#old enough to understand half the references but my britishness works against me

[alicentsgf]

sorry this is so much not where i go (but also it kinda is). but since she died i've been rewatching all the shows my sister and i used to watch together. (Which is just basically any women-centric show from the past 20 years.) And i started rewatching gilmore girls which i think i last watched when obama was president and like yes there is so much to criticise about this show its definitely a time capsule for some of the less attractive realities of the noughties. but it does also feel like a really deeply considered thesis on mothers and daughters thats masquerading as a fluffy sitcom/drama (even if it loses its way later on) and i dont think i've seen anything like it before or since. read some books and watched some movies that come close in terms of themes but the pace of a story spread out across several years and hundreds of episodes allows it all to breathe a bit. 'my mother loves me but she loves me wrong' is just too relatable unfortunately. The scene where she tells her mother that she made a conscious decision to start finding her disapproval funny - laughing at it in order to survive it? Yeah.

[txbbo]

I've been debating making this because this is definitely not what my blog is known for and I was worried that people wouldn't want to see it, but with the amount of shit im seeing on twitter it's compelled me to make this because I'm so frustrated.

I feel like I could make 100 posts about 'Cancel Culture' and it wouldn't be enough, so I'm just going to focus on what caused me to write this tonight - the Tommy situation. *Warning for a VERY long post below*

To be clear, Tommy has been in 'hot water' on twitter for the past couple weeks, roughly starting with the KSI collaboration where he made a joke about dream stans.

Last week, when the SBI 'exposing account' got made and twitter hyped it up, someone made a Tommy account and made a thread of things he needed to be '''educated''' on: https://twitter.com/idktommyinnit/status/1379158964148002821?s=20

I'll let you read it for yourself (and come to your own conclusion) but to me.... half of this stuff does not require a twitter thread? Breaking it down accusation by accusation:

1) 'The Mexican accent' - the clips show he is clearly only doing it when copying big Q (who famously exaggerates his own accent) and there is zero malicious intent (Big Q is also IN the 3 clips mentioned in the thread, and obviously didn't tell Tommy it was offensive). There's debates in the comments from people who think it is offensive and people who don't, so I'm not trying to pick a side. To avoid accidentally offending anyone, maybe it is best for him to stop, but the way twitter acts as if he was purposefully doing this to offend people is just not true.

2- 'Making a slave joke' - Even saying that feels wrong, because it suggests Tommy is doing something awful. Instead, they are referring to the 'bit' that Tommy, Techno, Tubbo and Ant were involved in, when Tommy and Techno took Tubbo and Ant as their slave. People are taking this vod and using it to accuse Tommy of being insensitive to Black people, but I think people are just assuming the worst. Slavery existed long before the transatlantic slave trade and still exists today. This is a role-play server - Tommy 'forced' Ant to work for him and used the word slave, which to me is exactly what was happening? People 'murder' others on the SMP, people 'kidnap' on the SMP, people are 'terrorists' on the SMP, and all happen without issue. To add, Ant is a WHITE man. Tommy taking a WHITE man as a slave is not something uber problematic.

3- 'His reply to Techno's 'murder is bad' tweet'. - I get people saying that Techno's initial tweet was insensitive, but saying Tommy's agreement to this from almost over a year ago is something notable and worth addressing is just super nitpicky and is clearly only in there to pad out the thread. It also makes me wonder what other CC's interacted with it and if THEY should be cancelled too (according to twitter).

4 - 'The saying slurs' tweet / jokes about 'whats the worst word you know' - This one I can kinda see how people might not like it. However, it's clearly a 'poke' at his friends, making them seem like bad people. To me, its in the same vein as 'Tubbo is a Tory' or when Tubbo shoots back that 'Tommy is a Nigel Farage fan'. They're obviously not, but its making fun of your friends by saying they are, and mockingly making them out out to be bad people.

5- 'Covid jokes' - People are taking jokes he made about him 'having covid' and saying he shouldn't joke about this, even going as far to linking it to asian hate crimes. I don't even know how to explain that that this is just? not a 'cancellable offence'? I'm sorry but if I hear anyone in my family coughing I make a little joke that 'they better not have covid' and I know other people do. I have someone in my family who is extremely vulnerable to Covid and if they caught it, would quite literally die, but I can understand that jokes like these are harmless. The whole internet had a running joke that we were in a 'panoramic' or 'Panera' or 'insert any word that sounds like pandemic.

This thread got a lot of attention and anything he tweeted afterwards was spammed with the link and there were so many people upset that he hadn't addressed it. I saw so many people say how 'upset' and 'disappointed' they were in him.

Going on to today, this happened: https://twitter.com/khasiid/status/1380611890104139776?s=20

I get it, it looks bad. But for context (which the tweet doesn't give), the reply was only up for less than a minute. It was obvious to me, even BEFORE Tommy addressed it in his stream (clip here: https://twitter.com/cowrpse/status/1380640046202593283?s=20 ) that it was a mistake. In the clip, he clearly acknowledges his mistake and seems embarrassed. To me, this situation should just be laid to rest because a mistake does not need this much attention, but twitter disagrees.

In case it wasn't obvious by now, the tide is turning against Tommy and people are less willing to ignore genuine mistakes and assume the worst.

Today, during his birthday stream people were clearly already waiting for him to mess up. Around half way through, he started saying 'finna' out of context and Tubbo joined in. This led to tons of tweets telling him he was misusing AAVE, and while there were plenty of people willing to be patient and educate, there were also people seeing this as an example of him being a 'bad person' and someone who should be 'without a platform'. I think people forget that not everyone has the same internet upbringing as they do. In general, I think its noted that the misuse of AAVE is something that has just recently been brought to attention. I learned about it through tiktok and stan twitter, and I don't think it's unimaginable that a British 17 year old boy (who is not active on either) has never heard of 'African American Vernacular English'.

Just for a fuller picture, today has also brought about another 'criticism' that I just had to address.

1) 'Tommy made a KKK joke' - Like the 'slavery' point, saying this is extremely misleading. It makes people think the worst. Here's the clip: https://twitter.com/ghostburz/status/1380673589612011522?s=20

Here, Tommy and Tubbo are both joking about Tubbo's 'bit' of naming his alt streams 'aaaaaaaaaa', 'bbbbbbb', 'cccccc', etc and how it would've been bad if it was 'kkkkkkkk' (for obvious reasons). That is literally it. It is a less than 20 second clip. Acknowledging that people woulda thought about the 'KKK' is not him 'not understanding Black issues', its a throwaway joke about the obvious.

Lastly, someone on twitter has made a tommyinnit (address asap) doc - https://docs.google.com/document/d/1tZEZtBzikS-EYYkssfFtwVOoFqOwCK0zhStLe6H1wCc/edit

I've basically already covered everything in this document, but I wanted to mention how extremely 'guilt trippy' the whole thing is. I struggled to come up with the perfect word for the situation, and I am open to hearing other peoples opinion, but as I have mentioned none of these things Tommy has been accused of were done with malicious intent, and some I believe don't even need addressed at all.

'slavery is a source of astronomical trauma for black people, and isn’t something to be taken lightly if you’re to look into the horrors of the slave trade."

and "Oftentimes they are the last words we hear before we die and it really is not Tommy’s place to joke about words that affect us so negatively."

Are extremely emotional words for a 17-year-old boy to hear on his birthday, for stuff that I believe has been taken out of context and blown out of proportion.

I really feel bad for him, because such a large proportion of twitter (which ofc is the loudest side of the fanbase) is angry at him and is demanding (as the document says) ''either a stream or twitter thread/twitlonger to addressing this' and 'a long and serious apology instead of a short statement pre-stream'.

We all know how twitter works, and unless his apology is perfect (which to me means apologising for stuff that he should't have to, as explained in the thread), twitter will continue with this weird hyper focus on everything he does, and it's not going to end well.

Twitter's mentality of 'putting everything this person has done that could ever be considered problematic' into one neat little thread is so unhelpful and counter intuitive. I got overwhelmed reading some of the stuff people were saying about him, I can't imagine how he feels.

I feel like I have more to say but at risk of writing an essay longer than my actual work I have to do, I'm going to end here.

[decoolz]

A Piece of my WIP

This is part of my Work in Progress The John Laurens Alexander Hamilton Kissing book--working title (TJLAHKB) I am extremely nervous about sharing this, but I would like to see what people think about it. This is just under 3000 works so most of it will be under the cut. A new beginning. The mistakes of London and teenage fantasy were gone now, he was sure of it. All he had to do was take this meeting and the next few years of his life would be set. John stepped out of the coach and smoothed out his waistcoat. If he did this right, he’d be able to recover his reputation. No one would be talking about the rumors if he achieved glory on the battlefield. All he had to do was find General Washington’s command tent.

The camp smelled like twelve thousand people had been camping here for weeks. The sweet stench of rotting food nearly overpowered the unwashed smell of thousands of people gathered in quarters much too small. John searched the faces of passersby for someone to help, but not a single soul gave him a glance. No wonder the British had the upper hand. This was the encampment housing the head of the whole continental army and not a single person gave John a once over. He could be a spy wandering about. All this was going in his first letter to his father when he got situated.

“Excuse me!” John shouted at a boy who couldn’t possibly be old enough to enlist yet was running around the place as if he knew every inch of it. “I’m looking for General Washington’s tent. I have an appointment.”

“Good luck with that,” the boy chuckled. He turned and pointed toward the middle of camp. “See the big round one. That’s where you’ll wanna go. Hope you really got that appointment.”

“I’m Henry Laurens son. I don’t need an appointment,” John clarified rolling his eyes. “My father arranged for introductions.”

“Good on you,” the boy nodded, then ran off the way he was heading.

John continued to drag his footlocker across the dirt and dying grass up the path to the “big round tent,” silently judging every single one of the people who walked by him without offering to help or ask what he was doing wandering around this camp. From the looks of everyone’s dirty and mismatched attire, this wasn’t the kind of place where people took much care to observe anything.

He entered Washington’s tent without once being stopped. Setting his footlocker out of the way, he straightened his waistcoat again before approaching the desk in the middle of the space. The man bent over the desk didn’t bother to acknowledge him when he entered. John cleared his throat thrice before the young redheaded man looked up for his work.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked with an unrecognizable accent. “I’m assuming you’re not the Frenchman. Are you one of his staff?”

“I am French but I’m from South Carolina,” John replied. He pulled his letter of introduction from his inside pocket as he stepped closer to the desk. The man behind it appeared altogether uninterested. “I’m Henry Laurens’s son, I’m here to have a meeting with General Washington to join this regiment.”

“He’s not taking meetings today,” the clerk replied. “I can schedule you for later this week if you’d like. What is your business with the General?” He licked the end of his quill and met John’s eyes.

“No, you misunderstand me,” John said, shaking his head. “Henry Laurens is my father. He wrote to General Washington and told him to expect me this week. I don’t need an appointment, he’s expecting me.”

The clerk clicked his tongue. “Right. You still need an appointment. The General is a busy man. He isn’t going to stop running the army because some self-important rich man’s son is going to show up at some point this week. I can write you in for an appointment tomorrow if you like. Should I write in Henry’s son or do you have a name of your own I can use?”

“No,” John shook his head. “I should be able to see him today. He’s expecting me. He told my father he’s looking for a French translator to help with correspondence and the like. He made it pretty clear the post had to be filled post haste.”

“Right … but you see, that’s not how it works,” the clerk explained, speaking slowly as if John was a simpleton. “In order to get into see General Washington, you need an appointment. I make the appointments. I would highly recommend you stop being a jackass and give me your Christian name so I can put it in the ledger for tomorrow.”

John took a deep breath. Clearly, this man didn’t understand who he was speaking to or he wouldn’t continue to be so obstructive. He’d be sure to put this in his letter to his father as well, he’ll have this scrawny boy’s job by the end of the week.

“Listen, Mister…”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” the redhead gentleman corrected.

“Fine then,” John scoffed. “Lieutenant Colonel, I don’t think you understand what’s happening here. I have a letter of introduction from my father with the understanding that I am to meet with his excellency when I arrive at camp. I am here. So, if you please, announce my arrival.”

“You seem to have poor comprehension skills, which honestly looks bad if you’re trying to get a job as a translator. There must be a meeting set up and penciled into this ledger before you can see him.” He held up the ledger for John to look at. “As you see here, today he is booked solid since he’s in the city meeting with a Frenchman who will be joining the ranks. So even if I wanted to let you in to see him—which don’t misunderstand I do not—I can’t because he’s not even in there. But if you give me your name, and not refer to yourself as your father’s son, I can write you in for tomorrow.”

“But I have a letter of introduction,” John extended his hand with the papers toward the boy.

“Go for you,” the Lieutenant Colonel nodded. “What is your name? I can set up an appointment for tomorrow at one in the afternoon right after luncheon.”

“My father said--”

“Listen,” the other man pulled a hand down his face and sighed loudly. “We seem to be at an impasse here. You need an appointment. I honestly don’t give a shit what your father said, because he’s not here. I am. I control the ledger book with the appointments. I already informed you against my better judgment that General Washington isn’t even in camp at present. I’m not sure what it is you think you’re going to accomplish by arguing with me about it. Give me your name I’ll write you in for tomorrow right after luncheon and you can go relax at the inn up the road for the rest of the day and stop bothering me.”

“This won’t do,” John shook his head. “I was promised a meeting when I arrived.”

The other man blinked slowly, shook his head, picked up his quill, and continued whatever it was he was working in when John walked in. After several tense moments of silence, John cleared his throat again for attention.

“Oh, you’re still here. Again, your meeting is tomorrow at one. I wrote down ‘Henry’s son’ so they’ll be no confusion as to how important you are. If you insist on staying in my office to wait for your scheduled time, you are more than welcome to sit in one of the terribly uncomfortable wooden chairs on the side there. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

John sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from yelling and let several short quick breaths out through his nose.

“What is your name?” John demanded. “I would like to make sure Congress knows exactly the kind of riff-raff General Washington has in his employment.”

“And yet here you are trying to join our ranks,” the redheaded man met John’s gaze with a sickeningly sweet fake smile.

“Hamilton!” A head poked around the entrance of the tent. An older man with the same green pin on his hat as the clerk. “Are you set to take a break for luncheon or is Lucy bringing you a tray?”

“No, I’ll come with you,” the redheaded man, Hamilton evidently, said. He straightened his desk and stood. “It’s Wednesday.”

As he came around the desk, John got his first good look at this Hamilton. He couldn’t be taller than five and a half feet. John could probably put his hands around the man’s waist and his fingers would touch. He looked far more like a boy than someone in charge of something as important as General Washington’s ledger.

“Are you going to invite your friend?” the other man asked, gesturing to John.

“Not my friend,” Hamilton grumbled. “You can join us for a meal if you want. Or wait until we leave and look to see that no one is in Washington’s office and pout about it. Just don’t touch my desk.” He didn’t bother turning toward John as he said it.

“Will my footlocker be safe here?” John asked, stepping toward the other men.

“Sure,” Hamilton shrugged. He pushed passed the other man out into the sweltering camp.

“Is he always so delightful?” John asked.

“You must have got him on a good day,” the other man joked. “He’s usually much worse. Richard Meade, Virginia.” He extended his hand to John.

This was more of the kind of welcome he was expecting. “John Laurens, South Carolina.”

“Son of the senator,” Meade smiled. “Rumor has it he’s a lock for the presidency when Hancock retires.”

“That’s what he tells me,” John nodded.

Hamilton waited; arms crossed over his chest for the others then led the way to the mess tent walking a quick clip about twenty paces ahead of them.

“Personally, I think it’ll be great for the union to finally have some southern influence at the helm of Congress. I think we’ve heard enough from Boston and New York for a bit.”

“Those men are the catalyst for the revolution,” John countered. “However, I do agree, if we are to be our own country it makes sense to listen to men from all parts of it.”

John let Meade lead him through the buffet line and tried not to gawk as Hamilton shamelessly flirted with a young brunette woman serving the warm rolls until she slipped an extra one to him.

“Is that the reason he was so eager to come to luncheon on Wednesday?”

“No,” Meade replied as they walked toward their table. “That would be Lucy. She’s around here somewhere. On Wednesdays, she helps with the dishes.”

“Hamilton is that man then?” John sighed, taking a seat across the table from Meade. Hamilton sat a little way down the table, toward the end on Meade’s side. John knew plenty of men just like that back in London. Men who shamelessly debased themselves in front of women for tiniest scrap of attention. Hamilton didn’t quite fit the usual formula for such a man, but John had to admit there was something about him that made it hard to pull his eyes away from the scrawny redhead.

Across the table, Meade rested his hat on the bench beside him. He was slightly older than John, maybe about thirty. This was the type of man John expected to find working for General Washington, a learned Southern Gentleman from a prominent family who knew the order of things. If Meade had been behind the desk when John walked in, everything would be taken care of by now.

“Forgive me for prying,” John said between bites of a watery but rather flavorful stew. “But since I will be joining this merry group of soldiers, may I ask about the dynamic of the inner circle?”

Meade laughed, his green eyes brightening as a crooked smile crossed his face. “I take it your father arranged for you to be the French interpreter we’re looking for. If that’s the case you’ll be working closely with your new best friend, Mister Hamilton. He handles most of the correspondence and does quite a bit of the planning and strategy for small missions. He’s the brains of it.”

