickie of “sexual deviation”:

The gin only intensified the same thoughts he had had. He stood looking down at Freddie’s long, heavy body in the polo coat that was crumpled under him, that he hadn’t the energy or the heart to straighten out, though it annoyed him, and thinking how sad, stupid, clumsy, dangerous, and unnecessary his death had been, and how brutally unfair to Freddie. Of course, one could loathe Freddie, too. A selfish, stupid bastard who had sneered at one of his best friends — Dickie certainly was one of his best friends — just because he suspected him of sexual deviation. Tom laughed at that phrase “sexual deviation.” Where was the sex? Where was the deviation? He looked at Freddie and said low and bitterly: “Freddie Miles, you’re a victim of your own dirty mind.”

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (pp. 140–141). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

However, Freddie didn’t make such an accusation. Tom killed him because Freddie had noticed him wearing Dickie’s shoes and Dickie’s bracelet.

In contrast, the Netflix series takes the Freddie character toward gingercide. In the novel, Freddie is a redhead, which disgusts Ripley. Highsmith writes:

The American’s name was Freddie Miles. Tom thought he was hideous. Tom hated red hair, especially this kind of carrot-red hair with white skin and freckles.

Highsmith, Patricia. The Talented Mr. Ripley (p. 64). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.

And who doesn’t feel this way?

A lot of people, apparently, given the disappearance of soulless day-walkers from popular media.

In the Netflix series, Freddie is played by a former (or current) female — the actor is Elliott Summer, who, as it turns out, is Sting’s daughter. The actor who plays Freddie is obviously a woman trying to pass as a man, which means the character is obviously a woman trying to pass as a man, but nothing is ever made of this.

It was like Chekov’s gun was left hanging on the wall.

We are in a Heisenberg’s Trans situation. Is the fact that Freddie is trans part of the story, or are we supposed to pretend that the woman playing the man is a man in both the story and the real world?

Was the character/actor's sexual confusion supposed to be a stand-in for Ripley’s confusion? Are we now supposed to read the actor’s biographies as a metatext to understand the film?

I hope not.

But what does it mean? I don’t have a clue.

The conclusion was another difference between the two. In the novel, Ripley gets away clean. No one ever finds a photo of Dickie Greenleaf and realizes that they’ve been hornswoggled, which, honestly, is strange in retrospect. Certainly, photos were common enough in the 1950s for police to ask the family for a photo to show people in their search for Dickie. The subject is never raised, and the reader may never consider it.

In contrast, in the Netflix series, Tom dives into another identity with the help of John Malkovich, who played Tom Ripley in Ripley’s Game, a movie based on a later Ripley novel.

There are some fascinating details in both the novel and the series, but the characters never resonated with me. In both vehicles, the character of Tom Ripley is not redeemed by intelligence, cleverness, or charisma. In both, he reacts to circumstances. In the novel, the killing of Dickie Greeleaf is deliberate in the sense of being premeditated, but there is no deliberation about the crime or how Tom will escape. In the series, it is an emotional reaction that is thoroughly botched and results in Ripley nearly killing himself. Watching Ripley extemporize a cover-up, which he botched badly, was painful.

In the series, there are moments when Ripley almost displays the criminal competence that I assume he cultivates during the next four books. After that flash of competence, he quickly returns to form, doing imprudent and pathological things. We might be fascinated with his performance if he were competent, but he is such a klutz.

So, what is the enduring appeal of this book? There have been three Ripley movies or series, and the book has been in print for nearly 70 years. Why did I read it? Ripley is an evil man who deserves to have been captured and executed.

Perhaps, the answer is that — God help us — we are fascinated by evil. Maybe we all have an inner sociopath who is begging to be let out to play.'

[karatekels]

Mediation - Chapter 7 - TIGmas Day #9

Welcome to the continuation of the transition from "I don't know karatekels, this may be a bit farfetched" to "oh, this is obviously just crack fiction to get two TIG characters to bone the same woman".

And YES, I've accepted that and I hope you all enjoy this very convenient, likely unrealistic plot. Or maybe I'm crazy and you think it works? Let me know!

Previous Parts: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

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Mediation

Chapter 7: Reconciliation

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Cash’s POV:

The uncomfortable silence brought on by your departure stretches on, neither man willing to be the first to break it. Terry’s body is still somewhat turned towards him, but he stubbornly refuses to look Cash in the eye.

Cash, meanwhile, is still reeling from the new information that has come to light in the past hour or so. Learning that Terry’s adamant refusal to hear him out over the years wasn’t because he hated Cash himself, but because the betrayal had shaken him to his core has Cash lamenting the other man’s stubbornness. All this time, Cash thought that Terry had been angry with him, but in reality he was mainly angry with himself, at the changes that the hurt Cash had caused had drawn out of him. Knowing that the younger man had resorted to excessive force – and to the point that cases had been dismissed because of his mishandling of suspects – after years of being a compassionate cop by his side was particularly disturbing. That wasn’t the Terry McCain he’d known, the one close enough to be a brother to him.

And then there was you.

Cash knows that you aren’t in love with him the way you are with Terry. He isn’t overly bothered by it; your relationship was still far too new for either of you to be in love with one another. But to hear from your own pretty mouth that you felt enough for him that you were unable to choose between him and Terry, that you needed them both in your life…

Well, that has him happier than he can remember being since before he went to prison.

Sure, it may have complicated things between the three of you even more than their already twisted dynamic, but for the first time in over half a decade, someone firmly wanted him in their life. Of course, the sex had been amazing, but there were plenty of other avenues he could go down to scratch that particular itch if he had to. Being genuinely cared for, despite all the things he’s done, was far more priceless to him. And you all but insisting that Terry had to make peace with him if he wanted you to remain in his life was just icing on the cake.

“So, is she right?” he asks, in a far better mood and more than willing to break the silence now that he’s had a moment to reflect on everything that today has given him.

“About what?” Terry asks stubbornly, still looking at the floor. Cash’s gaze softens as he looks at the pained expression visible in the younger man’s profile. He had been happy to show the new kid the ropes when he’d first joined the force as a rookie, but they’d connected as friends so quickly that Cash had assumed that the mentor/mentee dynamic had disappeared shortly into their time together as partners. Apparently, the same had not held true for Terry.

“Do you actually hate me, or do you just hate what happened, and how it went against the way you used to see me?” he presses, trying to be gentle. Trying to rile the man up was a viable strategy when he’d thought that Terry was angry, but the depth of his hurt required a different, more delicate approach.

“How many different ways can I say I don’t want to have this discussion?” Terry snaps, turning his body away from Cash. He tries to ease the tension by incorporating the man’s one known weak spot: you. He privately hopes that you won’t be mad at him for it, should you ever find out the specifics of this conversation.

“Look, I could be way off base – you’ve known Y/N much longer than I have – but she seems like the type to swallow that key over letting us free before we’ve done what she wants.”

“…No, you aren’t wrong about that,” Terry reluctantly admits after a moment of silence, chuckling to himself. Cash smiles but says nothing; if the past few years had taught him anything, it was the importance and value of patience.

“So, she knows what you want to tell me, huh?” Terry finally asks him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Cash stays still, not wanting to spook his friend into putting up his walls again.

“Yeah, she knows,” Cash says quietly, staring at his hands, twirling his ring around his finger. “Had to prove to her that I wasn’t lying about last night when she came in here guns a-blazing.”

