#our shared audible account is so funny

[phocids]

love my mom dearly. however she has shit taste in books

[thoughts-on-bangtan]

MTV Unplugged presents: BTS

by Admin 1

What a time to not only be alive, but also be ARMY with BTS taking the MTV Unplugged stage on February 23rd 2021 as the first Korean artists in history to do so. It’s another marvelous achievement on the already highly impressive list BTS have to their name, another mark they’re leaving on history and another piece solidifying their place among musics greatest, at least if you ask me and everyone else who tuned in and was left extremely impressed and emotional, a mix of euphoria, emotional rawness, but also a sense of warm, soft, and gentle comfort and hope.

With this gorgeously put together setlist they’ve also proven, once more, that even when you take away all the high budget stadium stages, the dynamic and explosive choreographies and the fancy music video editing, and just focus on their craft as musicians and their most valuable instruments--their voices--BTS can stand their ground easily. Their talent and passion is unmistakable and shines brightly in all these songs, four of their own and one cover.

The performance was shown simultaneously on dozens of MTV stations across the globe, some watching on TV and others via official live streams, and yet others catching up with what they missed hours later. All the promo, hype and attention paid off and they showed that it was all worth it, that they are more than worth it, and that we as ARMY have every right to be proud of them and be proud of being ARMY.

So, let’s do what I love doing most and talk about each performance, shall we?

What an absolutely delightful, happy and funky way to open the show and introduce new listeners to just how fun BTS can be. The stage was one giant room filled with lost of little details, including a motorbike with a second passenger extension, arcade games, a football game, and a sofa. Right from the get go there’s this joyful aura around the members, smiles on their faces, little dance moves making their steps light and fun--they were having fun and subsequently we were, too.

How wonderful is it to also finally see Yoongi with them as well, even if it’s very noticeable (and understandable) that he’s keeping his shoulder steady and arm moving as little as possible? After all Telepathy was “his” song for BE and contains lots of little Yoongi signature features, most obviously his knack for playing with autotune in a way that is very audible yet never quite too much, just walking along the line in an interesting way. There’s a genius note change from Hobi in the second half of the song that’s one of the absolute highlights, just like Namjoon and Seokjin doing their little minimal movement dances in the back while grooving along to the music.

As Vminnies we get our own little treat with Jimin and Tae coming together to sing alongside each other and do their little dance as well which we’ve previously seen during the Dear Class of 2020 performance of Mikrocosmos. Then to finish off their little segment, they also do this funny little thing of pointing at each other with Tae as though acting like he (perhaps) wants to boop Jimin’s face/nose from afar. Absolutely adorable.

Speaking of which, can we talk about their cute Donald and Daisy Duck accents on their clothes and accessories which add this little sense of retro? As well as the fact that Tae is wearing the cardigan equivalent to Jimin’s Gucci sweater from his NOTES on Dis-ease video? I do very much enjoy these little details from the stylists. Also, has anyone else noticed that Tae has different in-ears? His usual ones were green yet here they’re translucent.

The way I gasped when the members turned to Tae and asked him to introduce the next song and he said it’s one that is very meaningful to him, honestly, I can’t even describe it. I was so, so happy but also getting ready to be swallowed by all the feels. I know ARMY sns had theories that we’d get Blue & Grey based on the visuals of that stage which we got in the teasers, and yet somehow I still wasn’t quite ready when the song began and we were graced with absolutely breathtaking vocals that went straight for the heart.

The visuals for this performance were perfect for the song while being interesting yet not too much that it would pull your attention away from the song itself. One by one the members sang their parts and found their places along the two main walls, the lighting cold yet on the white/grey side, none of them really interacting or looking at each other which was fitting with the atmosphere of that blue and grey feeling. Then, for the second half, the ‘stage’ switched to more of a blue lighting and we had moments where first Seokjin and JK sang together and then Jimin and Tae, their voices harmonizing so heavenly with each other yet still none of the members really looked at each other, at most looking into the camera.

I love how this performance put the focus on each member on their own but also in moments on the entire group, that feeling of being alone but never quite alone, that they have each other, and that we have them. Tae also really seemed to be highlighted during this performance, which makes sense when given the history of how the song came to be. But, really, each of them was just as visible and equally beautiful in this.

Speaking of beautiful, my jaw dropped when we got to see (and hear) Namjoon during his verse. Honestly, that mans beauty and handsomeness--it somehow keeps on increasing with each time we see him.

From anon: Omg vmin in blue and grey 😭😭😭. They coudnt even look to each other while singing “Don't say you're fine' Cause you're not Please don't leave me alone, it hurts too much” it’s my fav part by the way and their harmonization it’s heaven. I loved they choose this song to the mtv performance!

As much as this was supposed to be a surprise, MTV accidentally spoiled it hours before their performance was aired, and yet, despite knowing it was coming, I don’t think any of us were quite prepared for it right after Blue & Grey.

Fix You is a gorgeous song in its original version with a sad backstory, and it’s one of those Coldplay songs that they are extremely selective over when it comes to requests for official covers or use for commercials or movies/shows. They are about their entire discography, but I think it especially goes for this song, and yet they gave BTS the permission to do this official unplugged cover.

We also know the song means something more to the members, seeing as Jimin posted a video on their 6h anniversary showing the members during a trip they’d gone on together while the song is playing in the background. They also spoke about Coldplay during the press conference before their Wembley concerts, and Namjoon and Hobi had gone to one of their concerts a few years ago, as well as Tae on a different occasion. There certainly is a level of admiration and respect involved, a deeper connection to what they were singing, which was very clear and tangible during their performance as well.

Vocal line were truly outstanding in this, especially Seokjin (who took sns by storm as the “pink mic guy” with floods of praise and people wondering who he is, what his name is, because they’d all fallen in love with him--very relatable because same). Rap line switched between harmonizing with the vocalists in their low register and did a beautiful job of it. Namjoon harmonizing with Seokjin truly gave me goosebumps (and made my little namjin heart very happy). We also had Tae and Hobi harmonizing and sharing a brief smile with each other, as well as Namjoon harmonizing with Jungkook and Jimin, and Yoongi harmonizing with Tae and Jungkook.

The stage was also beautifully thought out, minimal yet captivating at once, all the members sitting on barstools in a line with the blinds drawn on the windows behind them, spotlights shining on them from above and others dancing behind them giving them a beautiful glow and turning something simple into something extraordinary and gorgeous. They truly didn’t need any more than that.

And like their performance wasn’t outstanding enough, we also saw Coldplay themselves not only tweet about it while calling the cover beautiful in Korean (and tagging the member’s twitter account instead of the _bighit one), but also post the same comment below the video on YouTube and share links to it on their facebook and IG stories, as well as sharing the video in their community tab on their YouTube channel. 

So, not only did BTS garner big approval from Coldplay fans and ARMY alike, but also from the original artist. A wonderful moment in music and between two legendary artists in their own right.

This acoustic version of Life Goes On is truly a masterpiece, so calm, soothing and offering that sense of comfort, togetherness, and this reassurance that life will go on, that we’re together in this, that we’ve made it through the blue & grey, that we’ve helped each other to “fix” ourselves, and that we can now slowly heal and grow from the things we’ve gone through. The electric guitar, the slow and quiet drums and on top of that the members voices, all of it coming together truly beautifully.

Their outfits kind of gave me UK private school or University secret society vibes, or as Admin 2 called it “ready to go hunting, we’re just missing our Beagles or Basset Hounds” which isn’t necessarily wrong. And yet the warm shades of brown fit the atmosphere of the song really well, complement it even.

While we’re “used” to vmin having their little moment, we only really saw Tae smiling towards Jimin, though the camera unfortunately didn’t give us a wide shot to see if Jimin returned his smile, though I’ll go ahead and say he likely did if he noticed Tae’s. Though honestly, Tae’s wide happy smile was enough to melt my heart on its own.

And then, to close out the night, we got a very funky and fun yet calm version of Dynamite during which, surprisingly enough, the members actually stay in their seats against all ARMY theories and bets (well, okay, Namjoon stood up for a moment, but sat down really quickly again and no one actually got out of their seats to dance). Who would’ve thought a day like this would come, especially looking at how they got up in previous seated performances of Dynamite.

I love the not so subtle flex of all their gold, silver and platinum records across the wall behind them, as well as their MTV moon men. With how humble they are about their awards and achievements, this felt like a good moment to highlight just how hard they’ve worked, how much they’ve achieved, before they got the chance to be on MTV Unplugged and that truly, if someone deserves to be there and showcase their talents, its them.

Looking at how many times we’ve seen and heard Dynamite, it’s fascinating how they still managed to create a version that was different from all the previous ones and felt fresh and new. Their outfits were simple and all white and thus didn’t pull too much attention onto them leaving the focus on the music and vocals. Tae’s adlibs were absolutely fantastic and they all just seemed to have so much fun with this performance, smiling and dancing in their seats, obviously having a great time. We even got Jimin smiling and scrunching up his nose happily at Tae while he sang! 

Overall this MTV Unplugged performance was a wonderful display of their talents and music merits, their vocals and rap, and just how outstanding they are as a group on this vast world stage. The setlist was perfect, though perhaps a little short. Honestly, if you ask me, they could’ve performed five or ten more songs and I would’ve remained glued to the screen through it all. And yet, still, I couldn’t have asked for more. I was left brown away and so extremely impressed despite being ARMY and knowing how good BTS are. They truly manage to find new ways to grow, evolve, and showcase their musicality with each performance. I also love how they don’t shy away from trying new things and challenges, like rap line singing and harmonizing with the vocals.

I’ll definitely come back to watching these stages many times in the future and they’re easily up there in my top ten of favorite performances of all time. Thank you, BTS, and thank you MTV Unplugged.

[regicidal-defenestration]

Ringing in the Year of the Beleaguered Badger

In which Nobby and Colon celebrate the new year with an odd wooden companion

.

"It's looking at me all menacingly, sarge."