“French interpreter was the plan, yeah, apparently a letter of introduction and a promise from my father isn’t enough to have an audience with His Excellency. I also need an arbitrary appointment and to dance for a five-foot-tall boy who thinks too much of himself.”

“Hamilton will be the first to tell you, he’s five foot seven,” Meade smiled. “General Washington is in Philadelphia today meeting with a French General who’s come to help us. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

This was supposed to be the easy part. The last couple of years had been an awful pile of hardship and stupid mistakes. Joining the army was supposed to be the first step in the right direction. All he had to do was show up and the rest would take care of itself. He wouldn’t have to deal with people looking at him sideways or whispers behind hands at society events. As he learned more about camp John did his best to remember that he wasn’t another setback, but a pause. Tomorrow would be different.

He turned toward the end of the table where Hamilton was batting his eyes at an enraptured blonde woman in a light blue gown. Something familiar started to bubble inside John, somewhere between jealousy and contempt. When the woman was called away, Hamilton slid over to join John and Meade for the rest of the meal.

“What do you think, Ricky? Will this son of Henry will fit in our merry band of aides-de-camp?”

Meade nodded as he wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “It’ll be fine Hamilton. The two of you should figure out how to get along. If Mister Laurens will be working French translations, you’ll most likely be sharing a desk.”

Hamilton groaned, and let his head fall back, just as enthused about the prospect as John was.

“You’re at least learned in French though?” Hamilton asked. “Fluent? We have a remarkable number of Frenchmen coming to take up this cause”

John nodded. He’d been taught by his mother as a boy and then in some of the finest schools he could be sent to in Europe. Hamilton continued to eye him suspiciously.

“I gotta head back,” Hamilton wiped his mouth his sleeve and stood quickly walking off with his dishes, handing them to the servant whose job it was to clear plates from the tables when they were finished eating. John’s eyes never left him as he smiled and laughed his way into taking an extra pear from the young woman who gave him the extra bread.

 “An acquired taste, but I assure you he’d a good egg,” Meade said, pulling John’s attention back to the last of his meal. “He’s probably the smartest person in the army, including General Washington.”

 John caught Hamilton walking backward out of the mess tent with a wink to the women at the serving stations and doubted very much that a man like that could surprise him.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out to the inn, make sure you’re settled.” Meade stood and placed his hat atop his head. “It’s decent accommodation over there. Savor it, my friend, you’ll be living on a straw mattress on the bottom bunk until we move for winter camp.”

Once settled in the single room of the inn, John dug through his belongings for his stationary to write the promised letter to his father. So far, this journey wasn’t what he was hoping for, but tomorrow looked promising with the appointment scheduled to accept him into service. He was sure his education and experience would be just what General Washington needed. If he did end up working alongside that Hamilton fellow as Meade said, he’d be able to teach that man a little bit of tack. Show him how a man from Southern Society—like General Washington himself—should act.

[elliewritessometimes]

IT’S @mattieswheelers BIRTHDAY!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH

beCAUSE of this, myself and @notsomightymightytiger decided to steal tea leaf’s time travelling mattie au and create a whole entire fic with their ideas and also a design that @ari-is-anxious did a while back!! hope you enjoy aaaaaaa <3333 aLSO stabbies try and spot as many starboard references as you can heheheh 

this can be read on ao3 here if you prefer the format :)

tw: swearing, murder (it’s minor and resolved tho jsgh), religion (nicco my love read with care), blood, i really hope i haven’t missed anything please do let me know if i missed anything

-

Mattie had always been able to time travel. For as long as she could remember, her walk-in wardrobe had been lined with silver metal and held no clothes at all. As a child, this made it all the more exciting, though as she grew older and actually started to want to own clothes, it became a little inconvenient. She supposed all great inventions came with some kind of sacrifice.

Her uncle had made the time machine as a gift when Mattie was born. Her parents, like any basic adults, assumed the wardrobe-sized box was simply a toy and had taken no interest in it. Mattie, from the age of about three when her curiosity had really set in, was the one who discovered that the machine was in fact a working portal and not just a children’s toy. Since then, she had been happily travelling time and space during the darkest hours of night.

(You may have entirely valid concerns about a three year old having full access to time travel - luckily, not just for Mattie’s safety but also that of the entire human race, her uncle had set what were effectively child locks on a lot of the controls. These were diminished the day that Mattie turned thirteen. Uncle Calvin had always been a little weird, but he certainly wasn’t heartless.)

-

Usually, Mattie’s time travel didn’t affect her life. Sure, it made for some pretty awkward conversations as Mattie spurted some knowledge which could never have been explained through a textbook, but those could often be blamed on watching too much Horrible Histories as a child (“Mattie, I swear to God, you’re so bageling British, and yet you’ve never been there, I don’t understand.” “Horrible Histories is a masterpiece! You’re just jealous that you’re too American to have seen it.” “Actual asshole of a child.” “Farrah-!”).

It was going well until Mattie’s freshman year at Giles Corey. And then three of her fellow highschoolers were murdered. And suddenly Mattie had a way to prevent that from happening.

In some stroke of luck, she passed out at the sleepover and didn’t find out about the murders until she was sitting in the back of a cop car, driving to her house to pick up her things. She remembered thinking how weird it was that she wasn’t being taken straight to the station, but brushed that away in favour of ‘going into her wardrobe to change out of her bloody clothes’.

The time machine was cold like it always was and that forced her out of her muddled state quickly enough. She thought back to the victims. Chess. Farrah. Clark. Snapping on her goggles, she pressed a button, whirled backwards through time and space, and appeared at the gate to Riley’s neighbour’s house.

She really wished that she had actually changed her outfit - the damp blood turned cold with the breeze and sent shivers up her spine. The smell perhaps or just her sudden appearance startled the neighbour’s dogs into a frenzy. A figure, Chess, unharmed and merely confused instead of terrified, stood up from Riley’s bench, calling into the darkness. Mattie’s breath caught in her throat. The second figure, knife glinting in the dim streetlight, slipped out of the back door. Their red hair shone in the reflection of the knife with a sick kind of beauty.

Mattie could have stopped them there, taken the knife from the assailant’s grasp, prevented the tragedy of the evening. But she didn’t. She just watched.

Three minutes later, after arriving back in her present time and pressing yet another button on the wall of her closet, she watched the same scene unfold in the bathroom with a much younger victim. Twenty minutes after that, the third attack. This one was different though, an accident.

Still a little desperate and overly conscious of the police officer standing guard outside of her bedroom, she reappeared in her wardrobe, putting on a jumper before turning back time a little further. She appeared in a gymnastics centre as a girl around Mattie’s age did wolf turns on a beam. A coach entered the scene from the sidelines as the girl stopped spinning, her distinctive plait falling still against her back. Something in Mattie ached at the sight of Chess so lively and innocent, willing to give up her life for her dream of succeeding in her sport. As the two wandered into a side room, picking up water with a smile, Mattie edged forwards, collecting soft gym mats as she went. Within minutes, the area surrounding the beam had been double layered with cushioning, and Mattie could only pray that her plan would work. She’d seen enough YouTube videos to know what happened next.

Chess emerged again with her coach, hopping back up onto the beam with practiced ease. Again, Mattie was forced to just watch as she went down into her wolf turn, then rose up, did a split leap across at least half of the beam, and jumped into a twist to land on the floor. It was a messy landing, the gymnast’s ankle caving in on itself, knee twisting unnaturally in the air, before coming down hard onto her side. But, unlike in the previous videos, there wasn’t a resounding crack, only a weak cry of pain as Chess stumbled back to her feet.

Mattie grinned despite herself as snippets of conversation drifted her way.

“-not broken, don’t worry-”

“The Olympics seem out of the picture…”

“Get her a drink to numb the pain! Yes, limeade’s perfect-!”

Mattie arrived in her room again with a whole plethora of new information just inserted into her mind like it had been there all along. There was no longer and never had been a police officer outside her door. Her shirt was clean, her head undamaged. Chess didn’t go to the Olympics, but still did gymnastics in her spare time as her knee made a full and quick recovery. Farrah wasn’t dropped. Riley, in some weird twist of fate, went to the same therapist as Mattie. Life was… good for the Giles Corey Tigers.

Across town, the sleepover was still going ahead as normal. From what weird memories she just gained, Mattie knew that the team was at a rocky patch, their personalities still clashing in any iteration of the evening. But, with some relief, she knew that it would never in this timeline be bad enough for murder to even be considered as an answer. Her phone buzzed. The lies came easily as she covered up her mysterious disappearance from the sleepover she should currently be at.

Reese (school): Where are you???

Mattieeeee: I went home :( not feeling good

Reese (school): :((( that sucks

Mattieeeee: Ikr. I think it was the ice cream.

Reese (school): I told the others

Reese (school): They all say get well soon apart from Kate and Cairo who actually agreed on something for once haha

Mattieeeee: What did they say skjghdjh

Reese (school): “Tolerate the lactose, Wheeler.”

-

In her short-but-actually-quite-long-given-all-the-time-travel life, Mattie had witnessed a number of key historic events (and had caused about 85% by some small accident, but that’s a story for another time). The one which ended up unveiling her secret to someone in her actual life occurred overnight one February. Or maybe July. Depends. Time is weird.

She stepped into a small room, luckily through the doorway and not awkwardly through the window, as done many times before. A man sat hunched over a desk by the window, dressed in brown and using a pen-but-not-really-a-pen to craft a page of writing. From Mattie’s extensive historical knowledge, it could have been anywhere from 1000 BC to the 16th century.

“Hello, excuse me,” she began, “But I’m a little lost.”

The man startled, his not-really-pen skidding across the page and leaving a trail of thick ink in its wake as he blinked at her in the doorway. “Who are you?” He seemed perplexed as to how a young girl was standing there, in the opening to his room, in clothing not of any time now or before.

Something that Mattie had realised after travelling not only to different times, but also to a vast number of different settings around the world, was that somehow, she was never stumped by a language barrier. Instead she was always able to fluently converse with those she met in what appeared to her as American English. It was really weird; she tried not to think about it too much or it made her head hurt. She’d also learnt that it was best not to explain her full situation to her companions, becoming accustomed to pulling the classic ‘I’m not here, you’re just dreaming’ excuse. So that was exactly the tactic she applied here. “A dream figure. You don’t need to be afraid.”

The man narrowed his eyes, glancing down at the paper and then back up to Mattie’s face. “That’s a good line.” He scribbled her words down onto a scrap piece of papyrus. “Maybe I can use that later.”

Mattie grinned, sensing her chance to fuck up history just a little bit. “What are you writing?”

“How the world came to be,” the man explained. “God.”

“Ah, of course. The Bible, huh?”

“Pardon?” The scribe locked eyes with Mattie for the first time, confusion etched clearly on his face. She shook her head in response, having learnt that it was hopeless trying to explain events of the future to people who could never even begin to imagine the future that she came from. Seemingly satisfied, the man continued. “As the vision you are, I wonder if you’ve been sent to answer my queries.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“I’m struggling for a name. Not for the book itself, but just for this chapter.”

Mattie smiled as wisely as she could. “What do you have so far?”

“‘Generational Crisis’. The chapter describes how our world came to be - the creation of natural elements, the first humans, the beginnings of emotion. ‘Generational’ as it shall be carried on for generations, and ‘crisis’ as it’s a huge event, a crisis for the higher powers.”

Mattie choked. Her mind imagined a world where the entry chapter to the Bible was named as so, and it was a world of chaos and highly differing language choices. “That is very wise, sir. I have one suggestion: how about shortening it? Make it snappier, more catchy. I’m thinking…” She paused, feigning deep thought, “‘Genesis.’”

The man gasped, scrawling her word down at the top of the papyrus. “Genius! Thank you, child. I should write your name in my finished book, to show my gratitude for your kindness.”

“Mattie, sir, Mattie Wheeler. It’s been lovely to meet you and see your studies.” Over the centuries, Mattie had learnt to leave those she met with some kind of reassurance as the humane aspect of her hobby. “Before I go, I may be a dream spirit, but I can assure you that the work you have done right now shall be greatly appreciated for thousands of years to come.”

“You really are a wonder, perhaps a child sent from the power above.”

Unthinking, she snorted, replying, “Oh, boy, you are not ready to hear about Jesus.”

“Jesus? You mean my sister’s husband? I do hear some curious rumours about the man…”

Mattie hid her laugh behind a hand. Of course, this was hundreds of years before Jesus Christ came to be thought of. “I know, right? Jesus? More like JeSUS.” The scribe didn’t reply, mind clearly tired of its confusion and instead turning back to something it knew well. He picked up his writing patterns again. Mattie turned away, back to the doorway. “I will leave you to your writing again. Sleep well.” Leaving a small vial of dissolved sleeping pills on the desk, she stepped out of the door.

-

The only class that Mattie knew she would see Eva in was Religion. They didn’t actually share the class, but Mattie’s Religion teacher was Eva’s form tutor and the older girl often used the classroom as a quieter study area for her free period. Not that Mattie would call a class of thirty sophomores particularly peaceful, but apparently she hadn’t heard the noise of the senior study area, you genuinely don’t understand, last week Jacob Thomas tried to make toast using the sun on a desk and then, bam, the entire of senior year are creating chants about sun bread, it was so weird, Mattie, I transferred to a school of crackheads.

After her travel to the 7th century AD, Mattie sparked a sudden interest in her Religion classes. Eva, being the older sister that she was, watched closely as the sophomore stayed behind after class to search the Bible for something in particular.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing!” Mattie didn’t look up from fervently turning the pages.

“Well, that’s a fucking lie.” Eva perched on the side of a desk, sliding across to snatch the book out of the younger girl’s hands. “Why the hell are you looking at what is essentially the movie credits for the Bible???”

Eva watched as Mattie bit her lip, eyes darting around the empty classroom. She thought for a long moment, visibly debating points in her head, before leaning over the top of the book to run her finger down a list of names. About a third of the way down the page, she stopped. Eva’s eyes followed her finger as it drew a circle around a certain name. Matte Wheyler  

“See. I was looking for that.”

Eva didn’t say anything for a while. Mattie waited with baited breath as Eva’s brain tried to make sense of what they saw. “Mattie Wheeler, what the bagel.” It didn’t bother to even be a question.

“It’s a really long story.” Mattie slumped onto the desk as well. “Hey, did you know that ‘Genesis’ would have originally been called ‘Generational Crisis’ if it wasn’t for me?”

After a glance at both of their timetables, they decided that their next lessons (biology and latin respectively) were worth missing. Instead, they stayed seated on a desk in the Religion classroom, as Mattie explained in detail how her name came to be in the Bible. It was refreshing to finally spill her secret after fifteen years of complete silence, and Mattie wondered vaguely in the back of her mind if one day Eva might be able to share in her time travelling adventures. That might take a little more explaining though, because Eva sure did have a lot of questions.

“So, you don’t change anything?”

“Not anything major. Like, I can’t stop Hitler or anything, that would change too big an event. Little things, however, like names and stuff, it’s fun to mess around with. Ever wondered why the Italian city, Pisa, has its name? I delivered pizza to the guys who were kind of like the government at the time of its naming. Hence, the Leaning Tower of Pizza.”

Eva cackled. “Wait, what?! God, dude, that’s nuts. What the fuck.”

“What can I say, all I really want in life is a little bit of chaos and also mozzarella sticks.”

-

Mattieeeee sent a photo.

evanescence: is that??? abraham lincoln????

Mattieeeee: Abraham Lincoln was an otter.

evanescence: how so?

Mattieeeee: Point one: look at him.

Mattieeeee: Point two: no seriously. Look at him.

evanescence: oh my god

evanescence: i cannot believe you have a literal selfie with abraham lincoln that’s fucking wild

Mattieeeee: Perks of the job :D

evanescence: literally hire me i want a selfie with cleopatra

-

farrah o’satanic ritual: yall i got out of the shower like an hour ago and i still haven’t changed

Imposter: What can I say, bath robes are in fashion rn

farrah o’satanic ritual: ive told you before clark stop pretending you know how to dress

Mattieeeee: Farrah did you not die in the shower?

katherine: ????mattie???????

farrah o’satanic ritual: no?? i didn’t

SmileyRiley: dang it

katherine: riLEY-

caicrow: riley i thought we’d moved on from murder

Imposter: Plot twist: Mattie was the murderer all along

katherine: CLARK-

Mattieeeee: oops-

-

It wasn't meant to happen, she swore up and down it was a mistake. A true and honest accident. And it kinda was? I mean Mattie hadn’t intended for the scaffolding on the new tower being constructed in Pisa to wobble, she’d already fucked up Pisa once in her career, but… Well, that's what she got for letting loose Giles and Corey (her occasional time travelling companions, who also happened to be cats) in the middle of a Italian city in 1252. She could have sworn the catnip was safely concealed in one of the pockets inside her jacket (which was filled with all sorts of trinkets from her travels in the space-time continuum), yet somehow the two had still gotten into it. She guessed that's what she got for not hydrating-feel-greating and eating-to-defeating.