“Oh. Oh.” Terry says, and Cash assumes he’s thinking back to last night, judging by the way the man’s dark brows furrow. “So she didn’t know about this until today? That’s probably why she…”

“Jumped into bed with you so willingly? Yeah, probably,” Cash jokes with a snort. Hoping that the other man isn’t too offended by his cavalier reference to the night before, he tries to soften the blow. “I shouldn’t have slept with her. It wasn’t right,” he adds with a frown.

He doesn’t regret the decision to have you – you both needed it, at least once – but he does wish it hadn’t caused Terry so much pain, that he hadn’t had to see it with his own eyes.

“When have you ever made a decision based on what was right?” Terry sneers, and Cash sighs, staring over at the other man until he looks him in the eye.

“Do you really discount every good decision I’ve ever made based on one mistake, Terry?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“One mistake? Please. You lied to me for a year. We were partners, we were best friends; I trusted you with my life, Cash, and I had to watch you throw yours away.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Cash snarls, standing and turning to look down at Terry. Much like the younger man, he didn’t want anyone’s pity either. “Do you think I don’t know that I fucked up my life for good, that I didn’t screw you over in the process? I know, Terry! I’ve had five years to sit with my regret; some days I can’t think of anything else.”

“So then why did you do it?!” Terry explodes, springing up off the couch and shoving Cash in the chest, nevermind that the cuffs made him follow right after as he stumbles back. “We were good, we were solid, we did the job right! We were on the same page about everything!”

“Look at how you ended up reacting, Terry! I had to keep it from you.”

“But why do it in the first place, Cash?” Terry presses, a clear note of vulnerability and desperation ringing in his voice.

“I needed the money,” he replies, bracing himself to tell the man the reason he’d done all this in the first place. Running his hand through his short grey hair, he idly wonders if it will be enough to make Terry reconsider his attitude towards him.

“And you thought going against everything you’ve ever stood for was worth making a few bucks?” Terry scoffs dismissively, trying to cross his arms across his chest defensively until the cuffs jingle, reminding him of their presence.

“I didn’t have much choice! I didn’t have time!”

“Why?! What wasn’t there time for?!”

“My Ma,” Cash breathes, his eyes closed.

He feels Terry still next to him. He can’t even hear the sound of the man’s breathing, and presumes he’s stopped.

 “I’d forgotten when she died,” Terry murmurs apologetically after a moment. “It was a beautiful service.”

“Yeah well, glad you got to see it,” Cash hisses, his heart filled with vitriol as he recalls memories of being denied day parole, both to visit his dying mother and to attend her funeral. Devlin still had enough sway with some of the people working in the prison to ensure his misery, even after his death.

“I’m sorry, Cash.”

There is a prolonged silence as they each take a moment for their grief.

“The doctors told me that there was a new experimental treatment for her type of lymphoma, but it was expensive. And it was taking her so fast…” Cash explains through gritted teeth, trying to keep his tears at bay. He hadn’t cried about his mother outside of a therapist’s office before, not once, not even when she’d died.

“You could’ve come to me!”

“And what could you have done, Ter? I wasn’t gonna put that on you.”

“You at least could have told me – I could’ve talked you out of being an idiot.”

“And that’s exactly why I didn’t. Look, I’m not proud of what I did. I regret it like you wouldn’t believe. It lost me my job, kept me from spending the last bit of time I had with Ma, from saying goodbye… it lost me you.”

Terry looks over to Cash’s face at this last confession, his eyes vulnerable and yet untrusting, and Cash forces himself to hold his gaze. Terry had to see that having to keep the truth from him, to lie and steal and go against everything that had brought them together had been torture for him as well.

“When everything went down the way it did… I assumed I had lost you long before,” Terry confesses in a broken voice, sitting down on the couch again and taking Cash with him. “I felt like I didn’t know who you were anymore, and I didn’t know how long that had been the case for.”

“For what it’s worth, I was very careful about what jobs I took on – nothing that would risk innocent civilians getting hurt. I know that doesn’t make it okay, but hopefully you see it as a little less evil.”

“Did… did you know about Devlin? How deep into it he was?” Terry asks, and Cash has no problem telling him the truth. It’s all he’s wanted to do for years, after all.

“I didn’t know much, just that he was willing to give me work in exchange for a cut. I knew he pinned some of his crimes on me to extend my sentence, but I didn’t find out about how deep it went until afterwards.”

“Why didn’t you try to fight those charges? The ones you knew were Devlin?” Terry asks, still frustrated and with his sense of abandonment on full display.

“Mostly because I didn’t think anyone would believe me, and I didn’t have the money for a good enough attorney to prove it.”

“Why else?” Terry presses, picking up on a second reason.

“I didn’t want Devlin or any of the other guys to take it out on you.”

Terry stiffens. “What?”

“He visited me in prison once, in ’93, a month before he was officially announced as the next Chief, to brag and gloat, mostly. Said he had to make sure his reputation stayed squeaky clean, and suggested some ways to make sure I kept my mouth shut.”

“Devlin was planning to kill me? Even before all that shit with DiMarco went down?”

“He was at least willing to threaten me with the possibility. Knowing what I know now, he probably would’ve done it. If you were getting a reputation as a violent cop, it would’ve been easy for him to make it look like a mob hit.”

Terry grimaces, privately processing this new bit of information, and Cash allows him a moment or two. He’s more grateful than ever that he hadn’t pushed Devlin to see whether or not he was bluffing; if he had, Terry would most assuredly be dead – maybe taking you out too.

“I don’t like who I became when you went away,” Terry admits with a frustrated sigh. “I was just so angry that you’d willingly turned against everything we stood for. I took it out on any lowlife fucker I came across, I had no mercy; I didn’t care. I couldn’t take it out on you, so I took it out on anyone I could before they were behind bars along with you.”

“Did you ever come close to giving me the chance to explain? I know you got my letters.”

“No,” Terry says, spitting the word out forcefully. “I couldn’t bring himself to see you behind bars, to see what you truly were, or what I thought you were at the time. Y/N was probably right – I wasn’t scared of facing what you’d done, I was scared of what I’d done.”

“What do you mean?” Cash asks, confused.

“I mean that you accepted that what you did was wrong and moved on. You got rehabilitated, you got therapy, you worked on yourself… I haven’t. I got so caught up in this weird vendetta against crime in this city that I just… I couldn’t bring myself to think about what I was doing, or why. I just got worse. Y/N helped keep me from really crossing a line, but only just.”

“Ah, our little beacon of morality on the path to reconciliation,” Cash says fondly. The weight that’s been lifted off of his shoulders – off of his soul – is immense, and he thinks he sees a similar change in Terry as well. Finally, everything was out in the open between them.

“She jumped at the chance to help me with the scrap metal take down the second I said it might give you reason to hear me out, you know,” he adds, hoping they can perhaps bond over the well-meaning complication that you presented.

“She was talking you up way before that,” Terry corrects him, giving an affectionate smile at the thought. Cash isn’t naïve enough to think that the smile is for him, but he’s hopeful that one day it might be.

“Wait, what?” he asks, having just processed what Terry had said.

“She’s been trying to get me to see reason since the day she met you, maybe even before that.”

“How? Why?”

“It’s just who she is. She sees something hurting someone she cares about and she tries her best to fix it, regardless of what anyone else has to say about it.” They both chuckle, thinking back to their memories with you and your tenacity as you tried to force them to confront their situation.

“Before we get off-topic… are we good?” Cash asks hesitantly. He tries not to get his hopes up; all he had wanted from Terry all this time was for him to listen, and now he had. Forgiveness was a separate matter altogether.

“No.”