"Its not looking at anything, its eyes are painted on."

"Yeah, painted on menacingly."

Nobby and Colon considered the figure in front of them. It was certainly odd - a life sized wooden person, a wide grin and two bright blue eyes painted on its face, wearing an equally bright red uniform, with the occasional brown splotch that Colon was doing his best to not think about.

But it wasn't menacing, Colon was sure about that. It was just a toy owned by some rich nob, or else some sort of art display that pole rats (he was unsure of the exact term) like him weren't supposed to understand. Nothing menacing in the slightest.

Even so, Colon was glad of the window separating him from it.

"It just blinked!" Nobby yelped, hitting Colon in his alarm.

Colon scowled at him. Well - half scowled. Well - shared what may well have been a scared glance with his friend. But there was nothing to be scared of, not at all. It was just a bit creepy.

"You and your imagination, Nobby."

"It did!"

Nobby sounded genuinely shaken, which was worrying. Usually, when someone suddenly moved when they should have been still, it meant an opportunity for Nobby to sell back what he'd just nicked from their pockets. Not… whatever this reaction was.

Turning very deliberately away, Fred leaned against the building's wall. He imagined that he was sat back at his nice warm desk, making plans to go out and celebrate the new year properly, not out on patrol all because Vimes had insisted they go back to their roots as regular old officers. It was-

"It just waved at me Fred."

Colon's thoughts came to a screeching halt.

"How about," he said slowly, "we go back to our roots somewhere else?"

Nobby sagged in relief. And as the two of them made their way down the street, they ignored extremely hard the sound of shattering glass.

*

It was a nice, well lit, and most importantly, empty street, not a weird toy soldier in sight. Colon took his bell - a proper old Watch one, gods this probably hadn't been used in years - and rang it out once, twice, three times.

"Twelve o'clock and all is well!" he called over the loud clangs.

Nobby frowned.

"No it's not."

"Are you disrespecting a superior officer, Nobby?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, sarge. It's just that," he paused to allow Colon to raise an eyebrow, "it's not midnight yet, is it?. It's only half eleven."

Colon paused, took a moment to count on his fingers, then nodded in grudging acknowledgement. He swung the bell again.

"Half past eleven - yes alright no need to look so smug Nobby - and all is still well!"

"No it Isn't!" a third voice piped up, the capitalisation clearly audible.

The two men screamed, grabbing each other instinctively. They then spent an awkwardly silent few minutes trying to pretend like they hadn't just screamed and grabbed each other, and had, in fact, carried off the whole situation with a cool, calm, and collected air. It very nearly worked too.

Nobby was the fastest to regain a sense of composure.

"What d'you mean No it Isn't?" He looked around suspiciously. "Is that a threat?" There didn't look to be hosts of heavily armed thugs waiting in the shadows, but you never knew with these things.

"Oh no, mot At All! What I mean Is, All's not well Because we're Here!" 

The painted smile seemed to broaden.

A pause.

"We?" Colon asked, pointing between him and Nobby.

The Toy Soldier hummed for a good minute. Colon couldn't tell if the consideration on its face was faked, or if it was just Like That.

"Hmm, No, but I Do like your spirit! I'm Talking about Me and my Crew!"

Colon leaned in close to Nobby.

"Let me handle this, eh? Matters of diplomacy like this happen to be my four-tay, you know."

Nobby gave him a Look which was, in his (Colon's) view, was neither nice, nor sufficiently respecting of his (Nobby's) commanding officer. 

"And would you, fine citiz- nutcra- erm-" Colon paused as he scrabbled for a suitably diplomatic term, ignoring Nobby's snickers, "fine being, care to explain who the crew in question is?"

"And are you plannin' any funny business?" Nobby added, not willing to let go of his suspicion yet.

"Well, there's Me! There's Jonny, who is currently Beheaded, Nastya, who has Refused to Set foot on the Disc for Moral Reasons, Raph And Ivy, who are Helping Marius ask that man Vimes out to Dinne-"

"Well your Marius won't have much luck with that," Colon interrupted, undiplomatically. "Sam doesn't swing that way."

There was a moment of silence.

"Fred," Nobby began, putting on his best 'telling a figure of relative authority that they are, actually, spouting ideas that are even more incorrect than that time Aunt June got drunk at the Hogswatch party and began claiming that the world wasn't flat' voice.

"Mr Vimes'as been out for longer than I've known him. And you’ve know him longer than I have."

"But when I've gone about him being all strait-laced - you know how he gets - none of you bastards corrected me did you!"

Nobby was not a book-smart man. If asked what a thesaurus was, he'd probably say some sort of dead lizard. Whilst he didn't know his words though, he did know his friend.

"Fred," he said again, "d'you think strait-laced means a straight person who wears lace up boots?"

Colon opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying and failing to say something.

"Course I don't," he said at last, recovering admirably. "Just, keeping you on your toes."

Spinning to face the Toy Soldier and, he hoped, firmer conversational ground, he added: "Is Sybil aware of your Marius' advances on her husband?"

"Oh most Certainly! She has Even helped Plan Out his Speech!"

"Ah." Nobby nodded thoughtfully. "wuh-luh-wuh muh-luh-muh solidarity."

"Sybil likes women?"

"Course she does sarge. She was engaged to that lady nob, before Sam nat’rally, but they broke it off on account of her, the nob, not liking all them dragons."

"You know a lot of people, Nobby"

"Word gets around."

"Do you, er, have some sort of mailing list then?" Fred was capital-S Straight, but tried not to let that get in the way.

Nobby failed at holding in a snort of laughter.

“A mailing list? Blimey Fred, imagine me getting a Hogswatch card from Vetinari himself. An’ imagine all them just waiting eagerly to get my letter.”

Seeing Colon’s expression, he tried to school his face into a more serious expression, but it didn’t last long.

“Imagine- just imagine a letter showin’ up at the Watch House, well, multiple letters really, cause of the fact you’re the only straight an cis person I can name off the top of me head, after Archchancellor whass’name has an attack of the Genders last month, all them letters with their little rainbow wax sealing stamps-”

Colon cleared his throat loudly. He jerked his head over to where the Toy Soldier was standing, unmoving, unblinking. Creepy bugger, he thought, undimplomatically, but this time he didn’t say it out loud. Character development.

“I’m sure our... friend... here doesn’t need to know, eh, Nobby?”

“On the contrary, I Think it’s Marvellous! A Mailing list, what Fun! Oh, I Do so enjoy visiting you Silly little People, with your silly Little Ideas!”

The words themselves seemed insulting, but the Toy Soldier’s tone was still bright and cheerful. Although...  three consecutive sentences ending with exclamation marks is never a good sign.

“Oh! It’s nearly Midnight now, If you Wanted to ring your Bell Again- oh!” It clapped its hands together excitedly. “Can I Ring it? And say the Thing?”

Without a complaint, Colon handed the bell over. There was probably a Rule about not doing that somewhere, but his mind was still stuck back on Vetinari. Everyone knew the Patrician wore that black ring on his middle finger, of course, but he hadn’t actually thought properly about th-

Nobby’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“You’re slightly staring at it, sarge.”

“Wha-? Yes, of course, go ahead and er, say the Thing, if you want.”

“Twelve O’clock And all is Wel-”

Its final word was drowned out as the city bells began chiming.

Midnight in Ankh-Morpork, and thus, the New Year, was determined largely by consensus, each of the bells chiming slightly out of time with each other. The first to ring belonged to the Fools’ Guild, because there is apparently nothing funnier than getting woken up in the dead of night. The fireworks began as the big brass gong at the Temple of Small Gods rang out, bangs and explosions adding to the chorus of dings, clangs, bongs and jingles. By the time the big rocket exploded purple and red over the sky it was impossible to tell the bells from each other, except for the tongueless and magical bell of Old Tom in the Unseen University clock tower, whose twelve even silences could be heard even over the din.

The high point of the display was, as usual, the Alchemists’ Guild blowing up, this time with an aesthetically pleasing blue fireball.

Nobby whistled in appreciation.

"Happy new year Fred."

"Happy new Nobby. Happy new year Toy Soldier who's still following us around."

"Happy New Year old Chums!"

[splat-dragon]

You were the song that I'd always sing ~Passerine, Oh Hellos

Whumptober 2020, #19: Broken Hearts: "Grief" "Mourning Loved Ones"

Uncle Dutch came home that night with Uncle Javier. He went to run up and hug him though he was looking behind him for Uncle Hosea - Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea were always together, but the door closed behind them and everyone was closing around him and he was being jostled and Uncle Hosea wasn’t there. He jumped up, tried to yell and be heard, but adults are loud and groups of them are even louder so no one even noticed him.

INSPIRED BY THIS POST BY @snowymarston

@whumptober2020

Jack was so confused.

They’d moved camp again, but he was used to that. Sure, they didn’t usually do it this much, or this often - but he’d had a lot of homes in his life. Some were better than others - he didn’t much like Colter, the snow was fun but Mama hadn’t let him go out and play, and Uncle Charles and Uncle Javier had shuffled him inside when he’d snuck out, and that one camp (he thought they’d called it Cliffock?) had been all rock and ledges and boring, Uncle Dutch and Aunt Grimshaw always chasing him away from anything fun cause “You’ll fall, Jack!” - and he didn’t much like this one.

 He’d liked Shady Belle.

 It’d been like something out of a story book - a mansion, two stories tall! With a staircase even, and a ‘gazebo’, and a fountain though it didn’t work, a roof and rooms! He’d had his own bedroom (that he shared with Mama and Pa, of course) and he’d gotten to meet Papa Bronte (but don’t tell Pa he still called him that) and made friends, though they weren’t nice folk, were kinda rude, and he’d gotten to try spaghetti and wear fancy clothes!