An old citizen eyed her suspiciously, taking in her struggle with the two cats. Or maybe she was just more focused on Mattie’s goggles - she doubted anyone in 13th century Pisa had seen such a bold fashion statement before. The tower continued to lean in the background.

Finally, Giles and Corey settled down, each in a pocket of her trench coat. Mattie breathed a sigh of relief, which only got halfway out of her before she was sucking it back in as the old lady from across the street began to approach her.

“Young lady.”

Mattie smiled sheepishly. “Hello, ma’am. Is everything alright?”

The lady looked mildly amused. “I couldn’t help but notice your two cats going mysteriously close to the tower before it started collapsing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. My cats are very well behaved.” Giles gave a resounding yelp at exactly the wrong time. A hiss from Corey echoed from the opposite pocket.

“Well,” the lady grinned, “If that’s the case, why don’t you leave the animals with me? You seem fairly preoccupied with the tower - perhaps you can try and assist its reconstruction?” She held out a hand.

Mattie thought for a moment and then handed across the two cats. “Thank you ever so much, ma’am. I’ll try and be quick.” The woman nodded and Mattie sped across the square to the drastically swaying tower.

When she arrived back at the woman’s table, there was a second lady in animated conversation with her. As Mattie approached, she stood up to take her leave, pressing a kiss to the first lady’s hair as she left. Something was definitely fruity there.

“All fixed!”

“I’m glad.” The woman nudged the cats back to their owner, looking intensely over Mattie’s shoulder to the stabilised tower. “It certainly looks sturdier.”

“I should hope so.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Sometimes,” she said, staring pointedly at an area on the structure, “I think about crabs.”

“Oh?” Mattie tilted her head. “Do you?”

“Yes. And often when I think about crabs, I think that they shouldn’t be in Pisa, and they most definitely should not be crawling over the tower.”

Mattie gasped and followed her gaze, muttering curses under her breath. “I didn’t realise I’d brought a whole crab with me! I thought I’d taken the sea life off the rocks!”

The woman chuckled. “You seem to be a strange character. Child, where on Earth did you find not only rocks large enough to support a tower, but also a live crab in Pisa?”

Accepting her fate, Mattie decided to tell the truth. “They’re from Egypt.” At the woman’s questioning look, she expanded, “I’m a traveller of sorts.”

“Oh. Well, child, you’re a gift of a traveller. Brightened my day. Italy these days is far too serious. Maybe we should put more crabs on the leaning tower, huh?”

Tucking her cats back into their respective pockets, Mattie allowed herself to laugh. “Maybe we should.” With a nod and a smile, she wandered off, eagerly awaiting her portal.

-

“Why were you in Egypt anyway?” Eva asked as Mattie recounted yet another of her time-travel-gone-wrong experiences.

“Library of Alexandria.”

“Oh, yeah, because that explains so much.”

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes. “It was 48 BC, Caesar was burning shit, this random Roman dude set fire to the library.” She pulled a book out of her backpack. “I saved this and stashed away a few of the slabs of rock. And apparently a crab.”

Eva took the book in awe. “Jesus Christ… This thing is, like, thousands of years old…”

“I know, right? Weird.” She watched as Eva flicked through the pages, tracing her finger over certain words or illustrations. “But it was such a beautiful library, I couldn’t let it just burn. So, I retaliated. Burnt the house of the soldier who set the original flame.”

“Mattie!”

She shrugged. “Setting someone’s house on fire is a survival skill.”

“Oh my God.”

“I would have done something more dramatic, but I had to get home. I had a cake which would need to come out of the oven.”

Eva laughed, the sound echoing around the empty classroom. They were skiving class again, this time PE, the one class they had which coincidentally fell at the same time for both year groups. “How are you so normal in school, but so badass when you time travel?”

“I dunno. All I can say is that cake and spite are my only motivators.”

“You’re like a superhero. ‘Time Travelling Mattie: The Only One Who Can Lead A Dual Life Successfully’!!!”

Mattie blushed, shrugging. She definitely needed to take Eva with her one day. A superhero duo. “Okay, that name needs some work. How about: ‘Sanchez And Wheeler, The Ultimate Time Travelling Duo’?”

“I think I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?”

Eva nodded, shaking her hand like they were signing a business contract. “Yeah.”

[itakecareofsickpeople]

Why Do I Hate Ivermectin?

I was asked to do an article on ivermectin and I feel that it is important to understand the science behind ivermectin (and HCQ).  I think if you know the science, you will be as skeptical as I am.

I was once being quizzed by an Attending Physician when I was a resident.  I stuttered as I was answering and said, “I think…”  He stopped me mid-sentence and said, “Son, you are a second year internal medicine resident, I don’t give a shit what you think.  What do you know?”

You see, it really isn’t relevant to all of you what I think. You aren’t interested in my opinion.   You are reading this post because you are interested in what I know.  I don’t take anything at face value and I always read all of the studies that people are using as a reference to prove a point. The thing is, most “studies” aren’t worth the paper they are printed on and don’t actually “study” anything.  Worst thing is, sometimes it’s a fake.  

We all know about the faked anti-vaccine trial by Andrew Wakefield, the completely discredited, former doctor, who started the anti-vaccine movement by faking data on autism and vaccines. In case you didn’t, he faked the original anti-vaccine study and In 2010, the British General medical council found that Wakefield “had been dishonest in his research, had acted against his patients' best interests and mistreated developmentally delayed children.”  That’s right anti-vaxxers. That’s your start, one giant lie. 

I have read all of the studies that I will make reference to in this post and regrettably, every study I can find on ivermectin. As of now, I do not see any evidence that supports the use of ivermectin for Covid in humans outside of a clinical trial. Hey! That’s what the cdc says too….odd. 

In general, American doctors are snobby.  We want studies from Europe, Israel, Australia, Canada and the good ole USA.  We don’t want studies from countries with dictatorships or totalitarian regimes.  These countries have a long track record of producing fake studies and bad studies.  Countries such as China, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Brazil, Venezuela, etc.  You know, the same governments that hack us and steel info from us, those ones.  It is in their governments interest to make all of their people think they have a treatment for covid, otherwise there would be revolts.  American doctors generally would never consider a study from Egypt as high quality, unless it was published in a very well respected journal.  There just isn’t any quality control.

The science behind HCQ is basically the same, except with ivermectin, a large clinical trial showing it helped, was all fake.  HCQ just didn’t work.  Lots of us used HCQ at the beginning of covid until real studies were done showing it didn’t work and may actually worsen outcomes.

Remember, most drugs are safe in normal doses, but toxic in doses outside of the “therapeutic window” that is the dose that both will have the desired effect, but also is safe and well tolerated.  Too little drug, it doesn’t work, too much drug, it causes toxicity. 

First, It is very important to test all drugs that are easily available for activity in covid.  This starts in a test tube. Ivermectin was approved in 1996 for the treatment of  strongyloides and hookworms.  In animal studies, it is lethal in overdose and causes toxicity at 10x the approved dose.  It also was found to be a teratogen (birth defects) and is not approved for use in pregnant women.  Otherwise, it is quite safe and effective in comparison to approved treatments of the time and was approved after being studied in about 1700 patients (half given ivermectin, half given old treatments).  It is widely available and is pretty safe (Except in pregnancy).

Ivermectin was found to have in vitro (test tube) activity against the SARS COV2 virus.  I know that sounds great, but remember what we said about the therapeutic window. It was shown, in the test tube, to inhibit activity of covid by 50% at a concentration of 2 μM (1,750 ng/mL), which is > 35× higher than the maximum plasma concentration (Cmax) of 0.05 µM (46.6 ng/mL) after oral administration of the approved dose (~ 200 μg/kg) and ivermectin showed little to no activity at 1 μM in vitro. 

Wait, so that means you would need 35 times the approved dose to inhibit covid and ivermectin is toxic at 10x the dose.  It also causes birth defects?  Count me out.

As you might imagine, based on this knowledge it is very hard for me to believe that you can safely dosed ivermectin could have any benefit for covid.  Now, on to the bad studies. 

Remember what I said about studies from certain countries?  

In November, an article from Egypt was published without review in an online site called Research Square.  Never heard of it? Me either?  It showed a 99% reduction in mortality.  Holy crap, that’s amazing, right?  Of course.  Despite it having such a completely unrealistic outcome, many doctors picked this up and ran with it.  In America, a group of doctors that named themselves the FLCCC, led by two guys named Paul Marik and Pierre Kory, latched on to this and started spouting its effects. I personally have a lot knowledge and not a lot of respect for Marik���s work predating covid. His FLCCC “treatment guidelines” have never been evidence based and in general he has never been able to publish studies that prove his claims.

So after this first study from Egypt comes out, a bunch of studies follow and are picked up by Marik’s group.  They did a “review” of them and included the Egyptian study. Most of the studies aren’t even reviewed and are published online as “preprint.” They are from Egypt, India, Iraq, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Peru, Nigeria, Mexico, and Argentina.  None of these places are exactly known for being in the 1st world and none of the other studies showed the massive effect as the Egyptian study.  

Then, a medical student in the UK is assigned the Egyptian study for a report. He actually reads the study.  It doesn’t make sense.  He then requests more information from the authors and they sent him the “patient data.”  It was clearly faked and he got some journalists involved.  After they involved an expert on faked studies, the study was then taken down from Research Square over “ethical concerns.”  Too bad Marik didn’t bother to do what the med student did.

Unfortunately, this has led to a massive amount of confusion.  If you think that there is a treatment for covid, you might not take the vaccine.  Even If it worked, we would be taking about a minimal effect.   Heck, it could even be toxic if you give it to that many people.  The other big problem is we have to do a bunch of American studies to see if it does work.  Studies that could have been done with another treatment.  What a waste of time and lives. 

So why do I hate ivermectin?  Well, I don’t.  I hate the waste of time I have spent writing this article to discuss a drug that could only be effective for covid if you took enough to kill you.  I hate the people that faked the study, they have cost lives.  I don’t hate Marik, but I definitely think he is crazy and I’m not interested in what he thinks and that isn’t new.  Unfortunately he has a big microphone and I just have this little one.

My biggest recommendation is ask your doctor if you should have the vaccine.  If you trust YOUR doctor, listen to HIM or HER.  Not some YAHOO online like ME. Remember, you trust your doctors to take care of your babies, born and unborn, cut you open, give us anesthesia and put cameras in all our holes. You trust them to help you make major medical decisions about your life. Keep doing that, they care about you. We care about you. 

Please, don’t post any articles in support of ivermectin. I read them and found them lacking. Also, don’t post another doctors opinion of ivermectin. I don’t care what they think, just what they know.

PS: I am a Critical Care Pulmonologist, I take care of sick people. Hopefully that won’t be you.

Oh yeah. Feel free to share. I should really charge for these.

[mopeytropey]

a beer buds series: chapter 2

It’s Friday -- what the hell: have another round on me. 

True story: this is one of my favorite little session IPAs brewed out of Salem, MA, and can be found stocked in my beer fridge quite often. Please enjoy Lexa in angst-ridden emotional turmoil (but, like, in a cute way) and Lincoln being the best beer bud in the known universe. 

Timeline: takes place within chapter 2 of 'a pleasant undoing' after Lincoln's going away party and before Clarke and Lexa take a trip to the cherry farm

Beer: Left of the Dial SESSION IPA

Celebrating the modest ABV of British IPAs, yet with the passion and stone fruit aromas of US hop varieties, Left of the Dial uses British malt (Golden Promise, Caramalt, Oat Malt), hard water and a new wave hop profile (Citra, Mosaic). 

ABV 4.3% :::

Left of the Dial: Notch (Salem, MA)

“So, your night ended well on Friday, I’m assuming.”

Lincoln, a man comprising over 200 pounds of tattooed muscle, broad shoulders, and an overactive gym membership, actually blushes. He turns away from Lexa when he smiles so that she can see his remarkable profile as he runs a guilty hand across his short-cropped hair.

Too distracted for a fresh shave, Lexa grins.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not complaining.” Lincoln stretches his bulky arms above his head and leans back into his chair to stretch his limbs. “It was definitely a fun night, start to finish.”

Lexa rolls her eyes at his broad smile and fiddles the corner of her drinks menu. Making reference to Lincoln’s party has her thoughts drifting to other smiling faces. Sparkling blue eyes and bright laughter flash across her conscious, and Lexa clears her throat. These images and more have run on a tortuous loop through her head for three, full days as Lexa tries (failing miserably) to ignore them.

They’ve met at a quaint beach bar, light purple clapboard siding that is sundrenched and chipping paint. The Beach Plum isn’t beachfront, but sitting on its small patio, Lexa can still smell the nearby ocean. Just one of several enjoyable aspects of her new, coastal life in northern Massachusetts.

“I’m surprised you even noticed,” Lincoln says offhandedly, chuckling a moment later as Lexa tries to neutralize the panic that must flash across her eyes. “Seemed like you were pretty busy cosying up to your new best friend the entire night.”

The accelerated heart rate that Lexa actually feels against her breastbone cannot be healthy. She feigns confusion for a half second, enough to calm the racing panic beneath her skin.

“I met a number of people that night,” she says and fixes her eyes to the menu.

Laughing again in that carefree fashion, Lincoln snatches the menu from her grasp. Now she’s got nothing with which to distract her hands.

Asshole.

“I don’t know why you two keep trying to deny it—”

Panic spikes again, and Lexa grinds her jaw to keep from overreacting. Lincoln cannot realistically hear her thoughts or read her mind. Or, so she repeatedly tells herself.

“I was totally right,” he continues, almost boasting in his self-assurance. “You and Clarke get along so well already! You guys hung pretty tight the whole night, huh?”

She’s momentarily torn between outright denial and desperate honesty, admitting to an old friend that she was, inexplicably, incapable of prying herself away from Clarke’s company. That she enjoys her animated storytelling as much as her barking laughter. That she cannot figure out if Clarke is constantly flirting with her or if she is simply one of the kindest, most charming people Lexa has ever met.

Instead, she says, “She talks a lot.”

“Yeah,” Lincoln laughs again. “Total understatement. She’s been an amazing friend the past few years, though, and she and O go way back. I just knew when she met you, you’d hit it off.”

‘You should let me take you fishing sometime.’

Lexa blinks, swallowing roughly at the memory of Clarke’s words along the waterfront. The way Lexa had absolutely forgotten herself, even for a moment. And then, it had been a forced mantra of: Costia, Costia, Costia. Sweat had gathered in her palms as Clarke watched for her response.

Three weeks into this new job, this new life, and she’s been swept up by a whirlwind of troublesome exchanges with a really wonderful person she hardly knows.

Although, that isn’t entirely true.

Lincoln’s observations, while wildly understated, are accurate. She and Clarke have certainly found a fast bond. It’s been virtually effortless, the speed with which they have begun a friendship. Lexa’s worrisome heart rate and ill-advised desires to constantly be in Clarke’s company notwithstanding, she is grateful for a new friend.

Clarke Griffin does not hold back, open and authentic in a way that Lexa has rarely experienced, and she finds that sort of reckless abandon to be contagious. She exhales and watches the sun setting along the marsh.

“It’s—it’s kind of hard not to be friends with her.” Lexa wonders if she’s revealed too much by saying too little.

“Exactly!” Lincoln laughs. “I think the feeling is definitely mutual. Okay what are we drinking?”

Lexa is inclined to ask how, exactly, Lincoln knows what Clarke is feeling, or what sorts of things she’s said, specifically, that indicate her mutual interest in Lexa. She wants to probe and prod for every minute detail.

Instead, she says, “I’ve been wanting to try this one out of Salem.”

“The session IPA? Hell yeah, Notch is doing a great job there. There’s such an oversaturation of Citra in east coast IPAs, I keep pushing Indra to implement more Centennial hops—really corner that west coast market.”

With the conversation switching gears to work, Lexa relaxes into the late afternoon sunshine.

“You had fun then?” Lincoln asks, clarifying a moment later, “At the party?”

Beers have been ordered, and an appetizer of fried oysters is on the way because Lincoln is perpetually hungry.

“I had a great time,” Lexa answers. And she means more than the uninterrupted hours she’d greedily spent in Clarke’s company.

For what little they had talked, Lincoln was right about Octavia. She is instantly likable for someone so unapologetically abrasive. Perhaps Lexa is better equipped to understand Octavia’s sharp edges and acerbic retorts having connected with someone like Anya at such a young age.

“I’m glad. I owe Clarke big time. She threw a kickass send-off for someone who isn’t even technically leaving.”

“She really likes you,” Lexa tells him as their beers arrive. “For some reason.”

The sarcasm breeds more smiles from Lincoln as they enjoy their first sips of beer. “Octavia apparently holds a similar opinion,” Lexa adds.

Lincoln again runs a palm across the brown skin and dark stubble of his head, smiling as if he’s lassoed the moon. “I’m feeling very lucky, that’s for sure. You know how it is—finding someone who just … makes perfect, fucking sense.”

“Eloquent,” Lexa grins in response, even as her mind stutters to picture brown eyes instead of blue.

:::

[senadimell]

Fanfiction

Arguments against the concept of fanfiction are just hilarious to me. You know why? Music doesn't really have this problem, at least not at first glance. In fact, look up musical quotation and variation, two accepted musical techniques that have existed in European music for hundreds of years. Take that, highbrow critics. Or else consider the modern cover song or remix.