The word rings out clearly, and this time the rejection hits Cash full on. But he braces himself, focusing on his breathing until the tightness in his chest abates somewhat. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

“I mean… not yet.”

Cash forces his gaze over to the other man, wanting to confirm the meaning behind Terry’s addendum, and the man is giving him a soft smile.

“I – really?” he asks in disbelief, and Terry barks out a laugh.

“Alright, fine; we’re not good, and never will be,” Terry jokes, and Cash rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Piss off,” Cash snaps with a scowl that doesn’t reach his eyes. Inside, his heart feels like it could be coming back to life. “You just bounce back awfully quick for someone who’s held a grudge for the better part of a decade.”

Terry shrugs nonchalantly in response, the movement tugging at Cash’s wrist. You weren’t due to be back quite yet, but he’s looking forward to getting out of these cuffs.

“Ter, I… thanks,” Cash says sheepishly, uncomfortable with being vulnerable for so long. The two men awkwardly clap each other on the back with their free hands, and an awkward silence resumes once more.

“Y/N is probably going to take every second of the hour we agreed to,” Terry points out off-handedly, though a wicked grin is starting to steal across his face. “That’s not for another twenty minutes. Plenty of time to give her a nice surprise to come back to – as a thank you for all of her meddling. Whaddaya say?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Cash says with enthusiasm. The two immediately set to work, and a warmth blooms through his chest as they work together again for the first time in ages, even just for something as juvenile as a prank.

“Speaking of Y/N… what are we going to do about her?” Terry asks as they continue setting up their prank. Cash sighs, pausing to run his hand through his hair. It wasn’t the ideal solution, but he doesn’t think there is one unless they can find a way to clone you.

“I’ll step aside,” he offers, and he means it sincerely even though it hurts. “She wants both of us in her life or neither of us, and the two of you have had more time to develop a relationship. She cares about you enough to push you to finally hear me out; it’s the least I can do for the two of you.”

“Cash…” Terry says, pausing a moment to keep his resolve. “I was an asshole. I’ve been an asshole for years. You deserve someone that gets you and is willing to fight for you, and… if something was meant to happen between the two of us, it probably would have by now,” he admits reluctantly.

“Ter, you just started tolerating being in the same room as me again less than ten minutes ago. I’m not doing anything that might jeopardize that.”

“It won’t,” Terry insists, but he hesitates at the look Cash gives him. “Even if it does, maybe it’s my turn to sacrifice. You’ve been through enough.”

The two men bicker back and forth as they continue their work, an eye on the clock telling them that you were due back within a few minutes now.

“She might not want either one of us,” Terry muses pensively as they crouch behind the kitchen counter, getting into position. “She’s stubborn, and probably not willing to choose if she’s scared the other one will walk away.”

“I think her killing us both because of this is a more likely option,” Cash retorts with a low chuckle that he immediately cuts off at the sound of a car door slamming shut outside. You have returned.

“So we let her decide who she wants, and the other will accept it?” Cash confirms, whispering now as they listen for your approach.

“I don’t think she’d let it happen any other way,” Terry hisses under his breath, right before you open the front door.

“Am I about to walk into a bloodbath?” you call from down the hall.

Maniacal grins steal across both of their faces.

Reader’s POV:

“How the fuck was I meant to react to this, you idiots?!” you snarl at both men sitting on the couch before you, and you can tell that they’re just barely keeping up their guilty routine, their shoulders shaking as they try not to burst into laughter.

You scowl at both of them, contemplating clunking their heads together.

The house had been ominously silent upon your return, and as soon as you’d rounded the corner, the pizza boxes that you were carrying dropped to the ground (though they thankfully remained closed).

The living room was a wreck.

The sofa and chairs in the living room had been overturned, the blinds were crooked, and various objects had been knocked over. Your heart had sunk down to the aching pit in your stomach – you didn’t see any blood, but there was no sight or sound coming from either man that you could detect. A surge of adrenaline accompanied the panic and dread growing inside you, and you’d screamed out for both men, frantically running deeper into the house to search for them.

Nothing else in the house had been disturbed, so you had sprinted back to the front door to throw your shoes back on to go look for them. How could you have been stupid enough to leave them alone? If either of them was seriously hurt, you’d never forgive yourself!

“Going somewhere?”

You’d frozen halfway through lacing up one boot at the sound of Terry’s voice, a sense of dread threatening to overwhelm you. If he was the one here and talking in Cash’s house, that meant…

“T-Terry?” you had called out in a weak voice, still unable to bring yourself to turn around, afraid of what you would see.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” came his answer in a soft purr, the darkly flirtatious tone startling you enough that you’d turned around to face him, seeing him leaning up against the wall in the hallway leading back to the living room and kitchen. Forcing your body to breathe somewhat regularly, you had tried to give him a closer look. He didn’t seem to show any signs of a struggle on his body, but he seemed far too relaxed, except for his eyes, which were almost feverishly bright as they’d stared over at you.

“Where… where’s Cash?” you asked in a high, squeaky pitch, uncertain if you even wanted the answer. Terry’s devious smile only confirmed your fears.

“Don’t worry, doll. I took care of him.”

You had stumbled back slightly at his words, not able to do more than gasp for breath, and Terry made no move to come after you.

There was a tense silence between the two of you, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself, with Terry, with any of this.

The silence was then broken by a disembodied yet oddly familiar snort.

“You can’t tell me she actually bought that.”

Terry’s shoulders sagged, the vicious expression dropping off of his face.

“Well now we’ll never know,” he’d huffed with a scowl, turning to speak to someone around the corner.

“I – what?” you had babbled, your heart stopping when Cash came into view, unharmed and still cuffed to the wrist that Terry had hidden from your view.

They’d both given you nearly identical amused looks that were quickly wiped off their faces at your screech of absolute fury. You’d charged at them, then, spending the next few minutes cursing them out and trying to swing at them, but they had been frustratingly agile in evading your movements, even joined together as they were.

Men were absolute monsters, you’d decided then, growling at them and shoving them back to the couch which had been returned to its proper state.

It seems that the distraught expression that had stolen across your face as you reflected on the past few minutes is too much for either man, both unable to keep their laughter under wraps any longer, going to pieces until you literally hiss at them, feeling so angry you could spit poison.

“You two are absolutely unbelievable,” you snarl, and both men have the grace to at least look mildly sheepish. “You almost gave me a heart attack! Why would you do something like this?!”

“We thought it would be funny,” Terry mumbles, averting your gaze and reaching his free hand up to nervously scratch the back of his head.

“What’s the big deal? I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see us working together!” Cash adds cheekily, utterly unabashed once more. You shoot him a nasty glare, but it only makes his smile grow.

“I left for one hour to give you the chance to grow the fuck up and actually listen to one another. Did you even bother to do that? Or did you just decide on this temporary truce so you could fuck with me?”

Your hands are on your hips as you sneer down at them, still absolutely furious. You’re vaguely aware that beneath the seemingly bottomless well of anger, you’re relieved to see that neither man is hurt.

“Oh please, the setup only took fifteen minutes,” Cash scoffs, and Terry visibly winces, likely anticipating an explosion from you.

“Cash, shut up,” Terry suggests firmly, though his eyes are locked on yours with a pleading expression. “We talked things out, Y/N, I swear,” he says softly. Something about him seems lighter somehow, you notice distantly, and you know that he’s telling the truth.

“So what, I’m supposed to believe that six years of grudges just disappeared within the span of an hour, and you’re both in cahoots again?” you ask skeptically, crossing your arms across your chest.

“Of course not,” Cash says with a roll of his eyes. “But we came to enough of an understanding to put our differences aside and get our revenge on you for being so damn pushy.”