 He had missed Mama and Pa and his Aunts and Uncles though, Uncle Hosea and Uncle Dutch especially. Uncle Dutch didn’t spend as much time with him anymore, didn’t have time to read books with him—

  “I’m busy Jackie, go ask your Ma or Pa,”

 —but Uncle Hosea always made time for him even when he was busy, would scoop up a stick and play knights, would even be the maiden in the dress if he asked nicely, would sit down and try and teach him to read.

But they’d left Shady Belle, too.

 Uncle Kieran (“don’t call him that!”) had come riding in all funny, falling off his horse (and he’d never seen him again) and then it had been like something out of Uncle Hosea’s books, shouting and screaming and loud noises and Pa dragging him inside, and when it was done there’d been hollering and yelling and he’d been scared, but Uncle Hosea had checked on him, and Uncle Dutch had too if only for a moment, and then he’d seen even less of Uncle Hosea.

The night before they left Shady Belle, Uncle Hosea was the one to put him to bed. Read him three chapters of Otis Miller and the Boy from New York, tucked him in and kissed him on the head like he hadn’t since their camp by the lake (he’d liked that one well enough, though they’d kept him away from the water Uncle Bill had taught him how to skip rocks and would sometimes skip rocks with him, and it was where they got Cain so it couldn’t be all bad! Though he hadn't seen Uncle Sean since they’d left that camp, and he really did miss him, even if Uncle Sean confused him at times.)

 “Love you Jackie,” Hosea had said, smoothing down his hair, and he’d already been half asleep but he’d said back

 “Love you Uncle Hosea,” and the man had smiled, blowing out the candle and leaving him to sleep.

Then the next day Uncle Charles and Ma had come flying in on Taima, and they were moving. He knew better than to get in the way, so he’d sat off to the side as they packed up as quick as they could, shoving necessities in their wagons while Aunt Sadie and Uncle Charles tore out of camp, clasping his hands over his ears to protect them from Aunt Grimshaw’s shrill screaming.

And he hated the new camp - it was filthy, and gross, and the ground squelched beneath his feet in a way that he didn’t like. It had done the same down in Shady Belle and he’d liked it but it hadn’t done it this much, and Aunt Sadie and whoever was outside usually didn’t let him out at all, shoving him back into the cabins before he could get anywhere because “There are gators, Jack” and he could hear them hissing all around but there had been gators near Shady Belle too, hadn’t there?

 Ma cried a lot, too. Tried to smile when she saw him but he could tell, and when he asked what was wrong she’d say “I just miss your Pa,” which he didn’t understand because Pa had been away for longer before and she hadn’t cried like this, and he had Uncle Bill and Uncle Javier and Uncle Hosea and Uncle Arthur and Uncle Dutch and Uncle Lenny and Uncle Micah so why was she upset?

 Everyone seemed upset though, and he didn’t understand why. They smiled when they saw him or, at least, tried to look less upset - Aunt Sadie never really smiled, but she looked even sadder than usual when she and Uncle Charles rode out one day and didn’t come back until late the next - he’d been left with Uncle Uncle while the rest of his family gathered outside and it wasn’t fair but Uncle Uncle had patted him on the back and said ‘you’ll understand some day, Jackie.’

Jack was nineteen, his father’s blood still on his hands, a pair of graves freshly dug, when he finally understood what Uncle meant.

  Uncle Arthur came back, and of course Jack was happy. It was his Uncle! And Uncle Arthur was one of his favorites (but don’t tell the others), but with Uncle Micah, not Pa or Uncle Hosea, Uncle Bill or Uncle Javier or Uncle Dutch or Uncle Lenny and he was confused - where were they? Still, he hugged him, and the man was glad to hug him back though he stank, and then they were pulled away because Aunt Grimshaw was insisting that Uncle Arthur ‘get that filth off your face right now!’ and then the adults were talking and he was being shoved off to the side again - something about Pa and ‘Sisika’ and a ‘chain gang’ but he didn’t really understand.

Uncle Dutch came home that night with Uncle Javier. He went to run up and hug him though he was looking behind him for Uncle Hosea - Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea were always together, but the door closed behind them and everyone was closing around him and he was being jostled and Uncle Hosea wasn’t there. He jumped up, tried to yell and be heard, but adults are loud and groups of them are even louder so no one even noticed him.

 Then Uncle Bill came home, and everything went crazy. Uncle Arthur shoved him under a table and told him to ‘stay there!’ and he always listened to Uncle Arthur so he did, voices screaming outside, wood exploding everywhere and then Aunt Tilly was grabbing him and pulling him with her behind a crate, and then just as suddenly as it started it was done.

Uncle Lenny, Uncle Hosea and Pa didn’t come home that night, and he didn’t get to talk to Uncle Dutch until very late the next day.

 He tried asking Uncle Arthur first, on account of that he’d been with Uncle Hosea last so surely he’d know.

 And the man’s face had turned a funny shade of white, and he’d started to make a funny sound in his throat, like he was trying to make words but couldn’t get them out, and his eyes that were already red had gone even redder, had glazed over like that dead opossum’s he’d found the other day, then Aunt Sadie had been shoving him away with an apology to Uncle Arthur.

 Even Sadie had jumped when, after they’d entered the cabin, the door barely closed behind them, Uncle Arthur made a sound that was a scream but wasn’t a scream, high-pitched and awful and though he didn’t know why Jack had burst into tears right alongside him, and then there’d been a crash and Aunt Sadie had shoved him towards Aunt Mary-Beth before hurrying back outside.

 He tried asking Aunt Mary-Beth, too. Then Aunt Tilly, and Aunt Susan, but all three’s faces had drawn up like they’d eaten something sour, and their eyes had gone funny too, though they didn’t scream, and finally he’d been handed over to Ma and she was already glassy eyed so he didn’t ask her.

As soon as he could (which wasn’t very soon) he went looking for Uncle Dutch.

 He found him leaning on the fence, over the swamp with the gators, and it wasn’t fair because if he did that he’d have gotten a spanking but adults had different rules than he did which wasn’t fair, jumping when he called out “Uncle Dutch?” which was kinda funny because he never scared no one.

 Uncle Dutch ran his hand down his face, looking very tired, which was strange because Jack had seen him go to sleep right after things went quiet last night, but adults are Strange so he didn’t say nothing, “What is it Jack?”

 “Where’s Uncle Hosea?”

 and Uncle Dutch’s face did a strange thing then, seeming to fall into itself, lips baring his teeth for just a moment before covering them, falling down as though he’d eaten something awful, those funny wrinkles getting deeper until they weren’t so funny anymore, and he gulped audibly though he didn’t start making those funny sounds that Uncle Arthur had, instead opening his mouth and closing it like a fish. “I…”

 He reached up and pressed his fingers into his eyes like he did sometimes when the others were getting on his nerves, and Jack was worried he’d annoyed him - had he heard that he’d been asking about Uncle Hosea? But he just wanted to know, Uncle Hosea had promised they’d read Otis Miller and the Black-Hearted Lady next and he’d had a copy since Clemens’ Point, and Uncle Hosea was never gone this long without telling him!

 “Jack…” Uncle Dutch started again, and when he brought his hand away his eyes were glassy, glassier than he’d seen on the others, even on that stinky opossum he’d found, and his breath shook, rattling in a way Jack had never heard before, as he knelt in that way he hated, the way people did right before they talked to him like he was a dumb little kid.

 “He’s not…” he swallowed, reached out in that ‘come here’ way adults used and he jumped into the hug, finding Uncle Dutch shaking like a leaf, “Your Uncle Hosea’s not coming home.” and… that didn’t make sense. Uncle Hosea always came home. But… so had Uncle Mac and Uncle Sean, up until they’d all left and never come home again.

 “Like Uncle Mac?” he pushed back to look Uncle Dutch in the eye, but Uncle Dutch wouldn’t meet his gaze, blinked rapidly, shook his head,

 “Like… like your Uncle Davey, Jackie.”

 and he remembered Uncle Davey, remembered them coming flying back with Uncle Davey slumped on the back of Uncle Javier’s horse, remembered sitting there as Mama and Aunt Grimshaw tried to stitch him up, remembered blood everywhere, remembered him going limp as they set him down on the bed in Colter, remembered them burying him.

 He couldn’t imagine Uncle Hosea like that. Couldn’t see him being put beneath the ground forever, couldn’t see never seeing him again - couldn’t imagine never being tucked into bed by him, never having him read an Otis Miller book to him, never being called ‘our little prince’ by him again.

 “No!” burst out of his chest, surprising even him, and Uncle Dutch flinched, reaching up to grasp his wrists when Jack began to pound on his chest, “I WANT UNCLE HOSEA!” and he’d never been one for tantrums - he’d tried, once, and been laughed at so hard he’d never tried again - but he began to slam his fists into Uncle Dutch’s chest as hard as he could, screaming “NO!” over and over at the top of his lungs.

 “I know,” Uncle Dutch’s breath caught, and he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in until all he could do was wrap his fingers in his vest and cling, screams dying into sobs, whimpering “I want Uncle Hosea,” until he was breathless and hiccuping, the older man shuddering and making a strange, choked sound, clutching him close, “I know, son, I know.”

 His Ma still cooling in the ground, Edgar Ross not even starting to rot, Jack Marston visited the graves of all his Aunts and Uncles - even his Uncle Dutch, Uncle Javier and Uncle Bill, though they’d wronged his family he remembered them fondly and felt the need to pay them his respects.

 He left his Uncle Arthur’s hat hanging on his grave marker - the age of the outlaw was over, and he thought it was time to put it to rest - and when he finally visited his Uncle Hosea’s grave, last of the thirteen, he left a tattered, well-loved copy of Otis Miller and the Boy from New York behind alongside an aged but otherwise pristine copy of Otis Miller and the Black-Hearted Lady.

[shanie-the-toyaddict]

In The Space Between A Zowens Fanfic (Into The Horizon Universe... vaguely)

OK, so I’ve decided. I’m not posting it on AO3 because people on there might not want spoilers. But I WILL post it here because I’ve already told all yinz how that Future Fic ends for Sami and Kevin. So here you go. One songfic, behind the cut.