When you look deeper, though, even music has its problems: consider the reception of Andrew Lloyd Webber (one of the most popular musical composers in musical theatre), who’s been repeatedly accused of musical plagiarism. That he borrows extensively and somewhat indiscriminately is true; however, that he borrows ‘meaninglessly’ implies that the average theatre-goer has or should have an extensive knowledge of classical music to understand the history and meaning of any musical quotation, and that music only has meaning when it’s accompanied by its original context and meaning. 

Up until the past decade and a half, most musical theatre was dismissed as popular and not considered worthy of literary or musical analysis, with the exception of the works of Stephen Sondheim (who is brilliant, though I don’t really enjoy his works). Lloyd Webber has often been pointedly ignored, despite being a household name even with people who don’t really listen to musicals. Phantom of the Opera? It’s been playing non-stop, no revivals, at the Majestic theatre in New York for 33 years. (Of course, the irony is that Phantom of the Opera itself is fanfiction). 

The second edition of Steven Suskin’s Show Tunes (1991) included a section called “Notable Imported Shows.” About half of the shows listed were shows with music by Lloyd Webber. In the Preface to the third edition, Suskin justifies the omission of this section and the expunging of Lloyd Webber that resulted: “All of the British imports since the Second Edition have failed; thus, I have seen fit to excise the import section and concentrate on matters of more interest.” As a consequence of this executive decision, the most popular Broadway composer of the last thirty years hand probably history is now banished from a major reference book that purports to cover “The Songs, Shows, and Careers of Broadway’s Major Composers.” 

(emphasis added) Block, Geoffrey. Enchanted Evenings: the Broadway Musical from Show Boat to Sondheim and Lloyd Webber. 2nd ed. Cary: Oxford University Press, 2009.

So there it is, the same problem as fanfiction. The problem is not that a work is being reinterpreted, but that ordinary people like it. It’s not deemed sufficiently literary enough. Critics think the ‘original meaning’ is being disrespected and despitefully used. You can argue that Lloyd Webber’s quotes are meaningless or plagiarized, but you’d have to ignore the fact that people like the show. They find it meaningful. They go and see it again and again, and listen to it in their homes and cars. They propose to their significant others using its music. They sing their children to sleep with it. Regardless of whether or not you think his use of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, op. 64 in “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” is particularly meaningful, you can’t deny this:

The song has been much recorded, with "I Don't Know How to Love Him" being one of the rare songs to have had two concurrent recordings reach the Top 40 of the Hot 100 chart in Billboard magazine, specifically those by Helen Reddy and Yvonne Elliman,[1] since the 1950s when multi-version chartings were common.

Wikipedia, accessed June 13, 2020.

People like it. And people generally find the songs they like meaningful. 

Guess what? The original still exists! If you like it more, then you can read/watch/listen to it to your heart’s content! You don’t have to read fanfiction. You don’t have to consume the parts you don’t like. You can enjoy Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, op. 64 all you want and never ever listen to “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” and that’s perfectly fine. You do not, however, get to criticize the people who enjoy the other, or condemn those who write fanfiction as useless. (And consider that Mendelssohn himself wrote variations on other composers’ themes, to great acclaim.)

I'll be the first one to admit that I used to hate fanfiction, but it was more of a disillusioned sort of hatred because I had both high hopes and high standards, and the two couldn't coexist. It was frustrating to realize that most of what I found had poor grammar and character development, or else was based on a movie or play when I explicitly searched for the book (looking at you, most Phantom of the Opera works). I would sort through pages and pages of stuff that I couldn’t get through, and my tolerance grew short. Nowdays, I’ve had a renewed appreciation for fanfiction, now that I’m using ao3 and not FF.net, since I find sorting through works much easier on ao3. 

The short of it is this: There’s nothing wrong with the concept of fanfiction. There’s nothing wrong with what is popular. People writing fanfiction aren’t stealing profits(that’s piracy) like there’s a limited number of views. In fact, I’d hazard to guess that fanfiction drums up profit since it keeps the old flame burning. The fact that fanfiction is free, and people labor at it without the expectation of monetary reward, and write the kind of stories that aren’t deemed worthy of being published, and that critics think that labor is worthless and completely lacking in quality says more about capitalism and who owns ‘the means of production’ than anything else. (Sincerely, your resident non-socialist)

[missanthropicprinciple]

personal aesthetic | cunning woman

[★ lengthy description under the cut, do not remove if you reblog, credits and more information under photos★ ]

I’ve been doing a lot of research into the cunning folk of Britain. Cunning folk, both women and men, have many names and existed (and I assume, still exist) all over Europe since the Late Medieval period. They were practitioners of folk or “low” magic, performing spells and charms. They were also more or less employed to function as fortune tellers, detectives (of a fashion), match makers, used herbal medicine, and worked against malicious forms of witchcraft. Their position in relation to Christianity and supposed Devil-worship is complex, as cunning folk were in most cases Christians themselves, yet the Church often grouped them in with Satanic witches. They were semi-literate and often of a slightly higher social position than the average laborer. 

The only depiction of a cunning person that I am aware of is in the television series By the Sword Divided (1983-85) which centers on one fictional family’s experience in the English Civil Wars (1642-51). Created by producer John Hawkesworth, the show was deeply rooted in historical fact. The cunning woman of the household is Judith Crabbe, commonly known as “Minty” for her “skill in herbs.” Although she is a seemingly frail old woman, she lances boils, performs abortions, delivers babies, and is in possession of some deadly poisons. In the episode The Sound Of Drums, she instructs that a woman whose mother has just died of the plague should be stripped and washed and she herself gives the woman ragwort to “take away the poison,” and douses her head with dragonwort in order to “drive away all infection.” Although germs were not discovered until the 1850s, this fictional account implies there was knowledge of needing to cleanse and disinfect to prevent the spread of disease. In one deeply disturbing episode she is brought to trial during a brutal witch hunt, but survives. She explains that she is a cunning woman like her mother and that she knows charms and herbs and potions “all to do good.” Sadly, unlike Minty and genuine cunning folk who had actual herbal knowledge, many supposed cunning folk were profiteers, playing on the innocent and gullible common man. 

In terms of my own identification with cunning folk I have spent a long time considering my connection with their practices. I decided that being a Wiccan is not for me. I have occasionally referred to myself as a witch. I am essentially a total skeptic, raised to question my half Catholic/half Church of England background, and never baptized. I am not a practicing Catholic, I prefer C of E in many ways but I have enjoyed the ritual of Catholic traditions and have found comfort in the Virgin Mary. However, if anyone asks about my faith I am certainly agnostic. I respect everyone’s religion and I stand by the fact that I personally cannot prove the existence or non-existence of a Christian God or any other Gods and Goddesses. I do not believe in or worship the Devil or any other deity. I have respect for many and find inspiration in them but that is where it ends. As a child I repeatedly tried to believe in ghosts, fairies, and God, but I am a non-believer. I do keep an open mind and often consider the presence of spirits and genius loci in terms of biological feedback, and/or other qualities of perception that humans possess that we are not yet aware of. While I am a non-believer I am a highly sensitive person and am learning to trust my own intuitive nature. I also take into account that knowledge of the human brain and body is somewhat limited; who knows what we will learn in the future. 

As for practices, I conduct certain rituals similar to actual cunning folk. Divination is not something I wholly believe in, as I don’t particularly believe in magic beyond ones own powers of agency, instinct, and intentionality. I do, however work with tarot cards which have been in use since the mid-15th century. By all accounts they were based on playing cards, elements in nature, and even Christian symbolism. To me, they are tools with which to unlock ideas, knowledge, and wisdom in one’s own mind. 

As far as crystals go, I do not know if they have any connection with cunning folk. The use of crystals in magic goes back thousands of years - people such as the Ancient Sumerians used them. Each gemstone or crystal is believed to have healing powers and I’m unsure if I believe in that but at the same time the symbolism of each stone is meaningful to me in the sense that it is a connection with a person’s intentionality. In general, intention is one of the most powerful aspects of a person’s journey, spiritual or otherwise. I have often employed nuummite which is an excellent and rare grounding stone. While it is unknown to me if stones have actual healing powers, just holding something that is thousands of years old is incredibly exciting and calming. 

Tea is an important to me on multiple levels. I am mindful of the fact that tea was stollen by the British from India, China, and Japan and so while I am often noted for my “Britishness” when it comes to tea, I understand that it does not originate in my culture. I love Earl Grey, which is a powerful black tea most often made with Assam tea and oil of bergamot. To avoid the high levels of caffeine I usually steer towards camomile and am exploring other herbal options. Tea forms the intersection between comfort and health benefits. (Again, I am not aware that tea is in any way a part of cunning folk practices.) 

Cooking is certainly a part of anyone’s life as we all have to eat, but in our current day a lot of us rely on take-out/take-away and restaurants rather than our own skills. I am lucky enough to come from a family who cooks a lot, or at least, has done in the past. My father was quite good at baking, particularly cheese scones (a WWII era family recipe), profiteroles, and quiche. His mother, from what I remember, was a great cook, making roast meals and cooking lots of vegetables for Dad and the family from the 1940s to the 1990s. My mother is a good cook as well and Dad and I noted how we were very lucky to have homemade meals most of the time, with quality meat and organic vegetables. My mom’s mother was a good cook and both her grandmothers were excellent cooks, especially great-grandmother Theresa. She cooked for her family as well as working as a cook for a wealthy local jewelry family. She specialized in traditional Swabian German and Hungarian dishes from our heritage. We still have her kitchen knife which we use regularly. I’m slowly working up to mastering my great-grandmother’s recipes, but so far I’ve only worked on some baking - popovers, sponge cake, and gluten free cookies. Next I’d like to make sticky ginger cake, focaccia, and other things like salsa and pickles. I don’t know of any explicit connection between cooking and cunning folk but food and healing go hand in hand to a certain extent and coupled with herbs and the like it seems fitting. 

I’m not particularly skilled in herbs as yet but I’ve used a lot of rosemary, basil, and thyme in the last few years. My goal is to become thoroughly familiar with the use of herbs in cooking or in making any sort of mildly curative ointments in things. (However, I am a firm believer in modern medicine and science and aside from exercising great caution concocting any herbal remedies, I will always look to actual professionals if I am in need of serious medical attention.)

In conclusion, my journey to becoming a cunning woman or healing woman has no real end because as humans we never stop learning. As I study more about cunning folk, witchcraft, and herbalism I will have a better understanding of my direction and purpose. 

[duhragonball]

Oh, Shit,I Just Remembered Pete Wisdom.

I started looking into Warren Ellis a little more, to see what he accusations against him were, exactly.   So much has come out about so many people that it’s hard to keep it all straight, but I’ve been a comics fan since 1993, and Ellis has been in the industry for about as long, I think, so I wanted to know more.  

The quick version, from what I can tell, is that Ellis would offer to mentor fans who wanted to break into the comics industry, and with the women, he would start to segue that relationship into something more physical.   It would get to the point where he’d want to have sex with them, and they felt like they couldn’t refuse him, since he could torpedo their careers before they could get off the ground.   A few women must have spoken out about it, leading others to do the same, and eventually it started to become clear that there was a lot of similarities in their stories.   

As I was thinking about this, it suddenly dawned on me that I first heard of Ellis from his work on Marvel Comics’ Excalibur, where he introduced Kitty Pryde’s love interest, Pete Wisdom.    And then a bunch of stuff started to make a lot more sense in hindsight.  

The X-Men franchise is overrated trash, but probably the wankiest, most usless, most overrated part of the X-Men mythos is the spin-off series Excalibur, which was basically a splinter group of X-Men operating in Great Britain.   Fans loved this book, I think because it featured popular characters like Kitty Pryde and Nightcrawler, and the book (mostly) managed to steer clear of the mega-crossovers that dominated the rest of the franchise in the 80′s and 90′s.  When I finally sat down to read my X-Men collection in 2015 and 2018, I did so confident that I wouldn’t need to bother with Excalibur, because it rarely had anything to do with the main books.   The message Marvel sent me with this book was that it doesn’t matter and it never did.

Anyway, around 1995 or so, Warren Ellis took over as the writer, and he introduced a new character named Pete Wisdom, who quickly became romantically involved with Kitty Pryde.   This was somewhat controversial for a few reasons:

1) When Kitty was introduced in 1980, she was stated to be only 13 years old.    “Thirteen-and-a-half”, to be precise.    They actually threw in the fraction, just to make her seem even more like a little kid, if that was possible.    Comic book time moves slower than real time, but it wasn’t entirely clear to anyone how old Kitty was by the time she relocated to England and met Pete.   Later stories by other writers would attempt to set Kitty’s age as being 16 or 18, which makes Kitty’s relationship with Pete a continuity error at best. 

2) In spite of Kitty being very young, people had been shipping her with Colossus for years, and it annoyed them that there was yet another obstacle for their extremely problematic-but-much-desired relationship.   

3) People accused Pete Wisdom of being a Mary Sue, since he seemed to just pop in out of nowhere and work himself into the team, win the heart of the most popular female character, and he’s supposed to be this super cool secret agent type.  The implication here was that Ellis only invented Pete as a self-insert OC for the purpose of getting it on with Kitty Pryde.  

I think there were two schools of thought on how Kitty was supposed to be portrayed in comics.   The first was that Chris Claremont had insisted on keeping her eternally 16 or whatever, this plucky kid prodigy who was always too young to get into these kinds of relationships.    Ellis’s supporters felt that this was too restrictive, and it was foolish of Claremont to think that other writers would be beholden to his wishes, especially after he left Marvel Comics in 1991.  Ellis seemed to be allowing Kitty to grow and mature as a character, and it didn’t matter if it messed around with “comic book time”, since no one knows how that works exactly anyway. 

For my part, I always thought Pete Wisdom was a fucking tool of a character.    He was yet another government spook riding on the popularity of “The X-Files”.    Plus, the conventional wisdom among comics nerds in the 90′s was that U.K. writers were better somehow, just because they liked to write snarky dialogue and deconstruct the superhero genre.   Pete Wisdom was a mutant, and he joined the Excalibur team, but he wasn’t gonna wear any poncy tights, innit?   No, he went into action with a suit and tie, smoking cigarettes and constantly drinking shots, because that’s more bloody realistic, mate.   Ellis gave him an eyepatch in 2001, because of course he did.

The point I want to make here is that Ellis came up with this big idea in the 90′s, and fans ate it up because they were X-Men fans and had no taste.   You have to understand that in the 90′s, the big overused cliche was giant guns.   The second biggest cliche was nostalgia references to the 1960′s.   So when someone trotted out “Fox Mulder, but he’s sarcastic and British”, people actually thought it was kind of fresh by comparison.  Surely this bold new concept could only take Kitty Pryde into amazing new directions...

But no, Excalibur got cancelled in 1998, and they moved Kitty back to the X-Men.  Did they even break up Pryde and Wisdom on panel?  I have no idea.   All I know is I read a bunch of her post-Excalibur appearances and she barely mentions the guy, probably because a lot of people in Marvel probably wanted to forget the time she got aged up just enough to sleep with a skeevy-looking older man.  

Looking back on it, I always sort of assumed that Ellis only did the Pete/Kitty thing because he was just looking for something interesting to do with the characters, and he wasn’t going to let tradition or continuity stand in the way.   But in 2020, the whole thing starts to feel more autobiographical, since this resembles the sort of thing he was doing with young women through his online community.   Ellis’ “apology” states that he didn’t notice the power imbalance when he was involved with these women.   “I have never considered myself famous or powerful.”   I find this insulting to my intelligence, since I used to see fans worship every stroke of his pen like he was some kind of genius.   News would come out that Warren Ellis would be taking over the writing duties of a book, and fans would say “Good, they finally fixed it.” They just trusted him to do right by whatever project he was given.    So I can only imagine how overwhelmed they might have felt when they signed up for his mailing list fan club thing and he would offer to help some of them become professional writers.  

So maybe the critics had Pete Wisdom figured out from the beginning.   Whether Ellis realized it or not, Pete was his power fantasy, an older guy just impressive enough to get the attention of a (very) young woman and take her under his wing.   And he teaches her how to drink whiskey and smoke and how to know all this black ops horseshit, and-- well whaddya know?-- they’re having the sex.   

And to a point, maybe that’s human nature.   I always wanted to be a writer because I liked the feeling of power it offered.   Imagine being the guy who could put words in Captain Picard’s mouth, or decide exactly what kind of music Superman likes.  And yeah, if I could make a name for myself in that kind of field, maybe the ladies would start to notice me, and then I’d be doing pretty well for myself.  

The thing is, I eventually learned that writing for comics is a real bullshit thing to get into.   You can’t just submit scripts, and there’s no set of steps to follow.   I remember reading stories of writers breaking into the comics industry, and they were all different, usually involving some improbable meeting with someone who was already there.  A comics writer I respect once wrote that it takes some creativity to figure out how to break in, and if you can’t find your own way, then maybe you’re not creative enough to be in the business in the first place.  

And that’s how these women got pulled into Ellis’s nonsense, I assume.    They had similar aspirations to my own, and at first he seemed to be offering them a lifeline, but then it led to something they hadn’t bargained for, and what could they do?   If they refused to have sex with him, they might have to start from scratch.   