“Excuse me?” you hiss venomously at the older man, but he merely smiles broadly at you, so you turn your gaze over to Terry. “Is that true, Terry?”

Terry clears his throat nervously, refusing to look at either you or Cash.

“We’re very grateful that you didn’t give up on either of us, Y/N,” he says carefully, clearly wary of setting you off further. “We just thought that this might help us breeze past the awkwardness, lighten the mood, show you that we can be in the same room without killing each other, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes at both men, still suspicious.

“So that’s it then? You’ve done it? Kissed and made up and all that?” you ask sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

Before you can register the movement, both men have tugged you down so that they can plant kisses to your cheeks like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

“Now we have!” Cash informs you cheerily, nimbly dodging your slaps and laughing.

“Not me, you morons!” You exclaim, your face heated as your body responds to being sandwiched between both men. If they’re telling the truth and are trying to take steps to repair their friendship, you’re going to have to learn to not blush every time they touch you. Especially touching you together like that; it was enough to nearly make you moan.

“Well we sure as shit aren’t kissing each other,” jokes Terry, helping Cash secure your wrists when you show no sign of stopping your attack. You wrench yourself out of their grip, still flustered as you look at them from across the room, throwing yourself into an armchair with a huff.

“Well I’m glad you two are all chummy again; you’ll have each other at least, because I’m never talking to either of you again,” you snap.

“Not a chance,” Cash says dismissively, immediately calling your bluff. “There’s no way in hell you’ll stay away after putting all this work in.”

“Come back over here,” Terry adds, giving you a pleading expression.

“Why should I?” you grumble, angry that you’re the one on the receiving end of all of this nonsense.

“To take our cuffs off, for one.”

You don’t even blink, retrieving the key from your pocket and throwing it across the room to them. “Done.”

“Don’t be grumpy just because you weren’t part of the plan for once,” Cash says teasingly.

“That is not why I’m grumpy!” you protest, regretting the words as they leave your lips, watching the predatory look spread across the older man’s face. “I’m not grumpy!” you amend, glaring at Cash.

“Sweetheart –” Terry tries to interject, but Cash cuts him off.

“Going to miss your alone time with us?” he goads you, and Terry smacks him in the chest with his newly freed hand.

“Knock it off, Cash,” he warns the older man. “I’m not trading her out for you, so stop pissing her off.”

“You’re no fun,” Cash huffs, looking back at you to give you a wink.

Your brain doesn’t know what to make of any of this. The two of them were acting so… comfortable with one another, even after everything. If you could barely fathom a world in which they managed to make amends and both stay in your life, imagining a world where they were able to joke and flirt with you was an impossibility.

“I – I don’t understand what’s happening here,” you admit rather helplessly, looking from one man to the other.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? For us to all be together?” Cash asks innocently, pointedly ignoring Terry giving him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think that you’d get over things so quickly, joking about… you know,” you trail off, blushing furiously.

“I never said anything to suggest I wouldn’t bring this up at every opportunity,” Cash leers, and Terry chuckles, sending you for another loop.

“I believe I told you this morning I would be talking about it with you regardless of if we went anywhere,” Terry adds, and is this all part of their dumb prank too? Were they trying to drive you insane?

“Yeah but… together? In front of each other?” you challenge. “Terry?” you press the younger man, knowing that he had the deepest feelings of the three of you. He gives you a gentle smile in response.

“You’re stuck with both of us, Y/N,” he says simply, as though all of this could have a straightforward solution. “Just like you wanted.”

“And because you’re likely too stubborn or loyal or whatever you want to call it, you won’t want to choose between us,” Cash chimes in with a casual shrug. “At least not right away, which means we both get to bug you about this whenever we want.”

“Or, I could leave right now, and hate you both!” you return cheerfully, but they immediately see through the ruse, and you scowl.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Terry agrees condescendingly. “Whatever you say.”

“So what, you expect me to endure you both being annoying just for the privilege of your presence?”

“Yeah, pretty much!” Cash confirms, clapping his hands together loudly. “Glad we’ve worked all that out." You huff dismissively as they both give you wide, smug smiles.

“I give it two weeks before one of us backs out or maims the others.”

---

 Epilogue

---

Master List Here

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[imperfectnothing]

Answering this one on here becaause um well organization purposes lmao. THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ANON!!! ANyways, I posted Han & Fao's profiles here as a preface to this ask, more or less, and I'll talk about both of them here.

Warning on his post, though: there will be mentions of poisoning, suicide, forced pregnancy, and forced feminization. If that is trigger for you or just makes you uncomfortable, I would suggest not reading this one. Haneul's story is . . . pretty fucked up, not gonna lie. It'll be in the "read more" so fully avoidable if you choose.

I'll do Faolán first because his story isn't really triggering (also I don't have everything figured out for him yet but c'est la vie). His name means "little wolf" in Irish (because he's Irish) and it's pronounced "fee-lan" at least, that's how he pronounces it. He often just goes by "Fao" though. Fao was an experimental child created by AREPH and sent to ANAKT for socialization purposes to make sure he wouldn't maul anyone in the field. That was their mistake though because he met people and made connections and ended up going rogue after a decade in service. Fao was created for the purpose of being a hunter, similar to Nausikaa, but the thing is that Fao is actually. well. Fao is a werewolf and he can shift between wolf/human forms at will.

Fao as a person is sensitive, thoughtful, and extremely taciturn. He speaks very rarely and when he does, it is in monosyllabic words or short sentences. He's not stupid by any means, he is very articulate in writing, he just doesn't like talking. He's kind of a brutal person, generally oblivious of social cues, which often led him to be rude or accidentally offensive in certain situations. He's very sincere though and you won't catch him lying to you because he very rarely does it and when he does, you'll never find out. Fao is loyal and immensely protective over his loved ones, you don't want to get on his bad side.

He and Haneul were best friends and dating up until Haneul's death, after which Fao went MIA and disappeared. He hasn't been seen since . . .

Oh fun fact Han & Fao knew Caskyo (@bluemoonscape) at the Garden :3c

Haneul as a person is cold towards strangers but very affectionate towards people he knows well. He's calm and generally quite level-headed, great at masking his emotions and playing a part as much as he absolutely despises pretending to be something he's not. He's proud and stubborn, something his son inherits, but Han doesn't get into fights or have any illusions that what he wants actually matters. He's very much a grim realist or even a pessimist. He plays the harp and the autoharp (handheld) and his voice skews soft and clear. I think his voice claim is going to be Sufjan Stevens ngl . . . hhhngh religious imagery . . .

Haneul won his season (37) and he was characterized during and afterwards as an "ice queen" type figure- immensely beautiful but untouchable. Not too dissimilar from Luka, to be honest. After winning his season, Haneul became very-desired breeding stock due to his fame. Nyx was his first child and Mori was his last. Nyx and Mori both have the same parents but the rest of Haneul's children have a different father than Nyx and Mori.

Haneul is a trans man, which might be obvious from his profile and his pronouns, but the thing is, his owner never approved of his identity and did not allow him to transition. Han transitioned socially at the Garden but while with his guardian, he was a woman and made to act as such. After winning his season, he was forced to let his hair grow out and he wasn't allowed to bind anymore. Not only that but he was forced to carry children, which was an incredibly dysphoric experience for him. It was barely even cold comfort that his first and last children were sired by his best friend and boyfriend, Fao. Thus, when Haneul learned that his eldest child Nyx was being forced to go through the same things as him (forced pregnancy), Haneul killed himself via thallium poisoning, the straw finally having broken the camel's back. This was purposeful as thallium causes organ failure and it kills fast enough at high doses that it would be easy to mistake for another issue. Haneul specifically wanted to make it impossible for his owner to resuscitate him.