EDIT TO ADD: The song is “Until Eternity” by Blackbriar and the idea came from @write-it-motherfuckers

Being soulmates, or whatever the hell Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn were, it was a concept hard to express through simply one term.

There were many different languages and cultures across the globe and beyond that had notions of what two lovers, forever entwined would look like. Earth alone had more than Kevin could personally keep track of, although he’d always tried. One of the earliest accounts dated back to Plato, who wrote about how originally, people had four arms, four legs, and two heads, and Zeus split the humans in half, leaving them forever yearning for the rest of themselves. It was a quaint enough notion but didn’t quite cover it. In Buddhism, the idea was that all lives were interconnected. Those connected in one life were connected in the next. That was closer, but if you were to ask Kevin, it wasn’t quite the right idea either. In Hinduism, they believed that in the karmic cycle, a force called lenhu caused two souls to forever intersect, positively impacting each other in every lifetime. That one seemed fairly accurate in Kevin’s eyes, except for the “positive” part. Truth be told, his impact on Sami Zayn over the many lifetimes they shared was far from exclusively positive. Personally, Kevin always liked Sami’s explanation of the Twin Flames, two souls fundamentally identical on a cosmic level that, when brought together, can lead to either tremendous beauty, or absolute havoc and chaos.

Kevin had never been so sure about the first part of that, but the second part was spot on. Between the two of them, in every lifetime they’d shared together, it was either beauty, chaos, or sometimes both. But there was rarely ever indifference. No, the universe wasn’t indifferent to Sami Zayn and Kevin Owens. They’d always thought, upon having their first match, that they were destined to fight forever. Now, looking upon the thousands of paths they’d walked, Kevin realized that, by that point, they already had.

And now, floating beside his soulmate, resting dormant once more in the space between worlds, Kevin couldn’t help but wonder what the cosmos held for them next. He never had any idea beforehand who or what he’d be. He’d given up long ago trying to guess genders. If living thousands of lives had taught him anything, it was that gender was an absolute fallacy. Earth was one tiny speck in an infinite ocean of possibilities, and they weren’t always the same species let alone the same gender. The universe was a funny thing like that; much like Forrest and his damn box of chocolates, you never knew what you were going to get. The only constant in their infinite existence was each other and, while they never retained their memories from lifetime to lifetime, they always found themselves together in the end. One way, or another, be it as friends, lovers, companions, rivals, or even bitter enemies, they were together.

Actually, Kevin was pretty sure that wasn’t how it was supposed to work. It had been countless lifetimes since their time as 21st Century humans trapped in the future, but he was still certain he recalled something being said about their souls always being in love.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. It certainly wasn’t how it had turned out.

Kevin felt movement beside him in the aether.

Sami was stirring from his sleep, curling instinctively around Kevin. KO didn’t push him away, instead placing a ghostly kiss on Sami’s copper curls. In that place, wherever they stayed between lives, you appeared as you best knew yourself. They’d had so many different bodies and appearances since their souls were made one that even Kevin was surprised that they still kept their old human visages. But after thousands of years, thousands of lives, they were still Sami and Kevin.

And Kevin was just fine with that.

He’d always found Sami attractive as a redhead.

Sami yawned, stretching his arms out and arching his back.

“Nnnng, how long was I out?” he asked Kevin.

Kevin groaned. If there was one thing that never changed, it was his tendency to ask stupid questions.

“Come on, Sami,” he replied. “You know time has no meaning here.”

“Yeah, I know,” conceded Sami, before adding, “but you’d think there’d be some measure of time here in the time vortex.”

“The time vortex? Wasn’t that Back to the Future or something?”

“Mmm, Doctor Who. Back to the Future was the space-time continuum.”

Kevin sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You’ve spent too many lifetimes as nerds,” he told his lover, the annoyance in his voice dancing with joviality.

Sami raised an eyebrow.

“And what about the one where you were a 1960’s single woman writing Star Trek fanfiction?”

“Hey, I had Leonard Nimoy over for dinner, that life was pretty fucking cool. Got better after you showed up, though. God that was scandalous.”

Sami smiled. “It always is between us.”

Kevin laughed, before Sami suddenly leaned over to put his face directly beside Kevin’s.

“Nerd,” Sami whispered at him, before breaking away and laughing.

Kevin’s jaw dropped slightly at his own accusation returned to him, before shutting his mouth and pushing Sami away.

“Oh shut up,” Kevin told him.

Sami began to drift away. It wasn’t like they had form there, at least nothing outside of what their minds created. It was almost like drifting in space, weightless and alone. Honestly, were it not for what had occurred back in the Gorosian Empire, they would both be floating alone, still cosmically linked to an extent, but without the companionship between lives.

And powers was Kevin grateful for the companionship.

Time had no meaning where they were, that much was true, but it still felt like an eternity. Even when you slept, you didn’t dream. You just woke up in the same empty space a moment later, right where you started. There really wasn’t anything to look at besides endless fog and darkness, although despite the darkness, he never had a problem seeing Sami next to him, as though his pale skin and ginger curls were bathed in unseen moonlight. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nobody to talk to. You were just waiting.

At least now they could wait together.

Sami was still floating away, eyes closed and a content look on his face and Kevin willed himself closer to him.

“Sami, where the hell are you - “

Sami cut him off with a chuckle, pushing his foot off Kevin’s chest and doing a backflip. He spun himself around a few times amidst the fog before stopping, the grin on his face doing little to conceal his giggling.

Shaking his head, Kevin decided he should ask. Sami had something on his mind, and the guy was going to drive him crazy with his chipperness if he didn’t figure it out.

“Ok, Sami,” Kevin demanded, “What’s up. What’s got you so happy?”

Sami replied by floating over toward Kevin and placing a soft hand on his cheek.

“You,” he said, and pulled him into a passionate kiss. It wasn’t a needy or urgent kiss or anything like the affection they used to show each other back when they were in the Indies on Earth. It was the type of kiss that lovers shared when they knew each other completely. When they had been down a million roads together and knew full well there would be a million more.

When they weren’t two separate souls at all, but one, forever and eternally joined.

And as the soul energy surged between their spirits, Kevin knew he’d found home once again.

But therein lay the trouble, and with a creased brow, he broke off the kiss.

Sami’s pout was damn near audible.

“Shit Sami,” Kevin swore, “I don’t understand what’s got you so excited. You know the routine. We spend time here, then we get shoved into new bodies and have to spend another lifetime finding each other and getting back together. I don’t understand why we can’t just have this forever!”

The one-time Intercontinental Champion looked sad for a moment, before turning his eyes to Kevin.

“Do you want to know what I dreamt about?” he asked KO.

“Bullshit,” Kevin grumbled, “you didn’t dream anything.”

“No, I did, I swear. And it was glorious.”

There was that damn word again.

Glorious.

Kevin both hated and loved when Sami used that word. He hated it because somehow, in almost every situation they found themselves in, he had an equivalent for it and was far too liberal in its usage.

He loved it because, whenever Sami used the word, his eyes would brighten, catching whatever light was nearby, and Kevin would drown in them and fall in love all over again.

And this time was no different.

“Sami...” Kevin sighed, the word a breath across his lips. He gazed into Sami’s hazel eyes, they were always hazel in that space, and he could see himself there. With Sami, where he always belonged and where he always would be.

It was so damn easy to get lost there, but Sami noticed (he always did) and wrapped his hand around Kevin’s head pulling their foreheads together.

“Focus, Kev,” Sami told him, and after closing his eyes for a moment to do just that, Kevin reopened them and pulled away.

“Right,” he said, his mind clear once more, “what was this dream?”

Sami smiled. “It’s about our next lifetime.”

With a tilt of his head, Kevin looked at him like he was crazy.

“Sami. We never get any indication of our lives ahead of time. You know how it is. We’ve certainly been through this enough.”

The redhead shook his head. “No, I swear, I had a vision. You and me. A happily married couple. No fighting, no trauma. Just domestic bliss.”

Kevin made a face.

“Ew, yeargh,” He practically gagged at the idea. “Domestic? Who the fuck wants domestic?”

“You know, Luv,” Sami chided, “We don’t have to be at each other’s throats every time.”

“No, but it’s more fun that way.”

“Maybe for you. I’m usually the one on the receiving end of the beatings. I’ll take a round of domestic bliss if it means I don’t have to get beaten, threatened, tortured, whatever by you for a change. Why are you so determined to hurt me in every single possible future we have together?!”

“You know I don’t do it on purpose!” Kevin shouted, and immediately regretted it afterward. They rarely fought between the worlds, but Sami was right. It always seemed like Kevin had it out for Sami. No matter what configuration the universe put them in, there was always some level of pain involved.

Kevin closed his eyes to focus once more and started again.

“Sami,” he said, “You know I love you. Here, to eternity and back, I love you. I’ve loved you in more ways than either of us could have ever dreamed possible. In this space, looking ahead, you know I don’t want to hurt you. But, I don’t know, maybe it’s just my nature. Maybe I’m just a naturally negative person. All we’ve been through? I think I’m just the bad to your good. The rage to your peace. The darkness to your light.”

“The Yin to my Yang,” Sami added, a kind look on his face.

“Yeah, something like that,” Kevin responded.

Sami reached his hand out, taking hold of Kevin’s shoulder.

“You know, Kev, The Yin Yang? There’s always a bit of light in the darkness, and vice versa. They say that the yin and yang represent...”

“Nope,” Kevin said, shaking his head and cutting him off, “I’m stopping you there. Go much further and I guarantee you’ll lose me. Just stick with ‘there’s light in the darkness’, ok?”

“’K. But you know that means that there’s also always part of you in me as well, right? We’re one soul, not just joined or intertwined, but intermixed. Ever since the powers of the universe blinked us into existence, we’ve been together. I mean, who needs all the marriages, joinings, ceremonies, rituals, all that fluff and stuff. You and me, we’re one unit. Why the hell do you think we’ve always had such chemistry, even when we’re fighting? We’re meant to be together, one way or another. By whatever name, in whatever form. You’ve always been a part of me Kev. Your soul in my soul. Your heart in my heart...”