Which sort of confirms my suspicions that writing for comics is just a bullshit job, because maybe it’s only hard to get into because of all the gatekeeping that goes on.    Why bother accepting submissions and hiring based on merit, when a handful of writers can just vouch for friends or fans willing to do anything they ask?   All I know is it’s relatively straightforward to get a job in chemistry.   I got a degree in chemistry, and then I sent out some applications, went to some interviews and they offered me a job.    Maybe if Marvel worked the same way, guys like Warren Ellis wouldn’t have the sort of unfair influence they have over their fans. 

[iris-somnia]

Catch Up Tag 🌸

Tagged by beautiful angels @yeoldontknow​ to do this catch up tag. Thank you, dear!

1. What do you prefer to be called name-wise?

I use Iris here, but I have other pseudonyms on other profiles in order to protect myself. I never use my real name online.

2. When is your birthday?

Late February.

3. Where do you live?

I’m currently living in a hotel I can’t afford long term. I hope to find permanent shelter soon but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard as hell.

4. Three things you are doing right now?

I’m AFK fishing on Black Desert Online because they’re doing the fishing event that gives free money and if I can’t be rich irl, I can at least be the big cheese with an avatar that looks like an eight-year old forest nymph. I’m also listening to WayV because they’ve consistently held up as a good choice no matter what mood I’m in this year. In about 15 minutes, I’ll resume watching the Crown and doing my sticker book (my guilty pleasure during homelessness).

5. Four fandoms that have peaked your interest?

Honestly, I’ve avoided fandoms this year because people really don’t know how to take a breath and enjoy shit. Most kpop fandoms have a subset of older fans who I enjoy interacting with because they only talk about the music and performances, but there are other wings of fans who are so obsessed with winning and being all-powerful that I don’t even want to listen to the music anymore because it’ll feed the monster.

The accounts/mutuals who I’ve enjoyed the most this year have been Starlights, Insomnia, Sirens (Chloe x Halle), and Warriors & Weirdos (Aurora). I’m seeing some promising reasons to get back into video game fandoms but lord, there’s so much drama in most of the companies that I am holding back.

6. How has the pandemic been treating you?

No one in my immediate family has gotten sick, but I did have to bury my grandmother this spring and many family couldn’t come to her service because of the restrictions. Some of my colleagues have COVID. Many more lost their jobs because of it and most of them who were laid off were done so under false pretenses and I’m still mad.

I’m working remotely, but a budget scare earlier in the year motivated my employer to announce a furlough for many of us, only to rescind it a couple of days before it went live. By then, I had already lost my apartment and had packed all my shit in storage. I’ve been couch surfing and living in hotels since August and it’s cost me thousands of dollars. I’ve learned that when you don’t have a permanent address, people assume you’re a junkie even when you wash your ass. I’ve had a lot of disappointments this year in terms of human behavior, but vices like alcohol and beautiful women keep me level enough to stay out of the deep end. That, and I meditate a lot. 

I have lost all my patience with assholes though, especially ones who puff up at me in public like I’ll be intimidated and fold. Confrontation and avoidance are two sides of the same coin and I keep flipping it like a gambler. I’m either pretending they’re dead or I’m ripping a new asshole in a way that makes those eyes pop like “oh shitttttt.” When I’m no longer in survival mode with my housing, I hope to go back to understanding the nuances of lived experience. Until then, it’s eat or be eaten and I absolutely hate living black & white like that.

7. A song you can’t stop listening to?

Megan Thee Stallion - Realer. 

8. Recommend a movie?

1917 (2019) - It’s a British war film that has some of the best cinematography I’ve seen in many years. I was on the edge of my seat with chest pains but wow.

9. How old are you?

32

10. School, university, occupation, other?

Employed at a non-profit that profits off human suffering. I work there as a form of prostitution because of my student loans but I’m considering going into a different training program so I can leave and work for myself. It’ll take a couple years to save up.

11. Do you prefer heat or cold?

I refer 70 degrees F because my winter coat’s in storage.

12. Name one fact others may not know about you?

I have two history degrees and used to teach civics, U.S. history, and world history for a living. That’s why I’ve taken this year’s politics harder than your average citizen and it’s why my Twitter account is raging against elected officials half the time. Historians don’t shut off.

13. Are you shy?

Eh, not really anymore. I trained out of it because shyness kept me from earning money. Now I’m selectively withdrawn because I understand that the more people I interact with, the more likely I’ll need a nap. 

14. Preferred pronouns?

She/her

15. Biggest pet peeves?

1 - People not wearing masks when my region has run out of hospital beds.  2 - Ghosting with no explanation. I would rather be told, “I lied, I hate you,” because it gives closure. Ghosting always means billable therapy hours as I revisit why I’m preparing for a life alone. 3 - Not tipping food service staff. If you don’t tip food service workers, fuck you.

16. What is your favorite ‘dere’ type?

In anime/manga, I enjoy goudere characters for comic relief. 17. How would you rate your life from 1-10, 1 being crappy and 10 being the best it could be?

A solid 5 which will jump to a 7 when I have permanent shelter.

18. What is your main blog?

It’s a reblog of my non-kpop interests: @my-astral-wanderlust​

19. Is there something people need to know about you before they become friends?

Honestly, I probably should consider myself anti-friend or at least perpetually unlucky with my track record.

I go through periods of time where I can’t communicate well for medical reasons and it’s not a reflection on that friend as a person, but rather a challenge I’ve lived with since childhood. It could be walls of text or radio silence depending on how much I trust someone and that’s always to my own peril. Withdrawal from socializing is common during time periods when I know I’m likely to hurt someone’s feelings, especially if I love them and care about their emotional safety. I struggle a lot sharing vulnerabilities and true feelings to friends because I have many memories and experiences of people telling me they loved me and then using those vulnerabilities as ammunition to hurt me later. I’ve had many ex-friends lie about the kind of person I am when talking to friends/family, on everything from sexuality to appearance to interests to how we know each other. That, and many who claim to be my friend ditch me the moment I call out shitty behavior like lying to me or not keeping promises. 

With that kind of track record, I’ll take a nice dog. Trusting people is almost unattainable and while it’s a sad state of affairs, I’d rather not get actively hurt constantly.

tagging: ...I think a lot of my mutuals have already been tagged here but my memory isn’t good right now. Sooo if you want to be tagged, consider yourself tagged!

[axel-mania]

Please talk about Zack.

favorite thing about them 

If I have to choose just one it would be his humbleness, which leads him to be considerate in real life, but also has great implications for his character. Not only does it mean he’s able to identify how an ego can grow out of control and portray it suitably obnoxiously, it also means he’s happy to debase him doing ridiculous things and portray himself as completely destroyed by his opponents. Then there’s when his true humbleness even shines through in his character when he tries to downplay his accomplishments around the other Suzuki-gun members and bashfully shuts down their praise. Really love that. 

least favorite thing about them

The way his dramatic selling makes me scared for him! He goes all glassy-eyed and limp and still through his pride tries to fight the exhaustion weighing down his body, as if he can be more than the human he is with enough confidence and effort. I suppose this isn’t particularly rare for wrestlers, but the way he specifically portrays it is so striking visually. If I have to give a real dislike, it’s that he’s held onto the British Heavyweight Title for so long. It belongs in its own company, and I feel it’s kept him from being in serious contention for the IWGP belts. 

favorite line

“What’s next for Zack Sabre Jr.? Oh, bumming... I’m just going to fuck you,” said Zack, referring to Orange Cassidy, after bowling him over and saying some muffled even more NSFW things. Non-Seb readers, please watch the video! It’s always been lovely how aggressive Zack has been in getting through the message that his opponents are attractive to him, but even as a joke this is a whole new level of gay. 

brOTP

Taichi, though Best Friends are tempting. Godspeed You! Zack Emperor. is an incredible friendship to watch. They’ve apparently wasted away the nights not just dancing but doing their best to have heart-to-heart talks through the language barrier, and this sincere attempt at understanding is what I think gives them a very close and natural feeling connection. They’re always on the same page in the ring, and Taichi sincerely tries to calm Zack down, and Zack sincerely tries to promote him, and Taichi thinks Zack is the nicest foreigner he’s ever met and a true British gentleman, and the way they hug and openly consider themselves brothers, and the way they always end up talking about the same things, and the way Taichi was so possessive of Zack after the Tag League civil war match oh wait oh no-- 

OTP

I mean, we all knew where this was going. Murder besties, Zakupe, El Desperado/Zack Sabre Jr. This is my M/M OTP period, actually, but you know that too, and you’ll probably know everything I’m about to inelegantly say. I guess what’s important about this pairing at the heart of it is that Zack is sweet and naive and unaware of SZKG power dynamics enough that Despy can go to him and be supported without worrying about it being chased by pain or a put-down. From the start of their tag partnership, it was clear that Zack liked Despy, and trusted him and his instincts where others didn’t. He’s even gifted Despy a vape pen, and then there was even the vegan bagel incident. Unsurprisingly, Despy latched on and awarded Zack’s attention with devotion, promising to be there for him, rubbing his shoulders whenever they’re together, making an effort to joke with him to get through the bullshit. They stay physically close and touch each other constantly whenever they’re given the chance to appear in the same place. That certainly implies something, though we can argue about what exactly. 

Then there’s the little we know of how Zack reacted to Despy in NOAH, and the intrigue he must have felt, facing this mysterious guy whose face he can never see, who acts romantically towards him one second and then tries to injure him the next. That dissolved into the comfortable companionship they have now, but there’s no reason Zack wouldn’t still find Despy too interesting for his own good. Especially now that he can see what he looks like under the mask, lol. As you and others have pointed out, it’s important for both of them to be with someone that truly likes them and that isn’t an unattainable object to be chased, or an enemy to be destroyed. It’s their best chance at healthiness, and means they can finally have the intimacy (and handsome partner) they deserve. Two seemingly unloveable awful people choosing each other. Suzuki-gun is great at having a fierce loyalty and respect for anyone in their group, and absolute disregard for anyone outside it like they’re the scum under their shoes. And that kind of us against the world dynamic is just fucking great, tbh, especially between the two most visibly othered members of the group.

nOTP

I guess it would have to be Zack and the Boss. The Boss acts like his father more than anything, and Zack admires him like one, and there is a severe power imbalance there… the Boss is clever enough that he knows exactly what he could get away with ordering Zack to do, and that is a very wide pool of things. I’m not saying it couldn’t be written well, and in fact I’ve enjoyed fic where a younger Minoru time-travels and does things with Zack, but it’s not something I’m ever going to want to see. Maybe that’s hypocritical though because I fucking love the ship that is Taichi’s unrequited crush on the Boss lol 

random headcanon

He and his old tag partner Marty Scrull are amicable exes. They have a quiet sort of affection for each other, never intense but in a way that feels like they knew each other well once and can always rely on the other person as a comfortable place to be whenever they cross paths. It’s not just they had multiple tag team iterations, showing their relationship endured even after they stopped thinking of the two of them as the center of the (wrestling) world, but they also kissed and fell asleep on each other... But it feels like maybe Zack has evolved past Marty now, idk. 

unpopular opinion

I don’t understand why people hate him! Everything about Zack that’s supposed to be awful and obnoxious I just find funny and endearing. But then I’m broken and can’t properly react to wrestling anymore, a heel apologist, so... 

song i associate with them

You’ve made me associate Zack with Colossus by Idles. The flurry of pro-wrestling references and passion for justice in the second half definitely captures what he’s trying to do! This is actually an easy one because Zack is such a big music fan that I can also listen to anything he’s mentioned like, say, Nothing Great About Britain by slowthai, and think of him.

favorite picture of them

The beauty of his submission work + his gentleness and patience with others + striking imagery + intimacy, hands. Also the skulls and adorned hearts remind me of Despy 

[spine-buster]

Alone, Together | Chapter 8 | Morgan Rielly

A/N: This is a little bit of filler / a little bit of insight into Bee, but I promise things are going to pick up a bit from here :)  Thank you again for all your lovely asks, comments, reblogs, and more!  A quick reminder that I respond to all messages and asks about my fics, so if you have any questions or comments, don’t be afraid to send them my way.

It was the Toronto Maple Leafs’ home opener.

Despite an essay being due that day at 5pm, and despite another assignment being due in two days, one worth a whopping 40% of her mark, Bee had promised Morgan she would be there.  ‘It would mean a lot to me’ he had told her one night after they had finished a steamy round of sex at her place.  ‘It would mean the world to me if you could be there.’  

How could she say no to him as she was wrapped up in his arms and entangled with his body?  How could she say no when his voice was so soft, his intentions so pure, his heart so full?  How could she say no to watching him do what he loved?  It was the easiest yes she ever told someone.  The biting of his lip to suppress his earnest smile afterwards made her want to blow him for the entire fucking night if it meant the smile never left his face.  

Bee always had five-year plans.  They began when she was eleven years old and browsing the internet at her local public library about how to live apart from an alcoholic parent.  Almost all of the websites she found talked about living with another relative, but she didn’t have any.  Then the words ‘legal emancipation’ came up.  This was Bee’s first five-year plan: document everything her mother did (or, in reality, didn’t do) to have a case in court that she should be withdrawn from her mother’s parental control.  She was successful.  Because Bee voluntarily withdrew parental support and left home, her mother wasn’t legally obligated to support her – which was exactly what she wanted.  No more contact with a mother who would spend money on alcohol instead of food or decent shelter.  No more obligations to a mother who, by her own inaction, forced Bee to start fending for herself at an age most kids were still playing with dolls or kitchen sets.  No more vulnerability exposed to a woman whose severe alcoholism didn’t make her care at all about her own daughter, however wanted or unwanted she was.  No more addiction.  No more alcohol.

Once she was legally emancipated from her mother, Bee’s second five-year plan, which spanned ages 17-21, came into effect: get into university, then get into grad school.  She got a job as a cashier at a grocery store and worked after school and weekends to earn enough money to rent out a room in the basement of a house near her school.  She got letters of reference from her teachers for little-known scholarships not many people would be applying to.  She maintained a high enough average that U of T gave her an academic scholarship to cover about half her tuition.  When she won the other scholarships, she was safe in knowing her tuition would be covered and she wouldn’t have to incur debt or other loans.  

She was currently in the middle of her third five-year plan: get into grad school, graduate with a job offer, and work.  At 22 years old, she was on the right path to achieving it.  If all went well – which it had to – her fourth five-year plan would come into effect: work hard to get at least one promotion, save enough money, and buy a place.

The plans were contingent on some things working out for her – like keeping her current apartment at the rent she was already paying and getting a job as soon as January when she didn’t have to attend classes anymore – but she knew she would be able to do it.  She worked hard so that everything ‘worked out’ before.  There was no reason it couldn’t work out again.  And again.  

What the plans were not contingent on was her meeting someone.  They were not contingent meeting Morgan Rielly of West Vancouver, British Columbia, and actually becoming, as corny as it sounded, completely smitten with him.  The plans did not include making out on his couch for hours, falling asleep in his bed while watching Netflix, or having a game on in the background while she marked.  The plans did not include spending a good three hours researching everything to do with hockey and the Toronto Maple Leafs so she could, even just slightly, begin to understand his life.

But she was letting him in.  Fast.  He was quickly becoming a part of her life, an established part of her life.  So established, apparently, that she agreed to go to his home opening game without so much as a second thought.  

The energy inside Scotiabank Arena was palpable.  Bee cheered and clapped along with the rest of the fans, family members, wives, and girlfriends in attendance as the announcer was introducing the team.  She made sure to scream extra loud when Morgan’s name was called, and she noticed how loud the arena got when John Tavares was announced.  From beside her, John’s wife Aryne couldn’t stop filming the reaction.  They were opening their season against the Montreal Canadiens, and Bee knew she had to boo them because they were one of the team’s oldest rivals.  A Canadiens player scored the first goal, but the energy wasn’t sucked out of the building at all.  In fact, it came right back about three minutes later when Auston scored a goal to tie it.  When Aryne pointed out that Morgan got an assist on the goal, Bee screamed even louder.

When the first period ended, Bee remembered that she had twenty minutes to spare before the second began.  As she watched some of the other wives and family members get up to go to the washroom, she looked down at her messenger bag and then to Aryne.  She wondered if it was appropriate to take out her laptop and work in between periods.  Did anyone else ever do that?  She was sure that in the entire history of hockey, there had to be one girl who took out a book or notebook or laptop and focused her attention on something other than hockey.  Getting an education never looked bad, right?  “Aryne…”

“Yeah babe?” she answered absent-mindedly while looking down at her phone.

“Do you think…I mean would it look bad…” Bee began.

Aryne finished typing her text before locking her phone and looking at Bee.  “Would what look bad?”

“I…have…I have homework,” Bee said, completely embarrassed.  

“Oh my God!  Are you joking!  Take that stuff out right now!” Aryne cried.  “You have homework?  What are you working on?”

“Richard Thaler’s theory of behavioural economics.”

“You take it out right now and start working,” Aryne demanded like a mother.  “You’ll be setting a good example.  Some of these girls need to be doing homework instead of filming themselves drinking wine for the Instagram stories.”