Haneul may have succeeded in preventing his owner from being able to revive him but that didn't stop his owner from preserving him cryogenically (suspended in ice) and displaying him, in a wedding dress.

[blooberry-bagel]

enchanted

spontaneously wrote this in like 20min based off this post i just saw from @narkissistikos . anyway, sorry for any repetitive use of words hehe enjoy

the rising sun rays shone into the bakery that luke's family owned. it's transitioning to later on be his but today is his second week of opening on his own. taking a rag across the work bench, he hums along to mine by taylor swift, playing through the bakery speakers. a bell jingles, signalling the front door being opened.

"sorry we open in like 5 minutes" he says, continuing to clean the place of flour.

"oh my apologies," you say. "i can come back then."

looking up to see who the sweet voice belongs to, your frame is backlit from the many windows, lighting up the bakery. the music almost pauses in his head due to his surprise. there's almost an angelic aura to you, perfectly matching the moment enchanted starts to play. but yet, luke can still see your beauty emanating brighter than any suns.

"oh i feel bad," he interrupts your exit. "im sure my parents won't mind me making an exception. what can i get you?"

turning around, you shoot him a bashful smile, "thanks!"

scanning your eyes across the beautifully arranged display of baked goods, the selection appears almost endless with a variety of bread loaves, cakes, tarts, and the treat that catches your eye - a vibrant red velvet cupcake, contrasted by the white icing.

"just that, please," you say, pointing to the cupcake.

your mouth is drooling while u watch him pack it into a little box and ring the order into the register.

after paying, luke slides the box toward you, "enjoy!"

sharing a smile, you wish each other a good day before you head out the door.

opening the box, you take a picture of what you hope to be a memorable treat before taking a generous bite. it just looked too good - you couldn't help yourself! and memorable, it was.

you're so lost in the richness and decadent euphoria of this cupcake you barely noticed the jingle of the bakery's bell.

"hey wait! you might need this!"

opening your eyes, you see the cute baker running toward you with a napkin in hand.

smiling to yourself, you take it from his hands and go to wipe your nose and mouth from the icing smeared all over your face.

that's until you notice something written on the napkin.

"that's my number," he explains. "i hope it's not too forward... im luke"

he smiles shyly toward you, scratching the back of his neck.

you beam toward him, "enchanté."

[demifiendrsa]

Star Wars: Visions volume 2 will stream on Disney+ on May 4, 2023.

Volume 2 shorts:

Title: “Sith”

Studio: El Guiri

Writer-director: Rodrigo Blaas

Rodrigo Blaas is an Emmy Award®-winning director who has spent more than 20 years in animation. After co-founding Stromboli Animation in 1997, Blaas joined Blue Sky Studios in 2000, working on the feature film Ice Age, before transitioning to Pixar Animation Studios. There, he worked on such projects as Finding Nemo (2003), The Incredibles (2004), Ratatouille (2007), and Wall-E (2008) and on the Oscar®-nominated short film La Luna (2011). More recently, Blaas partnered with Guillermo del Toro to develop the award-winning series Trollhunters, served as creative director for Mikros Animation Paris and, in 2021, created El Guiri Studios in Madrid with his partner, Cecile Hokes. He also wrote and directed 2009’s award-winning short film Alma.

Title: “Screecher’s Reach”

Studio: Cartoon Saloon

Director: Paul Young

Paul Young is a co-founder of Cartoon Saloon, an IFTA winner and Oscar®, Emmy® and BAFTA nominee. He produced the animated features My Father’s Dragon, WolfWalkers, The Secret of Kells, Song of the Sea, and The Breadwinner as well as award-winning TV series including Puffin Rock, Dorg Van Dango, and Viking Skool.

Title: “In the Stars”

Studio: Punkrobot

Writer-director: Gabriel Osorio

Gabriel Osorio majored in Fine Arts at Universidad de Chile, later specializing in 3D animation. After working in commercials, movies and television series, he founded Punkrobot Studio. Since 2008, he has directed projects for children’s television including Flipos, Muelin y Perlita, Soccer Girls, and television spots. In 2016, his short film Bear Story became the first Latin American project to win an Oscar® in the animated short category.

Title: “I Am Your Mother”

Studio: Aardman

Director: Magdalena Osinska

Magdalena Osinska is an award-winning director who has been with Aardman for eight years. She has directed stop-motion, CGI, 2D and live-action commercials including Wallace & Gromit’s “The Great Sofa Caper” and “Share the Orange.” Osinska directed development of the children’s series Joyets and has also directed films including Spirits of the Piano and Zbigniev’s Cupboard. A graduate of the National Film and Television School in Beaconsfield, UK, as well as the Polish Film School in Lodz and Art College in Warsaw, Osinska is currently developing the feature film Jasia, based on her grandmother’s memories of WWII Poland.

Title: “Journey to the Dark Head”

Studio: Studio Mir

Director: Hyeong Geun Park

Rising star Hyeong Geun Park had already made a name for himself when he entered the Korean animation industry in 2017, thanks to his strong drawing and animation sensibilities. He has directed animation for dozens of cinematic game trailers and has since expanded into animated series, working on projects including Dota: Dragon’s Blood: Book 3 (2022) and Lookism (2022). Journey to the Dark Head is the first title he has executive produced from start to finish.

Title: “The Spy Dancer”

Studio: Studio La Cachette

Writer-director: Julien Chheng

Julien Chheng is CEO of Studio La Cachette, an Emmy Award®-winning French animation studio he co-founded in 2014 with fellow Gobelins school’s alumni Oussama Bouacheria and Ulysse Malassagne. Chheng was trained in visual development at Disney and has worked as a character animator on acclaimed 2D animated features The Rabbi’s Cat, Mune, and the Academy Award®-nominated Ernest and Celestine. In 2021, he won an Emmy Award® as animation executive producer of Genndy Tartakovsky’s Primal, for which he also served as animation supervisor. In 2022, Chheng directed with Jean-Christophe Roger the Cesar-nominated feature Ernest and Celestine: A Trip to Gibberitia.

Title: “The Bandits of Golak”

Studio: 88 Pictures

Director: Ishan Shukla

Ishan Shukla started his career as a CG artist in Singapore. For more than a decade, he spearheaded projects ranging from TV commercials to series and music videos. His 2016 animated short, "Schirkoa," was long listed for the Academy Awards® after receiving dozens of awards and playing at 120 international festivals, including SIGGRAPH Asia where it was named Best in Show. He then set up his own animation studio to work on adult-oriented animated feature films including a feature-length version of Schirkoa, set to hit festivals in summer 2023.

Title: “The Pit”

Studios: D’art Shtajio and Lucasfilm Ltd.

Writer-director-executive producer: LeAndre Thomas

Co-director: Justin Ridge

LeAndre Thomas is an award-winning writer and director from Oakland, Calif., whose most recent film won Best Director at the Pasadena International Film Festival. In addition to his independent films, Thomas is a part of the franchise studio team at Lucasfilm Ltd. where he has worked for more than 11 years being credited on recent titles such as Light & Magic, The Mandalorian, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars: Tales of the Jedi, and many more.