“... my mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts, yeah yeah, I got it. Fuck, Sami in what lifetime were you that much of a sappy romantic?”

Shrugging, Sami replied, “Probably most of them. You just never spent enough time in love with me to notice.”

Kevin smirked. “I’m always in love with you. Always have been, always will be. It’s just sometimes I’m too stubborn to realize it.”

Sami couldn’t contain his snort. “Now who’s the sappy romantic?”

It was a fair enough question, but one that Kevin didn’t feel like answering. Instead, he shut his lover up by pressing his lips against him, kissing him once more. And once more the energy surged. Granted, even in their living forms there was always some amount of electricity that flowed between them, but in that netherworld-like space, it flowed the strongest, unhindered by any physical forms or bodies. There it was just their combined soul, floating and waiting to be reborn, and as Kevin tasted the sparks on Sami’s lips, he felt himself start to grow heavier, the way he always did before he was pulled into a new body.

He felt Sami start to pull away, obviously feeling a similar sensation, but Kevin grabbed ahold of Sami’s head and maintained contact. Wherever they were going, it would likely be years before they could kiss once more, and Kevin wasn’t going to miss out on his last chance for who knew how long.

A white light began to glow and blossom between them, starting first in their chests before wrapping its way around their bodies and encircling their arms and legs. He could hear wind blowing, like something out of a blustery spring day, and the sound began to engulf them both.

Still, Kevin didn’t let go. He could feel Sami’s energy pulling away and he struggled to hold on, but it was no use. The contact was broken and as the white light turned to gold, he felt his astral connection to Sami break as he was pulled through the cosmos to whatever destination the powers of the universe had picked for him this time around.

And as he flew through space-time towards his new, waiting life, a thought sat firmly in his mind.

Domestic, huh?

Wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Might be nice even. Possibly glorious.

Maybe we don’t have to fight forever after all.

And then his consciousness lapsed as the light turned to darkness and his new life began.

[the-pontiac-bandit]

catch your dreams

in which amy santiago and jake peralta watch a presidential primary debate with their children, and one of those children is enamored with governor knope of indiana. 

also on ao3

“Welcome to the first debate of the 2036 election! My name is Cecile Stafford, and with me tonight is my co-moderator Cooper Liddell. We’re thrilled to welcome you to this exciting primary contest--”

“MOM!” Ana’s shout from the kitchen table drowns out the TV. “I CAN’T FIND MY FOLDER!”

“Oh! I think I saw it earlier!” Jake shouts back from the master bedroom down the hall.

“Um...where?” Ana sounds surprised--his father loses things even more frequently than he does, and only twice in the thirteen year-old’s memory has her father ever been the one to find something lost.

“UNDER YOUR BUTT!” Jake’s uproarious laughter draws eye rolls from his wife and older daughter, seated side-by-side on the couch, and a giggle that matches his own from the small boy seated between them. Rey has a journal open on her lap, a pencil (she would never dare use a pen on the couch--those things can stain) already scratching away at the top of a new page. Her social studies teacher promised her extra credit for her thoughts on the debate, and she’ll be damned if she isn’t going to earn it.

Her mother pipes up from next to her, for the benefit of eight year-old Eli, curled up in the crook of her arm. “Jake, potty words stay in the…?”

“Potty,” comes the somewhat subdued response from the bedroom. Satisfied, Amy turns her attention back to the kitchen.

“Ana, did you check your backpack? It’s by the front door.”

Ana’s sigh of annoyance is audible, even over the audience applause coming from the TV’s top-of-the-line surround sound speakers (Jake had purchased them in order to better appreciate Avatar in all its cinematic glory). “Mom. I already checked there.”

“Well--” Amy starts to reply, ready to list the other places where her seventh-grader habitually leaves her possessions (it’s truly a miracle how easily the Jake and Ana manage to lose things in an apartment so small she has to share a bathroom with her teenage daughters).

“AHA!” Ana cuts her off triumphantly. Then, her voice turns sheepish. “I found it.”

“Where?” Amy asks, a hint of smugness in her voice betraying her certainty that the folder was in her daughter’s sequin backpack, thrown unceremoniously by the door five hours before.

Ana’s voice is sheepish. “...I was sitting on it,” she admits reluctantly, sticking her head around the door to the living room.

Then, a clatter from the bedroom startles all of them. Jake emerges with a triumphant shout, “I was right! It was under your butt!”

None of them hear him, though. They’re all too busy staring--while they’d been peacefully doing the dishes, Jake had been pulling a Tupperware bin of costumes out from the hall closet and adorning himself with every bit of red-white-and-blue attire the Santiago-Peralta family possessed.

“What?” he says, in response to the four pairs of eyes trained on him. “I had to get ready for the debate!” On the word debate, he leaps into the air, doing his best to imitate his fifteen-year-old ballerina daughter. He lands loudly, rattling the decorative plates hung on the wall behind him, and looks up at his family, a mohawk wig worn six years ago to Charles’ Fourth of July barbecue sitting crooked so his graying curls are visible underneath.

The entire family pauses for a second, a commercial about some adult-onset asthma medication droning on in the background. Then, everyone is laughing. Jake hops on the sofa next to his daughter, bouncing everyone around while his son’s cheeks turn rosy pink with his deep belly laugh and his more serious daughter’s soft giggle fills the room.

Jake and Eli are still laughing, Jake’s wig now perched on Eli’s much smaller head, covering his eyes, when a sudden swell in patriotic music and applause jerks them back to reality.

Rey has her hand on the volume button, eyeing them defiantly. “It’s starting,” she informs her father seriously as the speakers approach their maximum volume.

Ana, now laying on the floor with the previously-lost folder full of crumpled pages of math homework, grabs a pillow to cover her ears with an eye roll as Amy snags the remote from Rey. “Quick, turn it down!” she says, still breathless from laughter. “Before the neighbors call again!”

She switches the volume back to acceptable levels, but Rey doesn’t even seem to notice. Jake leans over and notices that she has columns for each candidate in her notebook, with her neat handwriting listing names, previous qualifications, and current offices.

“Our senator’s running, you know,” Rey announces. “Foster Cromwell. He’s supposed to win. It’d be cool to have another New York president. I think I’d vote for him.”

“You shouldn’t vote for someone just because they’re from your state,” Amy explains. “You want to vote for the person with the best ideas.”

“But you think he has good ideas! You voted for him last year!” Rey retorts.

“I do,” Amy concedes. “Senator Cromwell is very smart. But let’s see who else is on stage before we start committing our votes!”

Rey nods, writing furiously in her notebook as Harris finishes his opening statement. Seven candidates follow him, with opening statements so rehearsed and identical that Jake starts to nod off by the time the eighth candidate gets her minute.

“My name is Leslie Knope, and I’m the governor of Indiana. I may be new to the national political scene, but I’ve worked in government longer than any of the people on stage with me. My career began in the local Parks and Recreation department in--”

Something in her voice makes Jake snap to attention. His eyes open, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Amy sitting up straighter, too. Even Ana, pretending to be entirely disengaged from her spot on the carpet, has stopped writing.

The moment only lasts a few seconds, but it captures Jake’s attention. The tiny blonde woman on the far edge of the stage is electric, and her story about a swing, national parks, conservation, and hard work feels like it could be much longer than a minute.

The audience in the room seems to agree, with a swell of applause so loud that Amy has to turn the volume down another few notches.

“Who is she?” Amy asks her daughter.

Rey consults her notebook. “Governor of Indiana. She used to work at the Department of the Interior, and in the National Parks Service before that. She’s from...Pow-nee, I think is how you say it.”

Eli laughs. “Pow-nee’s funny.”

“Pow-NEE, Pow-NEE,” Jake repeats, poking his son in the stomach on each syllable while his son giggles.

“Shh!” Rey shoots a death glare--scarily like Amy’s--at her father as the moderators ask the first question.

Jake rapidly gets lost again in the technical language about public options, data privacy, and global trade pacts, so he settles on watching his wife, who clearly seems to know what’s going on. She’s enthralled, fascinated by the detailed policy discussion. Meanwhile, Rey is scribbling furiously.

“Governor Knope, one of your most-discussed achievements in Indiana is your prison reform bill, which aided the state’s recovery from the opioid crisis and restructured policing in the face of drug crimes. “Which such reforms are necessary at the national level, and how would you pursue them?”

As Governor Knope launches into a response about her work with the local police chief and how that translated into statewide work on bias training and accountability, Rey stops writing, her jaw slowly dropping.

When Governor Knope finishes, the debate cuts to a commercial break, and Rey turns sharply to her parents.

“Grandpa Ray talks about that stuff all the time!”

Amy smiles at her daughter. “He does. He’s worked hard on some of those policies in the NYPD for years.”

“But government people do it, too?”

“They can.”

“Do government people in New York do it?” Ana pipes up.

“Sometimes, but not as much as we want them to. That’s why Grandpa Ray has been working so hard--to change those things from the inside, since people aren’t changing them from the outside.”

“Oh.” Rey looks thoughtful. “Do you have to be a governor to do that? Change it from the outside?”

Amy looks thoughtfully at her daughter before starting an explanation about the endless nonprofit groups, researchers, and government employees who help elected officials make decisions like Governor Knope’s. She’s quickly cut off, though, by the music indicating that the debate has returned, which cues her daughter’s attention back to the candidates and her notebook.

----------

Amy’s surprised the next day when her daughter brings home five books from her high school library about the history of government and criminal justice reform. Rey dives in headfirst, and it’s all she talks about for months. Later that year, Amy’s just as surprised when Governor Knope surges from behind in the polls and captures the nomination, and even more surprised when she denies a strong Republican president a second term.