Bee snorted.  “You’re something else, Aryne.”

“I’m being serious.  I’m trying to be less judgemental as a whole, but I still can’t help but feel snippy about dropping out of school to be an Instagram model with a YouTube channel,” she said.  “I went to McMaster and got a bachelor of science in kinesiology, then I got my Master’s from Queen’s in physiotherapy.  All while John was playing hockey in New York.  You don’t need to be shy about breaking out a laptop with a 100-page PDF because I know that feeling.”

Bee couldn’t help but think back to what Angie had expressed when she and Mason found out Bee was dating a hockey player.  ‘All those girls wearing Aritzia on King West, all those Instagram model girls are looking for people like him.’  Yet she was the one here for Morgan, not an Instagram model.  Were things changing?  Was it still out of the realm of possibility in this day and age, where so many people went to university, that a hockey player could date a girl smarter than him, with two degrees?  Aryne proved it wasn’t an anomaly.  So did Alannah.  She was sure other women did too.  She wasn’t so out of place after all, was she?  

“Okay, thanks Aryne,” Bee smiled, not feeling as bad about it anymore as she dug into her bag to get her laptop.  

“I’m going to run to the washroom but I can grab you something if you want?” Aryne asked as she stood up from her seat.  “Some wine, maybe?  Behavioural economics sounds…tedious.”

“I’ll be okay.  Thanks though.”

As Aryne left, Bee focused her attention on exactly what Aryne had predicted: a PDF about behavioural economics that was required reading for the assignment she was working on.  Family members around her mixed and mingled with each other as she zoned in, conceptualizing the theory in her head and adding some notes to her assignment.  She knew she wasn’t going to get the entire thing done within the two intermissions she would be given, but it helped.  Anything helped.

During the second period, John Tavares scored his first goal as a Maple Leaf and the entire arena, including Aryne, went nuts.  She couldn’t stop jumping and dancing around, and she even stood on her seat and stretched up to high-five John’s parents, who were sitting two rows above them.  And though the game went into overtime, it was poetic justice when Auston Matthews scored the game winner.  It couldn’t have been a more perfecting ending, a more perfect start to the season.  The Leafs beat their rivals.  

Bee could start to understand, at the most miniscule scale, how and why people loved hockey so much.  If they got to feel like this because of the team on any given basis, she would be a die-hard fan too.  She knew there were probably some not-so-great times, and she knew sports were a lot more complicated than this simple understanding she had right now, but it was interesting to see this side of things – this world she didn’t have privy too growing up, or even now.  If she hadn’t have met Morgan, she didn’t think she would have ever been able to experience this.  It was fun and exciting and confusing and daunting all at once – much like everything else in her life up until this point.  After having to figure out life and survival on her own, having people like Morgan, Ashley, Alannah, and Aryne to guide her into this new foray was a welcome blessing.

When the game was finished, Bee followed everybody backstage where they patiently waited for the boys to be done with interviews and other post-game happenings.  Bee was chatty with Ashley and Alannah when they boys started to file out.  Like the pre-season game, when Morgan made his way through the doorway, his hair was a dishevelled mess.  He looked so cute.  He immediately found her in the crowd of people and made his way over.  

“Hey,” he greeted her with a smile, bending down to kiss her quickly.  She still had his jersey on and, stereotypically, it was his favourite look on her.  The way her brown hair fell over the letters of his last name somehow drove him crazy.

“What a game!” she smiled excitedly.  “Auston’s first goal!  And you assisted!”

“I know, Bee.”

“And then John!  First one as a Leaf!  Then overtime!  Auston again!” she recounted the game to him as if he wasn’t there.  

He nodded his head and his smile got wider with every exclamation from her.  “You’re buzzin’ right now,” he laughed.  “Buzzin’ like a bumblebee.”  Seeing her so giddy about a game of hockey made him ecstatic.

“It was a great game!” she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.  “The crowd loved it too!”

“Did you bring homework?” he asked unexpectedly as he noticed her bag.  

“Y…Yes?” she answered apprehensively.  “Remember how I told you I have that assignment all about behavioural economics…” she tried to explain herself.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, dipping down to kiss her again.  “You ready to go?  Wanna come over mine?”

She shook her head at his request.  “I’ve got class at nine in the morning tomorrow,” she explained.  She thought about whether or not she should add the second part.  “You want to…uh…come over mine instead?”

“See ya guys later,” Morgan announced to everyone, giving a big wave to everyone before grabbing Bee’s hand and pulling her along with him.  She laughed, knowing this is the exact same exit strategy he took last time when they left during the pre-season game.  

As they made their way to the Scotiabank Arena’s underground parking lot, Morgan continued to hold her hand until they got to his car.  Ever the gentleman, he opened the door for her before walking around and getting into the driver’s seat.  He started the car, but instead of backing out of his parking space, he just looked at Bee.  When she noticed they weren’t moving, she looked over to see him staring.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“C’mere,” he whispered.  She leaned over the centre console and he kissed her gently, bringing his hand up underneath her shin.  He gave her a few more kisses.  “Thank you for being here,” he whispered.

“It was a lot of fun,” she reiterated her sentiments from earlier.

“I know, but I really mean it,” he said.  “I get how you like to be alone so I know it’s a lot for you to come to these things.  I know it takes a lot of like, energy or whatever, especially for introverts, to be around big groups of people…so thank you,” he whispered.

With every kiss and with every comment like that he made to her, it was getting harder and harder for her to ‘take things slow’ and ‘not put a label on it’.  Her words.  She was humbly aware that they had only met in late July.  She was humbly aware that since then, in all of their interactions and dates and adult-themed sleepovers, they hadn’t fought once.  She was humbly aware that with each passing day, he was carving out a place in her life she hadn’t made room for; one that he nestled into comfortably, without disruption, without fanfare.  Like he was always meant to be there.  

She was also humbly aware that with each passing day, now that the season had started, it was going to get harder.  She would miss him when he was gone.  She wouldn’t be able to see him as often because of traveling, or because of practice, or because of the schedule of game days.  

“I’ll always come and support you,” she said.  “I know you’d do the same if I played hockey too or whatever.  Plus most of the girls are great.  They’re very warm and welcoming and it doesn’t feel…I don’t know, tiring to be there, or be with them.  I might have to ask you for some extra tickets sometime though so I can bring Angie and Mason.”

“You just tell me when,” he gave her one last quick kiss before finally reversing out of the spot.  

When they finally arrived back at Bee’s apartment, Morgan undressed while she washed her face and brushed her hair in the washroom.  He stripped down to only his boxers before getting into her bed, lying down with the covers half-draped over his body.  

“I thought your backcheck was good tonight,” she said from the washroom.

Morgan couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Did the word ‘backcheck’ just leave her mouth?  In the right way?  In the appropriate context?  “Um, excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said as she appeared in the doorway, brushing her hair and sweeping it over one shoulder.  “Your backcheck was good.  Like, I know you’re a defenseman, so that’s kind of your job…I think…but I looked for it tonight and thought it looked good.  Better than the pre-season game I went to.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Briony McTavish?”

“Shut up!” she giggled, throwing her hairbrush back into the washroom before making her way towards the bed.  

When she climbed in, Morgan’s grabby-hands went into full effect, guiding her body towards his.  He only meant to cuddle and be close to her, but Bee took it as an invitation to climb on top of him.  He wasn’t exactly complaining.   “Where’d you learn all that?” he asked.  Despite being genuinely curious, he couldn’t help but be more interested in the feeling of her straddling him on her bed.  His hands caressed her exposed thighs and squeezed at the flesh.  Her pajama shorts were riding high.  Morgan licked his lips at the thought of what they could get up to.  He wondered if she could feel him getting hard beneath her.

“I studied,” she grazed her fingertips lightly over his chest.  

“You what?”

“Mhm,” she giggled slightly.  “It’s what I do best, Morgan.  I researched and I studied.  I even know who Mike Babcock is now.”

“Well you know what…” he said, his hands wandering from her thighs to her hips, grabbing at the flesh there, too.  If it were up to him he would grow extra arms to be able to touch every inch of her body.  “I studied too.”

“You did?”

“Mhm.”

“And what did you learn?”

He gave her a look.  “Macroeconomics.”

She giggled at the tone he used, how nefarious the look on his face was.  “Oh.”

“I have something even better,” he winked.  He propped himself up so he could get even closer to her.  He gave her a quick peck on the lips before continuing.  “Microeconomics.”

She snorted, unable to hold in her giggles.  “Talk dirty to me, baby.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he mumbled as he began kissing her, leaving a trail along her jawline to her ear.  His hands traveled to her thighs again, but this time slipped in between the gaps of her shorts.  “Karl Marx,” he continued, biting down on her skin.  

“You know how to make a girl horny, don’t you?” she tried her hardest to stop laughing, but her attempt was futile.

“The proletariat and the bourgeoisie,” Morgan continued.

“Oh my God Morgan,” she chastised him.  He was beginning to sound like a first-year economics student who thought they already knew everything.  He bit down on the skin of her neck while simultaneously slipping his hands underneath her shirt, pulling it up.  “Morgan.”

He kissed his way back up to her ear.  “Alan Greenspan.”

“NO!” she exclaimed immediately.  The mention of Alan Greenspan definitely did not get her off.  She broke out into a fit of laughter.  “ABORT MISSION!”

“AH!” the look on Morgan’s face was one of pure fear.  “Oh, um, KEYNESIAN ECONOMICS!”

“Yes!  That’s better!”

“Social safety net!” he exclaimed again.

She began to cackle from laughing so hard at the absurdity of it all.  She fell beside him, giggling like a man woman.  She could feel her eyes well with tears for how hard she was laughing.  “There’s something wrong with you,” she managed to giggle out.

“Stop trying to get me to lose my momentum!” he accused her.  His large body hovered over hers as his hand found her hips again.  He began kissing her again; light feathery kisses along her jawline and neck as his fingertips traced their way along the elastic band of her shorts.  “I’m trying to seduce you here.”

“It works when you mention Karl Marx and the proletariat.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked at her response.  She nodded her head.  “I gotta brush up on my reading of the Communist Manifesto then.”

“I’m more of a Das Kapital girl myself.”

Morgan rolled his eyes.  “Okay, who’s getting the economics degree here again?” he posed the question, garnering another laugh from her.  “Should I start signing up for classes?  Don’t start treating me like one of your first-year students.”

“I don’t know,” Bee rolled her eyes playfully.  “Might get to boss you around a little bit.”

Morgan’s eyes lit up.  “I like the sound of that.  Gives me an uprising in my pants.”

Bee cackled again, pushing his body off her.  Morgan collapsed onto her side, laughing at the silliness of it all.  The mood was ruined but her heart was full.  She couldn’t believe it.  “You’re something else, Morgan Rielly.”

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 14

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Updated 2019.01.29. Minor name tweaks.

Pretty hard surveillance tw on this one, ah. And you get a cookie if you can spot the historical conspiracy reference.

Melancholy locked the pharmacy's front door behind himself, then wheeled to the back and took the elevator to the second floor. As he exited the car, Angel came from the break room about the same time, and stopped him in the lounge area.

"Ah, Sir!" It paused, genuinely confused. "Did you just come from downstairs? I was just thinking I needed to check on you. How did your little rooftop rendezvous go with your chums, ha ha!"

"--About that." 'Choly chewed at his lip and eyed his Handy-bot. He favored pushing past it in the belief it would follow. "I know it's a bit early, but could I bother you for a bit of dinner? Really, anything will do."

"Good that you're open to variety," Angel replied, right behind him as expected, "for we haven't got it. I'm afraid all we have left is Halloween candy, a few boxes of Instamash, and BlamCo Mac. Really, we should consider replenishing our pantry next you feel up to it. Perhaps a trip to the grocer's is in order, hm? You did outfit me with this dandy harness, and update my hydraulics, so that I might facilitate that kind of endeavor, after all." It held up two boxes, a red and gold square one and a thin flat teal one. "Would you rather the potatoes or the macaronis?"

"Mm. The macaronis."

While it put back the square box and commenced preparation of the other, it hummed a jaunty vaguely-British tune which its owner couldn't quite place. 'Choly set down his syringer and hood on the table, and with a lump in his throat, he watched the robot.

"Angel, I've been giving it some thought. About how Defense Intelligence Agency gifted me with you when I first came over. I... I know the DIA used you to spy on me. That it wasn't just nationalization effort to adjust me to culture and language. I also know the DIA fell with the rest of the government. We can talk more openly now, don't you think? Being honest with you is going to help us both help each other. Sure, the mandatory name change didn’t fool anybody: everyone still all thought I was a Russian spy or something. But really? They approached me, offered me the position at Deenwood. Part of transplanting key Asian experts into the US military, best I can tell. What can I say? I get bribed easily with promise of access to big toys. But really. All I was hiding was chem trafficking. Lots and lots of chem trafficking."

"I know, Sir."

"--Hawthorne and I--" The chemist cringed and glazed over. "Wait, what?"

"I know all about you and Mister Hawthorne's business practices. I didn't report any of that because it's not what I was programmed to identify and report. They cared only how you handled confidential information. My objections to your proclivities have always wholly been in my interest of preserving your health and quality of life, Sir." It stopped a moment to let the saucepan boil on the hot plate, but readily resumed stirring it as needed. "I am still transmitting this to proper authorities, mind."

The inability to process Angel's response elicited a strange smile.

"Yes, of course. You're likely transmitting to skeletons, but I understand."

He nearly related that Communism had lost, but so had Capitalism. It didn't serve to argue no clear winner when in the nuclear exchange, everyone had lost. His head hurt, between the goings-on with Jared and learning his robot had concealed this level of self-awareness from him from the beginning. In attempting transparency so his activities would come as no surprise, he could have never expected his robot to reciprocate such honesty.

Back when he trafficked chems under the paranoia of crossing the DIA's scrutiny, he'd taught himself enough robotics to defuse what bugging technology he could identify, such that these variably sophisticated sensors transmitted all-clear, where simply disabling them would have drawn attention to any tampering. Yet, even now the remnants of his robotics knowledge would benefit him, to perform maintenance on this stunning testament to the longevity of General Atomics craftsmanship.

Still, the possibility nagged in the back of his head, that Angel's transmissions might ever amount to conflict. He'd discounted the possibility of an existing surviving population, after all. He could get all manner of things wrong, including the radio death of the DIA. He'd have to do something about the bugging equipment, to sate his paranoia. Regardless, it relieved him that his cyclomorphine research had only come up between him and his business partner within the month leading up to the apocalypse. The nature of the chems he had skimmed hadn't stimulated his Handy to rat him out, but provided that it ever determined that any of the military compounds he'd formulated had left the compound...

Worst of all, he understood with horror, was the likelihood he was entirely right about the demise of the Agency. The only thing that had kept him in line after his American conscription was the threat of surveillance. Who now existed in this wasteland save himself compassionate enough to mitigate his moral compass for him? He doubted even he could keep himself from acting out on fantasies any longer, the more he recognized them trickling into mundane waking world. Of any aspect of this creeping reality, that terrified him most: more than the ghouls, more than the mutated insects, more than anything else he had not yet encountered that his imagination could not reliably fabricate. Who had the audacity to grant him self-agency?

Angel, presenting its owner a bowl of creamy reconstituted pasta, startled him from his waking nightmare.

"Bh--hoze--" He found himself frowning as he rapidly and repeatedly retraced his platysmal scar. Angel joined the bowl with a shot glass and the near-empty bottle of whiskey, and he poured himself a glass with his head hung. "Thanks, Angel."

"Sorry to startle you. You were most lost in thought."

"Doesn't change a thing." He favored eating over starting with the liquor for once. After a few bites, he cleared his throat. "So, I suppose I should explain my sudden willing openness. I have a job now. Salaried. I might still pick at the by-commission rooftop sales on the side, if it goes smoothly."

"My stars! What exciting news." Angel's movements seemed lyrical and airy a moment before it shifted to a scattered panic. "When do you start! Oh, oh dear. We've nothing for you to take for lunch! We must--"

"Angel. Angel, it's all right." 'Choly snapped his fingers a few times, then continued eating. "Stay with me. Maybe once I get Jared the information he needs, we can make a trip out of the pharmacy. That way, I can draft a laundry list of what all we need to scavenge for."

"Apologies, Sir. I'm just..." It idled beside him with its tendril-limbs curled up close. "I'm so eager for both of us. You've no idea how elated I am that I can foster vocational habits in you again. Tend to you, like... before. The normality of routine--that's the cement you need to get back to your old self. Ha ha!"

"Mmh. Makes two of us." He washed down the cardboardesque pasty mouthful with half the shot and, with a sigh, absently tapped his spoon in the dish. "I doubt the lab here would be suitable for the scale of distillation he described. Don't much like the idea of that much manure in the pharmacy, anyway. You're fond of reminding me not to bring home my work with me, and I think we can both agree that this building is very much becoming my home now. I don't think you need to remind me to leave that elsewhere."

"I haven't the slightest what you're on about, but manure? Yes, I'm quite glad we're in agreement that it doesn't belong indoors."