Justin Ridge executive produced the Emmy®-nominated series Star Wars Resistance. His credits also include Star Wars Rebels, Storks, The Cleveland Show, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Title: “Aau’s Song”

Studio: Triggerfish

Writer-directors: Nadia Darries and Daniel Clarke

Nadia Darries is a director, animator and co-founder of Goon Valley Animation, with an avocation for songwriting. Born in the Cape Flats in South Africa, Darries has worked on high-end animated film and motion design as an animator, project manager, creative director and director since 2015. Her experience includes animating at Triggerfish Animation Studios on the award-winning BBC films Stick Man, Revolting Rhymes, and Highway Rat.

Daniel Clarke is a Cape Town-based director and artist working in animation, film and illustration. He started his career in animation in 2008 at Triggerfish Animation Studios, where he has served as production designer, art director and director on projects such as the feature film Khumba, BBC’s Stick Man, and The Snail and the Whale. In 2018, along with James Clarke and Daniel Snaddon, he completed the graphic novel Kariba.

[canmom]

a few critical comments on "The Busy Worker's Handbook to the Apocalypse"

so i read this one very doomer medium article The Busy Worker's Handbook to the Apocalypse the other day, which attempts to argue that with the amount of GHGs already in the atmosphere, collapse of human society is inevitable and imminent, in a way that the scientific establishment such as the IPCC is instutionally unable to admit. I will warn, if you're prone to anxiety, don't read it, because the article is bleak as hell and quite effective rhetoric. it opens with a largely correct overview of climate science which lends it credibility, before jumping to the worst imaginable conclusions about various feedbacks and tipping points.

and like... it got me a bit. immediately after I read it, I was left with a horrifying feeling that this is as good as it will ever get, that the end of it all was only years away, that all my hopes for what I'd do for the next few decades and what is prefigured by this or that social development were utter delusions, and all there was left to do was just try and make the best of the last few years before we all die in the big cascading-failure famine.

but... ok Bryn, hold your fucking horses, let's do some research eh?

to begin with, I found one critique video that points out a number of places where the author makes scientific errors, misunderstands his sources, or doesn't justify his conclusions. for example, the author argues that a 'blue sea event' where the polar ice melts would lead to immediate, catastrophic warming as the latent heat of fusion no longer absorbs any incoming radiation, and also that the success of measures to reduce air pollution will accelerate warming; these seem to both be straight up wrong. but that doesn't cover everything I had questions about.

for example, one scenario discussed in the 'handbook' is 'multi breadbasket failure'. the idea is that, given that most of the world's food is produced in a few specific regions, this is a scenario where two or more of the major food-producing regions suffer very low yields in the same year due to climate shit. and this isn't farfetched, there is mainstream scientific discussion of this concept. for an accessible analysis, I found this article by some major capitalist consulting company (assess bias accordingly) which gives some actual numbers, including estimates of which crops are more likely to fail as the climate changes (rice, corn and soy are in trouble, but wheat, oddly enough, could actually do better in a warmer world).

however, while the author of the guide to the apocalypse suggests that, thanks to 'just in time' supply chains, there are almost no reserves of food and everything is on ships... the mckinsey article quotes a figure of 30% 'stock-to-use ratio', meaning there is a fair chunk of food in the granaries. they seem to predict that if two 'breadbaskets' fail in the same year, causing a 15% drop in yield, that ratio would drop to about 20%. the immediate result would be food price spikes (which means a lot of people would starve) but it's not a complete 'global megafamine' collapse.

'course, the question then is what happens if it happens again a few years later? but at least theoretically the 'multi breadbasket failure' scenario could be drastically mitigated by 1. producing food in more different places so the eggs are in fewer baskets 2. storing more food when times are good (something discussed in the mckinsey article) and 3. the world broadly eating less meat (since most crops are grown to feed animals, which adds a trophic level of inefficiency), so less grain is needed to feed everyone. i don't know if that's actually gonna happen, but it's not prima facie impossible.

on the other hand, the author of the Handbook argues that a world renewable energy transition is not just infeasible but physically impossible, because it demands reserves of metal that do not exist to roll out all the wires, turbines, etc etc. I was already fairly pessimistic about whether the renewable energy transition could happen in time (since there is little evidence that the current renewable deployment is making any sort of dent in GHG emissions, which remain resolutely coupled to economic activity); I was also conscious that the amount of mining to produce all the batteries and so on would have its own devastating impacts. but the argument that it is impossible even in principle is new to me.

so is that actually true? the Handbook bases this point entirely on the work of Dr Simon Michaux of the Finnish Geological Survey, who presents the calculation in this hour-long presentation based on this report (summary). this is honestly an excellent presentation, explaining the methodology really clearly - it reminds me of SEWTHA back in the day, a book I found very formative. And actually McKay also raised the question of materials:

To create 48 kWh per day of offshore wind per person in the UK would require 60 million tons of concrete and steel – one ton per person. Annual world steel production is about 1200 million tons, which is 0.2 tons per person in the world. During the second world war, American shipyards built 2751 Liberty ships, each containing 7000 tons of steel – that’s a total of 19 million tons of steel, or 0.1 tons per American. So the building of 60 million tons of wind turbines is not off the scale of achievability; but don’t kid yourself into thinking that it’s easy. Making this many windmills is as big a feat as building the Liberty ships.

McKay's analysis was based only on the UK; the figure of 48kWh/d comes from McKay's estimate of plausible maximum wind capacity for the UK only. He also takes into account some modest reductions in energy use. So my sense was that a completely renewable energy system would be an unprecedented megaproject, but not utterly implausible.

By comparison, Michaux's analysis (which I took a bunch of notes on, I'll post in a minute) has a worldwide scope, and rather than using back of the envelope physical calculations, relies on data on existing systems which largely did not exist when McKay was alive. It is nevertheless a rough estimate, and crucially, focuses on the question of completely replacing current fossil fuel use. Where good data did not exist, like the amount of steel and concrete used in a wind turbine, it was not included in the analysis, since the purpose was to get a lower bound.

The report covers a number of different minerals, many of which existing reserves fall short and it would take thousands of years to produce enough at current production levels. Copper is the big one: he estimates some 4.5 billion tones would be needed, where only 0.88 billion tonnes of reserved are publicly known to exist, and the rate of new discoveries has tailed off to near zero. I see no error in his calculation (though I haven't checked the numbers in detail, the method is sound).

However, there is a major caveat. The vast, vast majority of this copper would go to millions of battery banks used to provide just four weeks of storage to make it through the wind production lulls in the winter. This covers about 4.2 billion tonnes; by comparison the amount of copper used for one generation everything else (wind turbines, EV batteries etc.) is a still-hefty 0.3 billion tonnes. So that raises the question of whether there's an alternative to all those batteries, mature enough to be deployed at a scale to provide 0.55PWh of energy storage (or likely, more) in a decade or two. My understanding is most other tech (flywheels etc.) is still on the 'tiny pilot plant' sort of scale.

Anyway, as far as like the future of humanity goes, I already agree with Michaux's main point that maintaining current rates of energy consumption is just not viable; the future is necessarily going to be much lower energy. (I also don't really think 'decoupling' economic activity from energy use to somehow preserve capitalism's exponential curve is really plausible.)

However, the way the author of the Handbook uses Michaux's estimates is not supported. Michaux proved that a 1:1 replacement of fossil fuel energy consumption with renewables is not possible; that necessarily implies that (since fossil fuels are just starting to run dry and becoming less viable) we have to get by on less energy. And yeah, that obviously implies substantial changes to how people live in rich countries, crushing the super-rich etc.; it's fair to say the whole system must become less complex, in ecological terms.