By April of her oldest daughter’s senior year, Amy’s only a bit surprised when Rey confidently announces that she’d like to turn down NYU and move to Washington, D.C., and study political science. When Jake and Amy are on a train back from Georgetown the next fall, having just moved Rey into her new dorm, Jake can’t stop crying about their baby moving away. Amy smiles as she pats his shoulder as their two younger children roll their eyes.

And six months after that, when her daughter calls screaming about an internship with President Knope’s special commission on national criminal justice reform, Amy’s hardly surprised at all.

[meagan-marie]

Six Months at Riot Games

I’ve been up all night after reading Kotaku’s article on the company culture of Riot, and its effect on women in particular. Cecilia contacted me as a potential source, but I didn’t commit to providing my experience on the record because I was worried about the ramifications of speaking out. The discourse around this conversation and the reticence to believe the women who came forward has stunned me. I’ve been carrying around a heavy weight on my shoulders since 2014, and I feel it is finally time to let it go. I only lasted six months at Riot before resigning.

In 2014, I left a job I loved and colleagues I adored to take up a post at Riot Games in Dublin. One of their recruiters had reached out to me nearly a year prior, and while I was immensely happy at my current place of work, I had always wanted to work abroad at least once in my life. I was becoming addicted to League of Legends, Riot had a history of great community-centric initiatives, and I felt that if I turned down the opportunity, I would always ask myself, “What if?”

I was initially apprehensive, as I had been told firsthand that Riot could have a “bro” culture at times. So I did my research. I asked the recruiter directly about the mysterious “culture” of Riot, and why conforming to it was so important. I even messaged a handful of women ex-Rioters to ask about their experiences. They all confirmed that Riot could have a “frat party” type atmosphere at times, but didn’t relay stories of overt sexism or harassment.

I took the job in early 2014. I sold my car, packed up all my belongings in a shipping container, committed to a long-distance relationship with my partner, and sent my cats off for the mandatory 30 days of quarantine. I fully committed, expecting to work there for several years at the minimum.

Before I detail some of what I experienced at Riot, first, let me state the obvious. The behavior below is NOT indicative of all Riot employees. The large majority of Riot employees I’ve met have been lovely, and as evidenced above, there are many people who weren’t subject to sexist behavior and harassment. That being said, from my own experiences and that of many others speaking out this week, an unacceptable number of people – primarily, but not exclusively women – have been subject to inappropriate behavior at Riot for years. It is systemic to the company’s culture and needs to be addressed as such.  

I’ve outlined some of the most notable negative encounters with Riot staff below. These don’t account for the daily microaggressions and condescending remarks that are too numerous to detail. For transparency, being four years removed from Riot has not degraded my recollection of these events. I am drawing them directly from the eight-page resignation letter I sent to Riot in August of 2014.

Content-Warning: Sexist, racist, homophobic, and transphobic language, as well as mentions of sexual assault.

At Riot, employees are encouraged to play League before/after work, or during lunch. My very first week at the Dublin office, I heard shouting from individuals playing together, calling each other “f*ggots” repeatedly. I was unnerved, but it was my first week and I didn’t know if this was a common occurrence. I didn’t say anything at that time. Eventually, the language would escalate to “n*gger”. No one flinched, and I realized it was considered the norm. Nearly the same thing happened my first day of meetings at the Riot LA office, where two men were loudly calling each other “c*cksuckers” right outside the office of the CEOs.

Soon I began to notice gendered language regularly being used among male Rioters to insult each other. Guys would tell each other “not to be such a girl” and call one another “p*ssies” quite regularly. They would casually refer to women as “b*tches” and say that “all women were crazy.” I also overheard a group discussing how a female professional made it far in the industry, suggesting she “sucked c*ck to get to the top.

My first month at Riot we had an opportunity to talk with one of the CEOs for an office-wide AMA. We were encouraged to submit questions anonymously. I submitted something that had bothered me for some time as a League player. I wondered why – other than the child characters and Yordles – nearly all the female champions had the exact same body type. The male champions were young, old, skinny, athletic, obese, handsome, monstrous, and more – they were unique and diverse. The most prevalent characteristic of female champions at the time was sex appeal. I wanted something more. I wanted to know when we would get a female equivalent of Gragas. 

The senior staff liked the question so much that they requested I ask it live, rather than anonymously. I was apprehensive at first because I was so new, but I also understood that this was an important opportunity to directly challenge someone in a position of power who could make a change. Unfortunately, the response boiled down to “giving the players what they want”, to which I rebutted that Riot was big enough to influence player perception of what characters are cool or fun to play. I was very disappointed by the response, which felt dismissive of the issue. (As a side note, I was happy to see Riot’s efforts to diversify their female champions these past few years.)

After the meeting, I realized I had put a target on my back with some of the men in the office. I didn’t even make it to my desk before a male colleague came up and told me that “women don’t want to play unattractive champions. They want to feel beautiful.” I was stunned. A woman behind us audibly laughed at the fact that he was informing us of our gender’s gaming preferences. A few male coworkers also asked why I would like to see an “unattractive” female champion, or a plus size female champion, because “no one wants to look at that.” These were several of dozens of conversations I would have on the matter.

Things only got worse the longer I stayed at Riot. I didn’t go out with colleagues after events because strip clubs seemed to be a common destination. Asking me what age I lost my virginity at was deemed appropriate conversation during a team dinner, and employees I didn’t know prodded into how my sex life worked in a long-distance relationship.

I felt out of place in my direct team as well. Our Jira sprints were named things like “thong.” I was the only woman on that particular team, and so a senior staff member named us the “Bros and Ho”.  I immediately tried to shut that down, but it was used for weeks regardless.

Rape became a punchline to jokes quite frequently, including one instance where an employee went on for several hours about how he was going to rape his male colleague, who was his hotel roommate. He was graphic in exactly how he was going to rape his roommate, who was a new hire, and it was obvious that the individual in question was extremely uncomfortable.

While on a team outing, the same senior staff member messaged a new employee’s girlfriend on Facebook asking if she was “DTF” - shorthand for “down to f*ck”. He thought it was a funny joke. The new staffer didn’t feel comfortable challenging him, even though his girlfriend was very uncomfortable and called to ask why she was being harassed by his boss.

Then came the final straw. At a work dinner, it came up that I thought I’d been paired in a hotel room with a male Rioter. It turned out to be a typo in the name, and, as was standard, I was paired with another woman. A senior staff member proceeded to repeatedly call me sexist for not being willing to room with a man I’d never met before. At first, I thought he was kidding, but he continued to make arguments to his point. I explained why I would be more comfortable sharing a room with another woman, and told him I wasn’t enjoying the conversation and would leave if I was continued to be called sexist. The conversation continued, with him eventually saying that my unwillingness to room with a man was the same as not hiring a woman due to her gender. I left the table in the middle of dinner, unwilling to take any more after six months of such behavior. I submitted my resignation shortly after.

My biggest concern with Riot – putting my own experiences behind me – is the inappropriate and sometimes predatory behavior that some staff exhibited towards fans. I frequently pushed back against comments and scenarios like these but found I was one of the few that would speak up. Rioters are often seen as celebrities with dedicated fans, and it is easy to abuse that power. 

I regularly witnessed lewd comments about women passing by at events, discussing their level of attractiveness, whether someone would sleep with them, and guessing if they were the age of consent.  

Several times I heard male employees bragging and sharing intimate details about hooking up with players at events, including a cosplayer we worked with in an official capacity. Several male colleagues even asked me to “hook them up” with cosplayers.

When I brought up the inappropriateness of a young League cosplayer having silly-string unexpectedly sprayed across her chest during a video piece by a third party – the gag being that he had ejaculated on her – I was told I was the “comedy police”.

I overheard at least a dozen employees comment on how cosplayers only make costumes for attention and ask “is this even considered a costume?” when a very famous cosplayer recreated a scantily-clad female champion. I showed them that she was one-to-one with the splash art. They begrudgingly conceded that it was an official outfit. This is obviously highly hypocritical.

At least three times Riot Dublin employees made inappropriate comments via work email about a female cosplayer’s breasts (one they regularly worked with).

While in LA, I had a week of very successful meetings with Rioters to help get a new cosplay initiative off the ground. In a recap meeting, I expressed how happy I was that we were creating such great programming for cosplayers. The senior most staff member responded with “Who wouldn’t want to work with cosplayers? Because Boobs.”

During one event, a first-time cosplayer came to our booth crying because someone had commented negatively on her weight in relation to the character. Another coworker and I consoled her for nearly 30 minutes, and she left, feeling much better. After she left, a fellow Rioter called her a “fatass” and asked why she would try to cosplay the character she chose. I was in shock but told him how inappropriate that was to say about our fans, especially those passionate enough to make and wear costumes. Cosplayers have also been called “tr*nnies” and “attention whores” by Riot employees at events.

In meetings, I was told that we shouldn’t put cosplayers on stage to play League live, because they are mostly women, and therefore not very good at the game.

Further examples of disrespect include when I argued that we shouldn’t let a cosplayer in blackface on our stage for a parade, keeping in mind that Riot is a global company. I was repeatedly called racist by my colleagues, who tried to convince me that it was an acceptable practice and I was overreacting.

This is not a comprehensive list. These were only the very specific examples I could draw from when I drafted my resignation letter at Riot. After word got out that I quit, I was contacted by several other women from the office, asking to meet. I was told more horror stories, discovering that some of them had been physically touched, cornered in shared vehicles, and faced professional retaliation for turning down advances. They asked for advice. I told them that they needed to speak up too.

The reason I didn’t share any of this before is because I felt trapped. I am not proud of myself for staying silent. After I quit, I was stranded in Ireland with my entire life in an apartment, no job, no car, and not even a cell phone, as it was immediately taken away from me once I resigned. I needed to get back to the United States somehow. Riot was my best bet, and I worried that if I didn’t agree to their mandates or went public with anything that I’d ruin my chance of getting home. After six months of near-daily misery, I was exhausted. I signed their agreements. I needed to get out. I recognize that I put myself at legal risk by disclosing my experience now. After years of regret and the thought that these practices could still be going on today, affecting countless others who also feel alone and outgunned by a company they were once excited to be a part of,  I am willing to take that risk. I want to work towards a better and more inclusive industry and show solidarity with the other women who have come forward.  