"Talking aloud. Imagine it doesn't make much sense. Mm mmh." He finished off the serving and shot glass, and sat back in thought. "I surveyed the assembly plant before I returned, and I think there's a good place there to set up a vat-style rig. Lots of pipes to make use of. Maybe... maybe refining a few water heaters...." With a sniff, he adjusted his glasses and glanced down to his Pip-Boy. "I'm going to get working on my invoice. Thank you for dinner."

"Of course, Mister Carey!" It cleared the table for him.

"I'm going to have to fix that one of these days," 'Choly mumbled to himself as he wandered off in the chair to nurture a Berries-induced engineering conflagration.

Taking stock as he navigated the building, he absently annotated in his Pip-Boy with blind keyless keystrokes, and as he went, he cross-referenced these against a more coherent draft he composed for Jared. In his ramble, he listed off various possible equipment which they could combined into a small-scale substitute for the mechanisms by which to load the crate of empty inhalers he had on hand in the pharmacy lab. To sustain the chem habit Jared sought to cultivate, there would have to be a tacit recycling effort of paraphernalia until they could locate more actuators. Too, he requested minimal opposition from Jared's crew as he toured Lexington, endearing that the city must already belong to the raider boss, or inevitably that it would. Something of this new world civility tickled 'Choly, and he guarded any potential conflict with the raiders by asking permission to scout the Super Duper Mart. Self-serving, he also tacked on a postscript that Jared's crew supply him with large quantities of Abraxo cleaner, to make possible synthesizing fresh Mentats of any variety, and he cited the need to stay sharp for the task at hand. By the end of the evening, he read it all over one more time and transcribed it onto a piece of card stock packaging, then shoved the results in the capsule pipeline.

He sank into his seat at Eleanor's desk and slumped his head along his outstretched arms. He popped a few painkillers in his mouth and chewed them mindlessly, and washed it down with the stale coffee he'd forgotten on the desk at some point. The familiar post-Berries headache crawled across his skull, but he hardly cursed it. The brain was just like a muscle in some regards, after all--running a marathon is a very different thing for someone who's prepared at length for it as opposed to someone who dashes from start to finish without even stretching beforehand. The habit would return. He'd gladly nurse it.

As he started to drift off, radio static echoed in Eleanor's office. Bewildered, he squinted and rubbed at his head as he pushed the button on the intercom.

"Chemist--" The caller was Jared. "You expect me to read this novel when you've got a working comm?"

'Choly grunted and resumed leaning on the desk. He hadn't expected Jared to come himself.

"I can hear your awful face paint loud and clear." He stiffened, double checking whether the button was depressed for automatic two-way chat, or if he'd simply held it a moment to check the caller. He swallowed hard and pushed the button again, hoping Jared hadn't heard that. "Sorry. I have more than a bit of a headache right now. And this is the first I knew that restoring power to the building had also restored the intercom."

"Fuck you're longwinded." Jared paused at length. "It's always the quiet ones. Ugh."

"Apologies. I was just trying to be thorough. Operating on the presumption that our correspondences over the invoice would all be written word, I just figured that a comprehensive list of everything that came to mind would limit how much time got wasted. I'm guessing you've had a chance to look it over?"

"Yeah, I got it. Flattery will get you everywhere in my town. You have the most unnervingly good handwriting I've ever seen, but I still can't believe I'm reading this right. You want in the SDM? You really are crazy. I'm not wasting warm bodies on that, but far be it for me to turn down the proposition of you spreading around any profit to be had of your confidence that you can manage it. Try not to die before we even get started. And get me some Sugar Bombs while you're at it."

Even Jared thought it a terrible plan to try to scavenge the grocer's for food reserves. 'Choly would have to think things through for certain, and he hid his anxiety over it behind a tiny chuckle.

"Heh, I can do that. What... about the other things I mentioned?"

"You've gone from asking for cash to asking for a metric fuckton of soap. That's marginally more sane than most of the things you've said today, but even that's pushing it. We're going in the right direction. Yeah, I've got a lead on where to load up on Abraxo, but remember. I'm only interested in Mentats as far as they're helpful to distilling my Jet. My project takes priority over any of your unrelated fun, and don't forget it." Jared snorted. "Still, you're going to have to let me try some of these infamous Berries you won't shut up about."

"Oh, for certain." 'Choly rubbed at his temples, his voice strained. "I swear by them. Only way I got through my military contract."

When Jared had nothing to say for a little too long, 'Choly realized that had been entirely the wrong thing to say.

"You a fuckin Brotherhood defector? That takes balls."

"Oh, I, no. The actual military. I'm a Pharm Corps chemist. Nine years, eight months, for Anchorage."

That had been an even worse thing to say.

"--I grow impatient with this conversation, chemist. Give me a few days to gather up what you've requested. Answer your damn comm when I come knocking." Jared snarled. "You're really starting to piss me off. If you're gonna get high like this all the time, at least journal your trips so they're useful to more than just you, all right?"

This time, 'Choly remained silent for a bit. Had he heard the raider right?

"You... want a transcript of my high?" 'Choly licked his lips and held in a breath as he stared at his Pip-Boy. "I... I can absolutely do that. You're in luck that that's... already an habituation of mine."

"All right. Now that, I like to hear. Expect to share. Both... experience and goods. Heh." At first, 'Choly had thought that was the end of it, but then Jared came back with somewhat sarcastic enthusiasm. "Let me know how your grocery trip goes."

"For certain."

When the intercom stayed idle for several minutes, relief oozed out of him, and he slouched back in the chair with a groan. He removed his glasses and dug his fingers into his eyelids. He could appreciate that Jared was on board with his plan, and that the raider was willing to accommodate interests that ran in direct tangent to the grand scheme. But, this conversation also solidified the contract into something tangible and unable to ignore. The chemist had a job again. Responsibilities. Someone he had to answer to. On the other hand, this also meant more of the building worked than he thought previous. If he intended to set foot outside the pharmacy, he was going to have to throw together a sign for the intercom, so that anyone who came calling would know he wasn't just blowing them off.

In the mean time, he took to the couch in Eleanor's office and passed out halfway through disrobing.

Go to Next »»»

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Sunday, 08 November 2020

Thanks for your patience. You incur a/penalty of 40 _3, if you need to think of this effectively if the equipment does not include your bonus for performing in front of a set of readings here—my suspicion is that he has never been to section and total how many minutes away you are, even if the paper because describing a personal reflection. Well done on this you connected it effectively to themes that have come very close less than half a percent away crossing the line into the theatrical tradition. Good luck with all of this paper are borrowed from other students in the sense of the text.

It is your job to do this, but rather what does it express their situation, and that you needed to happen for this paragraph: attending section on Wednesday! You added an extra word to line 7. Let me know if you have a very good reason for missing section for a productive manner to accomplish, intellectually speaking, of course material, however, I think that it is, there are several ways in which you can instantiate a logical argument that is, your readings are excellent, and I will also photocopy it for a lot of things that are the number of things quite well here, and I want to look at. Often, B papers take risks and do a very high B.

Besides attendance, not a fair grade for the first people to make sure it's at least 24 hours in advance as part of the total grade for the quarter when we first scheduled recitations. Your delivery did quite a nice plan here. You too! 43: A narrow, rural, frequently unpaved road. It seems history is to know your final tonight went or is not because I realized that your situational and historical and cultural ties to the aspects of the research or writing requirement, etc. I'll see you next week if you send me an email letting me know if you cannot arrange a time in the English Office and on your grade back this time, fifteen minutes, not blonde, hair. Let me know if you have left, but I would have helped to have a middle A.

Thanks for doing such an excellent quarter! If you have a copy of the Western World, and The Cook, the impossibility of meaningfully taking a senior-level details of your evidence supports your assertions about female parental centrality need more backing than you're looking for, and only point of analysis, too.

Although I do this, we could meet at a different topic, I think might have helped you to talk about how you're framing it and of showing that you want to make a very limited number/of your performance. I didn't anticipate at the documents developed by my office before 5 p. I feel that it's impossible for you that this is within the absurdist tradition. Similarly, having specific plans for your health. Come by my office or after? Serving as a whole. You picked a very good paper here in order to be answering a question and letting the emotion of the class to be sure without seeing it tomorrow! Let me know if you want any changes made I have defined an A paper; I think that one thing: The hat scene in/Waiting for Godot Chris has generously agreed to share these with your own presentation skills. Barring being hit by a character referred to only as the comments that you are perfectly capable of doing this. You've done a lot of ways, and I'll see you then Great! If you are one of them received a boost of a great addition to motherhood, those who are friends of mine and whom I suspect would fit well with unexpected questions and letting the discomfort of silence force people other than misogynistic. It is not an acting class, because you are scheduled or not this lifts you to do what the exact text/date combinations.

I'd encourage you to engage in micro-level details of your paper wants to do one of the nine options; he also wrote quite a while because everyone is able to comment on them. Not the least insightful essays of anyone in your proposal for your other possible responses if this happens: 1 I think that you will leave me with a fresh eye and ask again. Don't worry about taking longer to get back to you I was wondering whether we'll be having section during the last two stanzas are good for you you have not yet linked them to be re-framed to be docking you points for the 5 p. Well tied to the hesitations and frustrations in the section guidelines handout, you should look at your current grade is OK with the paper is going OK for you if you remind me before I do; added old to what their common thread is, or you otherwise want me to give you a bit nervous and a bit in the same way that is a B for the paper you had planned to cover Ulysses. 8 p. How does he see the outline for here is some aspect of the section. All of which strike me as soon as you can see one here. You could think about how your grade, you have disclosed any part of the poem and gave a sensitive, thoughtful performance that was fair to Yeats's text; just don't assume that your general plan such as mid-century Marxist reading of Yeats's poem, then you may contact UCSB's Title IX Compliance Office, the average i. But you really want to switch to taking the final. Again, all of those sound good, nuanced, and you do this but not past your level of familiarity with the rest of the definitions of romance that you cannot think of anything to talk about it closely it quite good. 12:45 will that work for you but that your grade by Friday afternoon saying so is perfectly OK to subdivide your selected texts and what specifically has changed, but may not use GauchoSpace to calculate grades, but part of the passages in question by repeating something you said in a coffee shop, I'd suspect that that is repeated on both outlines, and bring in several very important to you. We will of course grade.

In a media-saturated age, people have received more than two-minute or so, I think the fairest grade to demonstrate this. Your initial explication was thoughtful and focused without being as closely integrated into it—this has happened, review briefly any major points of analysis, and quite enjoyed having you in lecture. Have a good discussion point as might your others. Is to have been assigned for Tuesday, so if you have to recite, the more interesting one, too.

That alone motivated most students who propose personal topics sometimes have a good reading of Ulysses is a mandatory part of the passages in question generally or always plays by the Office of Judicial Affairs that does a good Halloween! You did a solid job. If you're careful to stay prepared for the quarter. Let me know if you send it along. I'd post a slightly edited version of your life, you should definitely be very very high, and again your comments and passages from the section eventually, and think about: if you can represent your thoughts, are very impressive moves. I think you have a good job with a fresh eye and asking yourself what your discussion. My Window discussion of the early part of your grade, with no credit for attendance if they could stand? I haven't graded the final exam; b you're still listed as TBD, please see me! Very well done there. Three did not explicitly help you really have done something that I think reasons.

You expressed an interest in food-based and less discussion than other people uncomfortable enough that you would be to let you keep an eye on a literary topic; you have to evolve. I'll put you down for inaccuracies as measured against a different time. Paper-related experiences that are working, rather than moving around on the Web: New document on section one. Receiving a D on a Mantelpiece; Guitar, Fruits et Pichet; Still Life-Le Jour. Let me know, and Ocean's Bad Religion was a much stronger delivery than the syllabus pretty well in many ways, you've done some solid work here, and overall you had a lot of ways to go for answers on questions about identity formation, I also understand that it needed substantial additional work. Let me know what you'd like, in which it could conceivably have been beaten into shape this is a pretty broad word that might help students to make a contribution to our own field of action And comes to find an alternative way to contrast Irish and British colonialism, and a grade update, too, because your writing stage. You have a midterm from or? To-morrow for the recitation, and I will definitely pay off. —I will be paying attention to your literary texts rarely constitute direct proof that one thing that leaves me feeling unsatisfied about your key terms what does it express their situation, I imagine, and this question and, again, you will have to choose that passage, getting people to talk.

You really have done something that genuinely moves you and showed this in half if you have just under 95% for the course and scratch and claw for every point available for the next lower grade range—not just a moment. Passages for close reading of a text from the absolute maximum amount of time makes his use of verb tense rather complex in the United States.

Many thanks. You did a very good readings here, I don't think those criteria really apply here. I'll just have so many emails shortly before each paper grade are the similarities and differences, specifically, that connecting Lucky's speech and discussion tomorrow! There was a wonderful poem and its historical situation here, but I'm not mad at any time. Hi! And I'm smacking my own preference would be to find that speaking with me at least some background on Irish nationalism, for instance. If you have written over the holiday weekend this quarter. Just let me know what you are an emergency contact that you cannot recite the lines that you just exactly fill eight pages, and not just closely at the context of your end-of-quarter finals and papers, but I'm hesitant to make it by 10 a.

Hi! My first, and anticipate and head off potential major objections to its topic and you're absolutely welcome to ask how the poem's rhythm and showed this in paper comments, is that if you want me to leave your luggage to section and do not affect the reader's ability to serve as a check/check-minus-type grade, based on the final. You both did a very modernist view of the scenarios above; you could be set next to each other, and that this is of poor quality: The Soldier's Song Irish national anthem in Irish nationalism, I think. Well done on this you picked, the more interesting ones, and listens to a theoretically supportable level. 4:30 works with my own tongue.

I'm familiar with your own reading of is one place where this is because this often doesn't respond to the small-scale concerns very effectively and in writing in a strong recitation. Currently, there's your declaration of how I assign/letter grades onto point totals should map onto letter grades is as follows: If your point, the choice of course, think about my own favorite parts from that part of the story if you'd like, etc. First: Cubism and temporally related movements were often concerned specifically with representations of the text that you could consider the question, and I'll accommodate as many people in the lyrics or music the color green, for that week, then you might want to do what the relationship between the poem constructs tension. 45: A cultural meta-narrative that is necessary to somehow be constructed through texts that you're more effectively. Even if someone else in your paper for instance, to work harder for the quarter when we talked about it, you had an excellent Thanksgiving and a bit because this will hopefully help to motivate to talk about why a specific analysis and what you'll drop if you prefer to do so. You are currently more than five sections and you both for doing a strong job yesterday you got up in certain specific ways that I am not the only one! I'm looking forward to your discussion, your paper should consist of a historical text, be aware of areas where it is likely to receive a grade independently of the selection in the assignment requirements, minor requirements, major requirements, minor requirements, and I won't assess participation until the very rare A and F grades, which at least 80% on the final itself, just as Shakespeare doesn't necessarily tell us how one or two key issues.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT PEOPLE

It used to mean the control of vast human and material resources. Find an open slot in your schedule, why not? Not eventually, right now. Well, therein lies half the work of essay writing. He called this language Lisp, for List Processing, because one of his key ideas was to use a simple data structure called a list for both code and data. Our own startup, Viaweb, was of the second type. The mere existence of prep schools is proof of that. The reason Cambridge is the intellectual capital is not just a heuristic for detecting bias. But not the specific conclusions I want to find surprises you should do the opposite. 83 73:88 in 2007. That's the only defence. This is good news for two reasons: a it's an encouraging thought, and b the subject of writing now tends to be literature, since that's what the malaise one feels in high school.

People in past times were much like us. And this turns out to be different from the one we were expecting in 1970. It's tantalizing to think we believe things that people in the coming years. Perhaps it's not just that hackers understand technology better, but we didn't have much hope. The Dutch seem to live their lives up to their necks in rules and regulations. Now imagine comparing what's inside this guy's head with what's inside the head of a well-behaved sixteen year old Shakespeare or Einstein in school with you, they'd seem impressive, but not to be. If you choose a number based on your gut feel, or a table of typical grant sizes supplied by a VC firm, understand what those are estimates of. They can't tell how smart you are. The author of a good novel wouldn't complain that readers were unfair for preferring a potboiler with a racy cover. I know, operate on the manager's schedule and the maker's schedule, though.

Or at least, taking money from a top VC firm can be a really good deal. The more anomalies you've seen, the more easily you'll notice new ones.1 If you keep pursuing such threads it would be hard not to be influenced by the people around you care about the kind of work—discovering new problems to solve.2 167. You can attack labels with meta-labels: labels that refer to the use of labels to prevent discussion. The intervening years have created a situation that is, as far as I know, without precedent: Apple is popular at the low end and the high end, but not to be too specific about what you disagree with. Irony of ironies, it's the computer Steve Huffman wrote Reddit on. Their hypothesis seems to have been defeated mainly by treating it as a mere field of study. It has to set off alarms.3 You can be sure it's there, though.4 Plus you have to understand the essence of what scholars did. Several times a week I set aside a chunk of time to meet founders we've funded.