I do still agree it's more than understandable to be pessimistic about whether that will happen without everything collapsing first - to put it mildly, there is a lot of inertia in a system this complex! - but it's not physically impossible that humans could accomplish a renewable energy transition, contract and rationalise how we use what energy we can get, and still have everyone live relatively comfortably. (After all, life on Earth has managed to live sustainably on solar power for billions of years, indefinitely recycling carbon, nitrogen etc. between high and low energy forms and dumping all the unusable high-entropy energy into space; I stand by the belief that there is no intrinsic reason that human society, even with complex technologies like computers, could not eventually assume a similar equilibrium if we survive. Though could does not mean is likely to....)

So I'm not convinced that we're a few years away from the first domino falling in the apocalypse. The situation is very very bad, don't get me wrong, I do basically agree the current socioeconomic world system is not capable of adapting fast enough as it stands, and I do find it increasingly hard to imagine the prospect of it being overturned, so I don't think the gigadeaths future is out of the question or even unlikely. But it's at least not the imminent near-certainty this essay makes out. If it comes, it will be more drawn-out than that. We don't need to live as if we will certainly die in a year or five.

So... now back to not thinking about it and fiddling while the world burns, I guess? :/

[pynkhues]

The reunion scene really just packs such an overwhelming punch. It's just such deep, visceral emotion. And it's not just, oh they're crying--I'm sure we've all seen scenes with actors crying a lot where you're left cold. So it's the writing and the acting just getting to such a raw nerve kind of place. I could go on about all the little moments I love, and I REALLY want to read your longer thoughts on the scene, but Sam's voice breaking like that on "Did you hurt yourself" lanced through me so intensely the first time I heard it, and it gets me every time. For someone with such a deep voice (both Sam and Lestat lol), to be so overwhelmed with emotion that he loses control of his voice completely....just, wow.

I am SO so so so excited to read your reunion fic, you have no idea. :)

It's everything to me, anon!! It really is just so loaded with emotion, but I also think what makes it so cathartic and resonant is that it really feels like the culmination of these two seasons, both in the sense of Louis' arc, but in the connection these two characters have. It's so, so affecting, and I promise, I'll finish my big post on it soon, haha.

And thank you!! I am hoping to post my reunion fic today (although I'm also out for half the day to have lunch with friends and see a Q&A screening of Memoir of a Snail which I am very excited about), but have the opening scene (and maybe a little bit of the scene that follows ;-):

-

It had been a gloomy fall for London in 1958 when Louis and Armand had gone to see the play.

The decision itself had marked a - - transition for them. After all, Louis hadn’t found himself inside a playhouse since he’d burnt the Théâtre des Vampires and all those who tread her boards to the ground, lucky, perhaps, in that he’d never felt a real inclination for the stage, although he knew Armand still held the artform close with something akin to fondness. In fact, Armand had made a point in those years of regularly attending the West End during their stays at their Chealsea apartment, Broadway the summers they’d spend in their Manhattan townhouse, keeping careful track of productions across both professional and amateur venues. The spectacle of his former career turned specter as he haunted the stages, documenting in the little pocketbook he’d carry with him his thoughts and observations, collecting playbills and programmes, newspaper clippings and ticket stubs with the care of an archivist, documenting a landscape dominated by new musicals and post-war dramas, and by the rise and fall of flush-faced stars.

For a time, Armand had tried to keep this from him. Had been sensitive to the events of Paris and inclined to, publicly at least, make Louis’ interests his own. He’d read the books Louis was reading, attend the gallery showings Louis was attending, travel to the sweating, flyover, working towns Louis would and pretend to see the potential in them that Louis did, and Louis had been amused in part, but bored in almost every other. The feeling of speaking to his own echo dulling his senses as the years wore on to the point that it had almost been a relief, that night in ’56, when Armand let slip that he’d been moved by a new musical – The King and I, at Broadway’s St. James Theatre.

They’d fought, of course. Bitterly and fretfully and Louis can admit cruelly, but it had felt good to fight. Felt like the lick of a flame to a snowed-in life, a heat to thaw the ice of his frigid, shiftless mood, and his temper had risen with his voice as Armand used words like patient and over and almost a decade before they settled it in bed. A rough hand and an open mouth and Armand had played penance like the worst actor in his old revue.

Still, a seal had been broken, and Armand had taken to mentioning his attendance at the Winter Garden Theatre and The Stoll – Kismet and The Water Gipsies and hammy dramas that would last only the blink of a season – and soon Louis was deaf to it again. Found the hurt and irritation didn’t spike for long, but rather blunted through its repetition, which perhaps had been Armand’s intent all along, because one night, he left out the paper on an advertisement for Peter Brook’s The Tempest, set to premiere at Theatre Royal on Drury Lane.

And Louis couldn’t say why he said yes, why he agreed to accompany Armand that night. If it was to shock him or to acknowledge his patience or stir another fight, if it was even to try and set the events of Paris behind him, but he’d quiffed his hair and donned his Roman suit, and settled into the fine red velvet seats of the Theatre Royal with the hope of being moved in any direction at all.

And it had, is the thing. Moved him. Just not in the way he’d expected, nor in the hours, because as the lights had dimmed, the sound had started. A loud rumble of thunder and sudden slope of rain, the theater shaking with the affect of a storm, the sort that avoided London’s dreary isle as it set sail for a newer world, and oh, how the actors had tumbled onto the minimally laid stage. One, two, then several more, rolling around the boards as if on a ship, battling the elements as they tried to secure the hatches, and in the moment of it, Louis wasn’t in his seat in the London theater at all.

No, suddenly, with the wail of weather and the shuddering curtains around the stage, Louis was nine-years-old again and home in Louisiana, chasing after his daddy as he boarded up doors and windows. Louis was fifteen, wind cutting at his cheeks as he hauled a babbling Paul in from what he promised wasn’t any sort of rapture, twenty-four between Jonah’s trembling adolescent legs, down in the liquor cellar beneath the colored hotel off Bourbon Street, thirty-three in flesh, thirty-eight in years, exasperated, hammering nails into plywood and spitting fury at Lestat, who danced through the house like a hurricane all his own, feeding off the weather outside, and - - oh, it hadn’t been fury at all. Not when Lestat had his hands on his, pulling him close, the bright sparking look in his eyes catching in Louis’ own, and Lestat was new to this, new to hurricanes, but it wasn’t dread or terror in his eyes, but enchantment and so much fuckin’ love, and the way he’d said it. Louis, this wild, wonderful city of yours, she’d have us hear her tonight! as he pulled him in for the dance, it - -

Fuck.

And it’s that, is the thing. That that has Louis scrambling up in his seat, yanking at his tie, shoving past the legs of pestered patrons, desperate, suddenly, for the still, the quiet, the drizzly tepidness of London air.

He bursts out the aisle and beelines for the exit, flinging open the theater doors, struggling to catch a breath he doesn’t need to take. He rounds Drury Lane, tries to let the bustle of the people, the honk of car horns, the autumnal chill chew him up and spit him back out into this moment. Stick him steady here in this spot, and he doesn’t even realize he’s crouched on the sidewalk, head in hands, until he feels the weight of Armand’s touch on his shoulder, fingers clutching in a pale offer of comfort.

“Too soon, perhaps,” Armand says gently, and Louis shakes his head, holds onto the thread of Armand’s voice, tries to will it into an anchor.

“No, it’s not the theater, it’s the show,” he wets his lips, takes a breath. “It reminded me of the hurricanes, that’s all. Back home. A lot of memories tied up in all of that.”