I left Riot feeling like a failure. I felt like I wasn’t tough enough to stick it out or make a positive change at the company.  I had been very public about my new adventure in Ireland, and all I could post about the return home was an agreed upon “culture fit issues’ statement to my social channels. Friends and followers could tell that something was wrong, but I couldn’t expand further.

To be clear, not everything from my time at Riot was negative. I became good friends with several of my co-workers and loved interacting with fans. Riot is a massive company that employs thousands of people. There are going to be women at the company who’ve never experienced sexism or harassment from their colleagues. I am very happy that they have found a safe working space with their particular branches or teams. That being said, these harassment-free experiences don’t invalidate the experiences of women like myself, and the dozens of others I personally met while working at Riot, who struggled with fair and respectful treatment on a daily basis.

The in-depth article on Kotaku and outpouring of other stories from both current and ex-Rioters finally gave me the courage to speak up, despite my concerns about professional or legal ramifications. I should have done this four years ago. I tried to facilitate change while working at Riot and after my departure. I’m hoping the groundswell of voices will now finally cause real, meaningful change within one of the most influential gaming companies in the world.

Two final notes:

To the many good eggs at Riot:  I’ve seen many of your posts. I understand your frustration if you have not been witness to this type of behavior, or experienced it yourself. That being said, you can support your company and the individuals who have come forward. Your anger shouldn’t be directed at the subjects of this abuse and maltreatment, but rather the individuals who perpetuated these acts in the first place. Please keep an eye out for your peers, and hold others accountable for their actions.

To young women hoping to work in gaming: Gaming can be a tough industry, but please don’t let conversations like this drive you away from pursuing your passion. The more we dissect and discuss these situations in a public forum, the more steps we take to making the industry a more inclusive place. As tough as gaming can be, it is equally welcoming and rewarding.

[josephhealan-blog]

Hello, my name is Joseph and I’m a rideshare driver

Like a scared, timid visitor to their first 12 step meeting, I stand here before you reader and declare in front of my higher power and the rest of you my inclusion in the growing population of drivers in the ride share era. I’m not embarrassed by my participation in this new modern phenomenon but you’ll see later in this initial post why I have framed it this way.

I don’t distinguish which company I drive for to protect them from any story I might share that could compromise their reputation. I have personally found them all to be mostly reputable and sometimes a challenge to work with. My journey is what it is and depends very little on which of the firms I am currently working for. I plan on encouraging questions but that’s one I will not answer.

Driving strangers, except for the time I picked up a former boss of mine, around my favorite city has been an amazing experience. If there is a color, gender, profession, age or any other type of human on the planet I’ve had at least one of them in my car. For 47 years I have lived in Atlanta or her suburbs and every shift I drive down a street I’ve never seen before and explore a neighborhood I’d never heard of.

What’s the blog for? Why the introduction that intones embarrassment or shame with this noble profession? I’ll get to that at the end of this inaugural post and I hope to take a deep dive into that very issue over time as well as share some of the odd ball characters and adventures I’ve been on with my riders. I’ve even had nights where I damn near feel like a superhero and plenty of rides I’d consider as some of my proudest performances as a human being.

As of the date of this post I have given 2,623 rides. There’s no count of actual butts in seats but that’s at least 3,000 men, women, children and a few dogs. We are required to carry service animals but a few good old fashioned pets have been along as well. To some that sounds like a lot but to veterans and the earliest drivers that started as soon as Uber came on the scene it’s a drop in the bucket. There are drivers out there now with over 30,000 rides and counting. I share my number not as a brag but as a reference point that I’ll update with future posts. I’ve learned a lot from those veterans at the airport lot, gas stations and the streets of Atlanta. We are everywhere. Pay attention if you never have the next time you stop for gas or visit a busy shopping center at the stickers in the front and back windows of cars.

Why the shame? The shame comes from many places. From society and otherwise wonderful people and from terrible human beings I’ve had the displeasure of driving in my car. I am a mid 40’s white male with a conservative haircut and I look like a typical dad or boss that would be cast on a tv sitcom. In a crowd of rideshare drivers I stand out a bit. I get second looks from riders in West End Atlanta that are not expecting me to show up and I get this question several times a shift, “what do you do for your real job?”. Real job. Driving strangers to new locations in one of our countries worst cities for traffic full of aggressive drivers is a job and one that requires focus, attention and customer service all while making sure you and your companions don’t die. I myself have been a victim of being embarrassed about my side gig, removing my window stickers while visiting someone or going on a job interview. I do not do that anymore.

My “real job” is in Finance and Accounting. I’ve been doing it for over 25 years and I’ll be doing it again as soon as I start a new contract assignment in a few weeks. I’m good at what I do and proud of my career and I’ve had the chance to work for and alongside many amazing people. But compared to my side gig, my “real job” is a piece of cake. Indoors all day, bathroom right there on demand, usually a fridge with food and coffee service. While I am on contract I sometimes drive 2 to 4 nights per week to help pay down bills and between assignments I drive long shifts up to 6 days per week. I can’t sit around at home and drive my wife crazy and I need the extra income to bridge assignments.

One night not long ago I picked up a young woman south of Atlanta in the wee hours of the morning and took her downtown to one of our large hotels. Conversation is not a given, I have a plan for a rider/driver etiquette post in the future, but this young lady was delightful and I appreciated her energy at the beginning of her day to help me get through the end of my day. As we pulled up I inquired about her job there in genuine curiosity, and based on her uniform with the hotel’s logo, I assumed it was a safe question. She very apologetically and quietly told me she was currently working in housekeeping but hoping for a better position soon. Not wanting to let the moment pass but not wanting to slow down her walk into work I said to her, “please don’t ever apologize to me or anyone else about having a hard job. You are up before dawn while others sleep and not only do you have a job with a great well known brand in the hotel industry, you also have ambition and a plan to expand and grow your career.” She smiled very gently, touched my shoulder and said “thanks man”. I’ll probably never see her again but I hope she’s doing well. I took my own advice and stopped apologizing for my job too.

Georgia State University is my alma mater and when school is in full swing the current students along with the other students in Atlanta area schools are heavy rideshare users. Students, from Clark, Spellman, Morehouse, State, Tech, Emory, Gwinnett and even as far north as Kennesaw have been some of my most interesting riders and have renewed my faith in the next generation with their amazing plans for their futures and the unbelievable things they are working on. I believe I’ve probably had a future scientist that will work for NASA and a doctor that will save a child’s life and a teacher that will pass that energy on to another generation of riders, but they’ll probably be in an auto piloted helicopter that will force me to find a new gig.

But not all students have been my favorite. At least one of them is one of my least favorite humans and I hope she will mature and have some life experience that will smooth out some of her sharper edges. It was an after work shift while I was on assignment so I was dressed like an accountant. I picked up two female GSU students for a fairly long ride from their dorm to a restaurant outside of the perimeter, 285 for any non-Atlantans that may one day stumble across this story. They weren’t particularly talkative at first but we started talking about their classes and their dinner plans. As they mentioned their career ambitions after school I shared that I had once in a previous millennia graduated from their school. One of the riders made one more unremarkable comment to close the loop on our polite small talk.

Her friend, however, was apparently unimpressed with me and said in a tone that might have been intended as a whisper but rang through the car like a church bell on a clear afternoon, “went to state and can’t even get a real job”. Her friend audibly gasped at the rudeness that had just been forced on hers and my ears and she reached up and touched my arm beside the seat. Her touch lasted a little too long but did very little to tone down the anger and disgust I was feeling. I had just left my six figure job to drive her to dinner and her absolute dismissal of my side gig of choice was so ignorant and short sighted that it shocked me. I hope she never knows some of the challenges and hurdles that my own choices and the random life changing tornadoes that happen no matter how well you plan that have landed me in a place where one job doesn’t quite make the ends meet. And even in great times I have found myself driving a few times a week to buy something special or extra or just to feel useful while my wife was busy and there weren’t any kids at home. My personal reasons for driving are of absolutely no consequence in relation to her comment and I gave the one and only rating of 1 star to a rider I’ve ever given that day. It means nothing to her and won’t keep her from getting rides in the future but it will keep her out of my car.

As a contract worker I am regularly interviewing for assignments and I am keenly aware of my online reputation. I toyed around with making this blog anonymous for the same reason that rude student was dissatisfied with my career path. But I decided to use my real name for two reasons. For one, if I come to your office for an interview I’ll be rocking my window stickers and I’ll probably be giving rides 5 minutes after I leave. And second, if you share the opinion of that rude student I don’t want to work with you. And I don’t have to. The good people of Atlanta that need a ride will carry me, just as I carry them, until I land a new gig and scale back my shifts.

Enough heavy stuff for now. With so many rides done I have funny stories, scary stories, gross stories and a few that might even be a little R rated. If anyone except my poor wife actually reads this blog, I hope you take away something positive and find it entertaining. If not then thank you tumblr for providing me a space to offload a lot of mental baggage in a way I might share with others one day.

Adios for now. See you in my rearview!

[tnffc]

"They didn't just find out, they already knew!" for some reason this made me giggle?

I’d have loved to see you giggle over this :DI’m finished, finally, it’s not much special but I hope you like it :)Thanks for the prompt Deary

___________________

Stiles was sitting in his car outside Derek’s loft. He was nervous but he knew he had prepared for this as much as he possibly could.

He had worked through the topic so often with so many people by now he should really feel less anxious than he did.

This was just Scott. Well and Allison and Isaac, since Stiles could never have told them and expected they didn’t accidentally or even intentionally pass it on.