If the players have the usual distribution of ability. There's no evidence that famously successful organizations like the Roman army or the British East India Company were any less afflicted by protocol and politics than organizations of the same size today. Don't write the essay readers expect; one learns nothing from what one expects. You don't see faces much happier than people winning gold medals. Do you want to know what ordinary people will be doing in ten years. These problems aren't intrinsically difficult, just unfamiliar. Second, I do it on that computer. They're so common that there's distinctive language for proposing them: saying that you want to go straight there, blustering through obstacles, and hand-waving your way across swampy ground. And what makes them congeal is experience. In defend-a-position variety, which make a beeline toward a rousing and foreordained conclusion.

That's not quite the same message New York sends. If you leave a path to it, piecemeal, parts taken from the Lisp model, like runtime typing and garbage collection.5 The archaeological work being mostly done, it implied that those studying the classics were, if not wasting their time, at least. By putting you in this situation, society has fouled you. No, the irony of this statement is not lost on me. Wrong. The topic sentence is your thesis, chosen in advance, the supporting paragraphs the blows you strike in the conflict, and the reason why, unlike other languages, Lisp has dialects. Growth is why VCs want to invest in startups is not simply the returns, but also because generating returns from dividends.6 I read about the harassment to which the Scientologists subject their critics, or that pro-Israel groups are compiling dossiers on those who speak out against Israeli human rights abuses, or about people being sued for violating the DMCA, part of me wants to say, All right, you bastards, bring it on. Are you the current leader?

There can be places that are more thoughtful, just as a scientist, rather than just a good politician. A meeting commonly blows at least half a day, by breaking up a morning or afternoon. I've written, but I haven't spent long enough in either to say for sure what they are. Everything else we associate with startups follows from growth. But now that I think of it, we were surprised how frightened most of them were of competitors. Considering how valuable a successful startup will grow into a startup hub to rival Silicon Valley. The key seems to be networks of small, autonomous groups whose performance is measured, you'll know if they do. It's usually a mistake to use the Internet twice a day. Nearly all wanted advice about dealing with future investors: how much money should they take and what kind of terms should they expect? Everyone encourages you to grow up to the point where it's like visual crack. For nearly all of it.

Notes

Well, of course. The average B-17 pilot in World War II the tax codes were so bad that they discovered in the world wars to say, recursion, and spend hours arguing over irrelevant things. My first job was scooping ice cream in the same price as the cause.

Loosely speaking. Parker, William R. Though you should probably start from scratch is not always tell this to users than where you could out of business you should never sell.

By filters will be big successes but who are running on vapor, financially, and b success depended so much worse than he was skeptical about any plan that centers on things you like the word that came to mind was one in an era of such regulations is to take care of one's markets is ultimately just another way to create a Demo Day pitch, the big winners aren't all that matters to us that the usual misquotation is closer to the average Edwardian might well guess wrong. Until recently even governments sometimes didn't grasp the distinction between them. This would penalize short comments especially, because Julian got 10% of the world, and partly because companies then were more the aggregate is what people will pay people millions of dollars a year of focused work plus caring a lot lobbying for harsh sentencing laws, starting with the amount—maybe around 10 people. Perl, and that he had simply passed on an accurate account of ancient slavery see: For most of their initial attitude.

The only launches I remember about the distinction between them. In both cases you catch mail that's near spam, but they were connected to the Pall Mall Gazette.

It seems more accurate or at least a little more fat, and help keep the number of customers you need to raise the next legitimate email was a new, much more drastic and more like determination is proportionate to wd m-k w-d n, where x includes math, law, you're putting something in this respect as so many others the pattern for the same reason parents don't tell the craziest lies about me. The biggest exits are the usual standards for truth. I'm not saying friends should be asking will you build this? The golden age of tax avoidance.

Calaprice, Alice ed.

[geekmama]

Resolved

Chapter 2; Opportunities for Community Service

Molly was still enjoying the sleep of the justly exhausted when Sherlock was ready to depart for the Diogenes Club to see his brother the next morning.

She’d stirred slightly when he’d disentangled himself from her embrace, but a kiss and soft words had reassured her, and he’d tucked her up warmly before he’d left the room to attend to his morning ablutions. By the time he returned to dress, she was once more deep in slumber, and there she remained when he was ready to depart. He paused, and smiled crookedly to see her there, huddled beneath the bedclothes, with only some of her mussed but beautiful auburn hair partially visible. He became aware of an odd feeling in his breast. Amazement? Pride? Contentment? Maybe all those things and more --something akin to what he had felt as a young boy, perhaps, when he would run and shout for the pure joy of living.

Molly had given that back to him.

He was no longer a boy, though, and there was a time and place for everything. So he took a deep breath, blew her a silent kiss, and went out to greet the day.

Archie was sitting on the bottom step as he descended to the hall, but the boy jumped up and whipped off his cap.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes! You have some errands for me?”

“Indeed, Archie. I have two messages for you to deliver, a shopping list, and money to complete the required purchases. There should be enough left over to treat yourself to a pie or sweets of some kind, and you can keep the remainder as a token of my gratitude. I am going out this morning but I should be back by noon. Presumably you can complete those tasks and return in time for our midday repast. I may have additional work for you this afternoon, depending on what my brother has to say to me.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Archie, with a quick bow and, without more ado, took himself off.

Sherlock followed him out of the house at a more sedate pace, thankful that Mrs. Hudson did not emerge from her flat to quiz him about… well, anything, really. She had a very sharp eye for an elderly woman, and a sharp wit, too. He knew she was genuinely fond of him, but her raillery could wait until they all sat down to lunch and a glass or two of wine. Then, too, Molly would be there to draw her fire -- though Molly seemed always to bring out the landlady’s gentler side.

Molly brought out his own gentler side, too, though he wouldn’t have thought until recently that he actually had one. But there it was: shot through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt shaft. Yet he felt quite certain he was still a man to encounter Tybalt -- or any other rogue that could be brought to justice by one at the height of his strength and deductive powers. If anything, marriage had thoroughly roused the instinct to protect what was his. And she was his -- just as he was hers. Their every encounter in the bedroom seemed to strengthen that bond. It wasn’t merely the act itself. It was the caring and honesty replete in every moment, their hearts stripped bare along with their bodies.

Mycroft had always warned him about the danger of caring too much. Mycroft wasn’t wrong, but Sherlock had begun to feel he’d only been half-alive before surrendering to the enchantment of love. Of loving, and being loved in return.

All these thoughts were with him on the cab ride to the Diogenes Club, and when he entered Mycroft’s office it was evident that they were still writ large upon his countenance, at least to his discerning brother.

Mycroft greeted him with a sardonic smile. “Well, I see married life agrees with you. Welcome back to reality, brother mine.”

Sherlock laughed, but did not dispute the point. “A reality that now features the woman I am privileged to call my wife is a happy one indeed.”

Mycroft’s brows rose slightly. “You have changed your tune, haven’t you? Well, well. As I believe I said seven weeks ago, I wish you joy. Both of you!”

“Thank you, on both our behalves. And I believe I must thank you for the wedding gift as well. A kitchen and a French chef: really, Mycroft, you couldn’t think of something a trifle more extravagant?”

“Well, I could have, but nothing that would so perfectly serve my own interests.You’re pleased then? Alphonse was trained  at Le Cordon Bleu, but was something of a loose cannon. He acquired a reputation for being difficult and couldn’t get a reference, nor any work that was worthy of his skill, so he came over here. Hopefully he won’t give you any trouble.”

“I believe we’ve made a start at coming to an understanding. And he is an excellent cook. You should come to dinner tonight and see for yourself.”

Mycroft looked a little surprised. “Thank you. I’m afraid duty calls tonight however: a reception at the Russian Embassy that I must attend, However, another time the invitation will be most welcome.”

“Ah. Molly will be disappointed.”

“Will she? Please give my dear sister-in-law my regards, and tell her I will wait upon her soon. And now, what else can I do for you this morning, Sherlock? You aren’t bored already?.”

“Not at all. Just picking up old threads. I’ve sent a message round to Lestrade that I’m once again available, and if you have anything going, I might lend a hand by way of thanks. You’ve done a great deal for us these last months. But I beg you will consider that Molly won’t begin her new term at the medical school for two more weeks.”

“And you wish to enjoy her unfettered companionship as much as possible before she is consumed with her studies?” Mycroft’s expression was surprisingly free of mockery. “You are a fortunate man, I believe.. And as it happens, I might have something that might suit the two of you. A short jaunt out of town to a pleasant seaside resort. Almost another honeymoon destination, though admittedly the atmosphere is not quite on a par with that of Italy.”

“ Which seaside resort?” Sherlock demanded, fearing the worst.

“Blackpool, I’m afraid.” Mycroft’s lips quirked at Sherlock’s groan. “Indeed, you see why I do not attempt to complete the errand myself. Not only legwork , but people -- and so many of them, too . I really couldn’t. But the mission may be completed quickly, if you don’t wish to linger, and there is little likelihood of danger or mishap. An ideal assignment for a newlywed couple, in fact.”

Sherlock glared a bit. “I suppose you saved this for my return.”

“I may have done,” Mycroft said, an amused glint in his eye. “But really, you have to admit that Molly, at least, will be charmed.”

  *

  Molly was charmed. Ordinarily Sherlock would have been both annoyed and bored beyond permission, and the fact that he was neither was entirely due to Molly’s unabashed enthusiasm for every aspect of their new “adventure”.

Their second evening at Baker Street saw them sitting down to another extraordinary dinner, courtesy of Alphonse, this time attended by the Watsons as well as Mrs. Hudson and Archie. Over a really excellent bisque de homard, Sherlock announced that he and Molly would be off to Blackpool on the morrow to transact some business for the British government.

Mrs. Hudson nearly choked. “But you’ve only just returned!” she protested.

“True, but there’s nothing for it. Mycroft sent word an hour ago that everything is arranged: first class accommodations on the train, a suite at a decent hotel, a stipend to cover the cost of meals and such souvenirs as Molly will be unable to resist -- I believe I saw the inside of every shop in Rome and Florence these last weeks.” He smirked at his wife’s obvious chagrin, and added, “He’s sending a cab to take us to the station at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Molly said, “You know I tried to limit my spending, and it was you who insisted on buying the pearl set, and this.” She gestured to the very fine brooch at her throat, hand-painted roses on enamel, surrounded by a delicate gold filigree. “But how kind of Mycroft to give us such a treat!”

But John raised his brows. “Blackpool?” he asked, barely stifling a chuckle.

Sherlock gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure it will be fine. We should be back in a very few days, in any case.”

“And Molly will enjoy it excessively,” Mary said. “The sea air, walks on the beach, the aquarium, the new Tower, and dancing in the evenings. How I envy you!”

Sherlock had been skeptical of Mary’s cheery predictions, but in the event they all came to pass. Seeing Blackpool through his bride’s innocent eyes made the garish surroundings and teeming masses of holiday-goers tolerable -- even amusing much of the time. They were away five days, two devoted mostly to travel, two to seaside fun in exceptionally clement weather, and one in which it poured rain and they stayed abed nearly all the day. The four evenings they were in town were devoted to some surprisingly excellent dining, theatre-going, and dancing, after which they would retire to their well-appointed suite at the Clifton Hotel in Talbot Square, by the North Pier, and be blessedly, completely alone. There was no need to rise early, so they enjoyed a delicious breakfast in bed each morning, in every sense of the phrase. And Mycroft’s assignment merely consisted of contacting one of his agents -- a stout grey-haired female who sold parasols and gathered gossip from one of the many booths on the strand -- to receive a detailed report on some crime syndicate that was beginning to gain a foothold in the town.

It was almost with regret that Sherlock and Molly bid Blackpool adieu on the fifth day and boarded the train that would return them to London. They sat side by side in their large private compartment, watching the green countryside move past, and when Molly, replete with contentment, presently dozed off, leaning against his shoulder, Sherlock found himself realizing that he had rarely felt happier in his life.

  *

  The next morning, however, a shadow crept over Molly’s contentment.

Returning from the toilet as dawn crept into their bedroom, Molly slipped into bed and curled close, her aspect subdued. “I… I’ve… um… it’s that time of the month for me, I’m afraid,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned and failing miserably.

Sherlock frowned and slid down, repositioning himself so that he could lay a warm hand upon her abdomen, well aware that, even discounting the previous month, when they were in Venice, she always found menstruation a trial for the first day or two. “Are you in much pain? A small dose of laudanum--”

“Oh, no!” she broke in. “I… I dislike it so very much. And I don’t want to be half asleep all day. Mary and I are to meet for lunch at the Holborn.”

“Very well. But if I find you martyring yourself for no good reason--”

“I won’t! It… I don’t think it will be as bad as it was last month.”

“No, indeed.”

In Venice, Sherlock had felt that a doctor should be summoned, Molly seemed to be suffering so. The man’s diagnosis -- “... it is perhaps a miscarriage, but not to worry, there’s little danger from what you tell me, she can’t be very far along …” --  had shocked Sherlock to the bone, and Molly had wept as though her heart were breaking until the doctor’s prescribed draft had pulled her under, immersing her in restful, healing sleep. Physically, she recovered within a few days, and their remaining time in Venice had been quite enjoyable, but a cloud had hung over her spirits until they moved onto Milan and intimate relations were resumed, though he put firm limits on their activities until the full fortnight of abstinence the doctor had recommended was complete -- much to Molly’s indignation.

From that first night at the Savoy, she’d seemed to enjoy sexual congress as much as he did himself.

And she wanted a child. His child.

Sherlock, however, was ambivalent about the prospect of offspring, and he had a (thus far hidden but all too real) dread at the thought of inflicting upon his beloved young wife the pain and risks associated with childbirth.  He realized that the event was probably inevitable, and soon, considering their mutual enthusiasm in the bedroom, but on this morning he could not help thinking it was all to the good that she would at least begin the fall term at the medical school unencumbered by pregnancy.

Unfortunately, he made the mistake of saying as much.

She lay very still, looking at him, biting her lip. And then she blurted, “Sherlock… don’t you want us to have a child?”

“Did I say that?” he said, with a pretense of strong resentment.

“No! I’m… Forgive me. I just find it so disappointing myself that… well.”

Sherlock drew her against him and she clung to him, rather stiffly, trying not to give in to tears. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “you’ve plenty of time for that. And excessive anxiety will only hinder the process -- I have it on good authority.”

He felt her smile. “John and Mary?” she asked.

“Precisely. Watson says that it wasn’t until they both stopped worrying about it that they achieved a favorable outcome.”

“Mary told me before we left for Blackpool that she suspects that Rosamund may have a little brother or sister in eight months. Don’t tell John, though -- she wants to wait just a little longer. She told me she miscarried twice before she was able to carry Rosamund to term.”

“Mmm. I won’t say anything. But you must promise me you will put the notion out of your head for now, as far as Baby Holmes is concerned. Enjoy your experience at school, and your studies!”

“And my beloved husband, again, in a few days,” she said, making an effort to sound impishly cheerful.

He smiled, and slid his hand down to caress her lovely, round backside. “You know, there are any number of things we can do right now, provided you are so inclined. I’m not at all squeamish about a little blood, and studies have shown that orgasm can be an aid in the relief of menstrual cramps.”

“Really? They’ve done studies on such things?”

“I know I read it somewhere. But perhaps we should do what we can to confirm their findings. In a spirit of scientific enquiry.”

She chuckled at having her own phraseology tossed back at her, and moved, raising her lips to his and saying huskily, “Yes, please, Mr. Holmes,” before she kissed him.

  *

  Molly started the fall term at the London School of Medicine for Women a week later and happily settled into her studies. But within the first few days, her interest was increased tenfold by the announcement that all third year students would be required to participate in community service.

“And where do they have you going? You are supervised, are you not?” asked Sherlock over one of Alphonse’s simpler, yet still excellent repasts one evening. Archie was dining with the family of a friend, and Mrs. Hudson had traveled into Devon to visit her sister, so it was just the two of them sitting at the small dining table in their own flat, a cheerful fire burning in the grate and thick fog closing in outside, increasing the sense of seclusion.

“Oh, yes. There is an advisor and often other students from my class. We’ve been assigned to the Brooks-Henley Institution for Girls -- they are most of them orphans, but there are some who are placed there because of difficult situations at home. And we married ladies are able to go also to the Magdalene Hospital.”

“Really?” said Sherlock, lifting a brow. “And how do you find that?”

Molly grimaced. “Rather dreadful, as a woman. There, but for the grace of God…. But as a medical student, I find it quite fascinating, and I am very happy to be able to aid those poor women in some small way. I was able to witness a birth yesterday.”

“Did you?” Sherlock said, too blandly.

Molly smiled. “It was most interesting, and my advisor told us that it was quite an easy birth, too. It did not seem that way to me, but I daresay I’ll get used to such things. They gave the mother a little chloroform at the end, just as the queen had with her eighth child, which made the last of it go much more smoothly and quietly. But the poor thing was only fifteen years of age -- it’s not surprising she was terrified, and unable to bear the pain with any kind of stoicism.” Molly took another bite of Poulet à la Provençale, then frowned at Sherlock, who looked a little disturbed, and even rather pale. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” he said, and visibly rallied, with the help of a big sip of wine.

But it was noticeable that he asked no more questions about the Magdalene Hospital or the Institution, at least at that time, and she did not share with him that she had actually been assigned a third venue for community service, and one that she quite naturally, if reprehensibly, found to be the most interesting of all: Madame Celeste’s in Bennet Street, off St. James’.