Armand’s hand curls a little tighter around Louis’ shoulder, and for a moment, Louis thinks that it’s working. That maybe Armand’s presence here, now, is enough to steady him. To ground him here on the street, among the puddles and the passerbys, that the feeling of being very far from home yawning awake in his chest is nothing that can’t be put back to sleep with a walk, a drink, a fuck in the dewy grass of the park he sometimes picks up in. At that, he feels Armand shift above him, the thought heard, perhaps, and Louis raises a hand to cup the back of Armand’s in an approximation of a comfort returned. Armand could be the fuck in the dewy grass. If he wanted to be.

“We could go there together,” Armand says, and Louis’ surprised Armand would suggest it – he typically prefers their bed – only that’s not what he means at all. “To your New Orleans. It would be good, perhaps, to revisit the places of your mortal life, the places you worked, the - - ”

“Should we revisit your old whorehouses too?” Louis bites, offense at even the suggestion struck like a match in an instant. Above him, Armand’s jaw clicks shut, and the wet breath of regret snuffs out the flame of Louis’ temper almost as fast as it had been lit. He shakes his head, pushing out of his crouch to stand.

He looks over, takes in Armand’s blank expression, his amber eyes carefully guarded, and frowns apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softening his voice, even if the thought of Armand in New Orleans has his toes curling in his brogues. “I didn’t mean that. You’re just - - you’re not to go there, you hear me? Don’t know how she’d treat you.”

It’s a cool look that Armand returns to him, tilting his head to the side, inquiring, dark curls slicked back like he’d often wear them in Paris, and Louis finds himself carefully drawing up those early memories – of his father, and Jonah, and Paul, of juddering windows and roaring grey skies and Grace’s little hand in his and - -

“You’re thinking of him,” Armand tells him coldly, seeing through Louis’ ruse, and Louis stares back at him.

A blink and it all slips to nothing but him as he falls on top of Lestat in his coffin, the creamy silk lining offsetting the pink flush on Lestat’s cheeks, the roof above them shuddering, walls shaking, glass shattering somewhere downstairs, but then - - Lestat’s mouth. Open, warm, wet beneath his, fangs sharp as Louis slides his tongue beneath them to lick his way inside.

His pulse, now, a jackhammer in his chest.

“I’m thinking about the hurricanes back home,” Louis tells Armand, frank. “That’s all.”

*

It’s like a matryoshka doll, Louis thinks now, memories inside of memories, the past a rope that can never be unknotted, and it shouldn’t matter, not now, not when the floor is juddering beneath them, the walls cracking, the lights flickering, because this is not their house on Rue Royale, steady and sandbagged and half-boarded up, and Lestat’s not dancing down hallways, he’s trembling in his arms, and it doesn’t take all that history to know this place isn’t going to hold.

“We gotta get out of here,” Louis yells, pushing a little at Lestat’s waist to give them a degree of separation. Just enough distance to breathe again, but Lestat’s not looking at him, head still dropped, hair a limp, yet still-golden veil around his face, and Louis has to resist the urge to shake him to get him to see what’s happening around them. Instead, he just says: “Lestat.”

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

What is your interpretation of Viserys's character? It's amazing how grrm made the man who literally single handedly destroyed his family's legacy and started the bloodiest civil war in Westros a "joyful generous king who wants everyone to get along" it's like grrm wanted the fault of the dance to be on Alicent and Aegon not Vissy for some reason

Thanks anon! This is an excellent question.

So I actually don't think that GRRM meant for Alicent or Aegon to take the full blame for the Dance. If you read F&B and World of Ice and Fire, remembering that those books are not written in GRRM's authorial voice, but by in-world maesters who are compiling histories, you'll see that the authors of those books are not very complimentary about Viserys. However, they are diplomatic about it. He was a king who ruled for several decades, and he was not hated by the people at the time of his death. The scholarship of maesters like Gyldayn and Yandel is also pretty surface level. Still, Yandel all but blames Viserys for the Dance, saying that Viserys "had ruled for six-and-twenty years, reigning over the most prosperous era in the history of the Seven Kingdoms but seeding within it the disastrous decline of his house and the death of the last dragons." He might be called amiable and generous, but weighing against that, he's also called weak-willed, easily influenced, and anxious to please. Those are not really complimentary qualities when discussing kingship. The books stop short of calling Viserys a bad king on the level of Aegon IV or Aerys II, but they're not particularly complimentary towards him either.

And here's the thing. Ensuring a clean succession is one of a king's most important jobs. A smooth transition of power is essential for the stability of the realm, and a disputed succession was to be avoided at all costs. Throughout real life history, you will see examples of kings going out of their way to ensure that there is one clear heir who will inherit upon their death. It is the king's responsibility to ensure that the succession is clear, that the heir is prepared to rule, and that the heir has sufficient support to rule. There is a reason why, although the often repeated "the king's word is law" phrase might have some base truth to it, most kings followed established lines of succession and did not just choose their favorite child, or even the child they believed best suited to rule. Enduring the occasional less than ideal king was the price paid for a peaceful transition of power, and for ensuring that the method by which power was peacefully transferred from one monarch to the next, remained stable.

So in real life feudal monarchies, when succession crises happened, it was usually because of some unexpected event. The Anarchy that the Dance is based on happened because King Henry I lost his only son, William Adelin, in a shipwreck. The boy was already seventeen at the time, and when he died, Henry tried to have more sons with his second wife, but was unsuccessful. His only other legitimate child was a daughter, Matilda, who eventually became his heir following the rules of male preference primogeniture, although his nephews were in consideration at one point. Likewise, Edward the Black Prince, heir to Edward III, died before his father did. Unlike William Adelin, however, Edward the Black Prince had a son, Richard II, who became Edward III's heir. When Richard II became king he was still a child, and had to contend with very powerful adult uncles who became powerful as his regents, and their sons, who did not want to give up power when Richard II came of age. This situation eventually led to the War of the Roses. There are also succession crises in which a king who dies childless is also the last of his direct line, such as Henry III of France, the last Valois king. In this situation the next claimant might come through a female line or a more senior male line, but it's rarely clear cut. But these are generally unusual or unexpected situations rather than the result of a king's willful refusal to do his duty and ensure a clean succession.

Viserys had options for avoiding the Dance, the easiest and most obvious being simply making his eldest son his heir upon his birth. He had every indication that his insistence on keeping Rhaenyra as heir would lead to a succession crisis after his death, and yet he did nothing to avert it. He had no intention of codifying new succession laws to allow daughters to inherit over sons, instead he imagined succession as a free for all, king's choice, which is bound to lead to conflict and is a terrible idea in a kingdom ruled by dragonriders. Viserys inherited a prosperous and stable kingdom and arguably the most important job he had was to keep it stable, and yet he created a succession crisis out of nothing, for no good reason. Neither Rhaenyra nor Aegon turned out to be particularly good rulers in their short reigns, but only one of them could have taken the throne as uncontested heir, and that is Aegon. Had Aegon been named heir from the start, there would have been no one to contest him (Rhaenyra's claim lies solely on being her father's chosen heir, if she's isn't, she has no claim), and no war.

What would compel Viserys to completely trash his own succession? I think in the books, it is left up to interpretation. Was Viserys stupid, willfully ignorant, or a malicious narcissist? Certainly, although he was supposedly a people pleaser, no one in his family was very pleased by his decisions, and it's hard to imagine the Red Keep a happy household when Viserys deliberately drove a wedge between his children and created a situation that everyone knew would one day lead to war. I'm going to tag @aifsaath because she has some good Viserys thoughts regarding the possibility that Viserys wasn't just a bumbling idiot, but actively malicious.