Everybody else though knew and would have their back - or if not at least stay out of it.

Lydia of course had found out on her own, so had Danny, curiously enough.

Erica had been actually the happiest when he told her, but she had also been the one who he had talked to about his crush. Boyd had just smiled gently and asked if he was happy.

When Stiles had confirmed that there had been another smile and a warm hug.

Derek had needed a few days to come around to the idea while Cora had just straight up laughed and left the room. He had later gotten a message from her saying she couldn’t wait to start calling him uncle. He already understood why she was Peter’s favorite.

Malia had stayed true to herself by shrugging slightly irritated when Stiles had said he understood if it was weird for her.

“Peter and I are bound to have shared tastes and you and I work a lot better as friends. To me this makes perfect sense. And I am glad you two are helping each other heal.”

He had to admit she had grown into a really amazing person.

He was happy to have her.

Chris had actually caught them off guard in the forest and Peter had almost killed him before they both had realized he wasn’t a stranger hunting for werewolves.

They had him swear to keep his mouth shut and the hunter had told them it wasn’t any of his business to begin with.

His father had been by far the most difficult conversation so far. But Stiles had know his dad would respect his choice and make peace with it.

They had gone through so much as a family, breaking the new he was dating a man almost twice his age who happened to be a werewolf and a resurrected murderer was certainly one of the harder pills to swallow for his old man, but he had handled it pretty well.

They actually had started meeting on friday nights to play cards or watch movies.

Stiles had Peter cook on those nights because he knew the easiest way to endear his father to someone was with food.

And Peter was a master at disguising healthy things so his dad didn’t feel like everything he consumed was monitored. It was, Stiles made sure of it, but his father didn’t need to know that.

Stiles had even gone to the length of establishing a group chat with all Beacon Hills deputies to give them tips what foods to bring in or not. He had also established a callout culture among the deputies so if someone brought something unhealthy and offered it to the Sheriff they were shamed for it.

He’d be damned if he didn’t do everything in his power to keep his father alive.

An endeavor Peter had supported him in rigorously.

Ever the perfect partner.

Thinking about all the other conversations had helped him, at least a little.

So he finally made his way up into Derek’s apartment.

Everybody else was already present.

Scott had called them in for the monster of the week. From the sound of it and the blurry picture Stiles had seen he suspected a spirit of sorts.

Entering the loft he saw Peter sitting comfortably in one of the comfy chairs, listening to something Erica was telling him. She was lying on the couch with her head in Boyd’s lap.

Scott was currently talking to Allison with puppy eyes, probably asking her for the millionth time why she had broken up with him once again.

He looked shortly at Stiles and smiled but stayed sitting next to Allison on the other couch.

Stiles gave a very short twist of the lips and then walked straight to Peter.

Peter, handsome as the devil, no doubt intentionally dressed and groomed for the occasion smiled at him widely and reached out.

Stiles couldn’t help but feel better with that smile and those eyes concentrated on him. Peter was a predator in that he loved to hunt and kill things, he lived the lifestyle of a creature that goes bump in the night, and Stiles had no illusions about it, it was apparent in every fiber of his being. But he was Stiles’ predator and all that dangerous energy was directed towards protecting him.

Even if Scott could not accept Stiles’ choice he’d be fine.

Because he had a wolf that would tear out the throats of those who harmed him and then curl up around him at night to keep him warm and safe and make him feel held and loved.

He took Peter’s hand.

It felt like the easiest most natural thing to sit down in Peter’s lap and greet him with a short, sweet kiss before joining the conversation he had had with Erica.

They couldn’t talk about anything though because there was a very audible “what the FUCK?”

Peter gently squeezed Stiles’ hand since he was still holding it.

Stiles turned to his friend.

“What’s up Scotty?”

“You are sitting in Peter’s lap and being all lovey dovey, that’s up!”

Scott exchanged an incredulous look with Allison who just shrugged and then searched for Lydia’s eyes in hope to understand the strange atmosphere.

Stiles wrapped one arm around Peter’s neck and deliberately made himself comfortable.

“Why shouldn’t I? He is my boyfriend after all.”

Scott stayed confused “Your what?”

“Boyfriend.”

There was a moment of silence in which all that was audible was Lydia quietly whispering to Allison. Then something like hurt washed over Scott’s face.

“You never told me you were gay.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Bi, actually and I did tell you, on several occasions that I also like guys. Sorry I don’t feel like waving a pride flag every day so you don’t put me in the wrong box.”

Scott still seemed to have difficulties.

“But…but Lydia. You never did anything with any guys!”

Stiles could feel Peter’s hand twitch at the way Scott argued the facts but he squeezed back a little to reassure him to stay put.

“No one in school fit my type, except Lydia. Let’s call it smart, snarky assholes with a healthy ego.”

He could see Lydia roll her eyes at that but she stayed silent in favor of nodding to one of Allison’s questions.

Scott furrowed his brows. Then his eyes landed on Peter’s hand, still holding on to Stiles’.

“So you two?”

Stiles snuggled a little more into Peter’s arms.

“Yes.”

Scott seemed pained.

“Why him?”

Peter frowned and spoke for the first time.

“Pretty rude question, don’t you think?”

Stiles was amazed at how ugly despise looked on Scott’s face.

“You are a killer. You are a villain by all accounts and have no positive qualities as far as I can tell so no, I feel like my question is spot on.”

Whoop, that escalated quickly.

Stiles kept his hold on Peter’s hand but was relieved when his boyfriend just chuckled amused, like he had witnessed a pet do a clever trick.

“I don’t see how this is funny!”

Scott was getting agitated and he looked around to get support but didn’t find it.

“How are all of you so calm about this? How are you all okay with this?!?”

Allison was the one to answer.

“They didn’t just find out, they already knew!”

Scott turned to her in confused anger.

“What do you mean?!”

She sighed, like she was tired of his behavior - she probably was.

“Look at them Scott. They all found out or were told at some point in the past. They all made their peace with it. As far as I can tell Stiles and Peter make a pretty good couple actually.”

She smiled at them both and Stiles had to admit maybe he hadn’t given her enough credit. She had her flaws, without a doubt, but she wasn’t clueless and obviously had grown as well.

“Thank you” he said and Peter actually relaxed enough to let go of Stiles’ hand and instead place it loosely on Stiles’ thigh.

Scott’s shoulders sacked.

As always Allison was the only one who’s words got through to him.

That was a real problem they had to address at some point in the future.

He frowned at them again.

“I don’t like this, but I can see you have everybody else convinced. I need to…I need to go.”

And with that he left the loft without talking about the spirit or whatever they had seen.

When he was gone the atmosphere got more relaxed and Isaac came to them, looking like  he wasn’t sure what to say or even think.

But he nodded vaguely and smiled a shy smile before mumbling something and going back to sitting in a corner close to Derek.

“What did he say?” Stiles asked Peter.

The man smiled “He said ‘congrats’. I think he wants us to know he approves, but didn’t know what to say.”

Stiles nodded “Poor kid has made a lot of progress but still needs a lot of love and care…”

Before Peter could say something again Erica flopped down on the end of the couch close to them.

“What do you think Scott will do? He will get over it at some point, right?”

Stiles sighed deeply.

“I’d guess he’s running to Deaton to ask him how he can proof Peter brainwashed me.”

Peter chuckled again.

“Good thing then we had Deaton authenticate our mating bond.”

Stiles nodded.

“Finally the fucking cryptic jerkass was good for something…”

Erica grinned “Too true.”

[sunshowers-and-sunflowers]

I tried to write about love

I posted this piece on fet and some man told me to “Go fishing and talk to someone” but the joke is on him bc I HATE fishing.

Admittedly I did come in hot...I tried to clean it up for tumblr so it doesn’t get taken down. TW: mentions of abuse and toxic relationships, blood and consensual acts of harm. Oh and suic*de

One of the only reasons I haven’t killed myself is because I know love is real.

 If I had never experienced it, I might have ended my own suffering. But every day I wake up and I remember what it felt like to be in love. And I can’t die when there is a possibility, I could feel that way again.

 I love a lot of people. Actively and passively every single day.

My platonic love is overwhelming. It’s a bright orange, like creamsicles with the soft pale-yellow swirl. It is messages asking about your day. It is always paying for lunch. It is a text exactly one hour after you left asking if you made it home safely. It is a warm blanket draped over you while you fall asleep watching a movie with me. It is a warm hand placed on your arm accompanied by the warmest most sincere smile I can muster. It is holding you while sobs rack your body and you shiver in my arms. It is absorbing your punches as you scream their name, pound my chest and curse. It is slowly rubbing circles with my thumb while we hold hands. It is carrying napkins, tissues, chapstick, change, extra sunglasses and a snack at all times. Just in case you need it. It is sending you positive encouraging messages reassuring you of your brilliance. It is four-hour long phone calls while you talk, and I nod along even though you can’t see my face. It is a handmade card for your birthday even though we’re nearly 23. It is remembering your parents, grandparents and siblings’ names. It is a soft kiss planted on your forehead. Rustling your hair. Laughing until I cry even though your joke definitely was not that funny. It is playing the same three songs when you get in my car because I know you like them. It is being the voice of reason. Reminding you to study instead of go out. There is no scolding, but a silent disappointment when you make the “wrong” decision. It is a heavy sigh when you tell me about repeated behavior that is causing you pain. It is a firm but gentle nudge forward towards your dreams. It is holding you accountable for your actions. It is forgiving you. Your favorite words fall into my vocabulary and when I catch them coming out of my mouth I can’t help but smile and think of you. It is seeing your favorite things and texting you a picture. It is searching for the perfect meme that I know you’ll love. It’s spending too much money on gifts and wanting to spoil you with material items because I am not good at expressing my love with words. It is a privilege to be by your side and watch you grow. It can be intense, but it is always soft.

 My familial love is a dark purple, the deepest color in a bruise. It is beauty even when there is pain. It is picking up after you. It is cooking your favorite meal and dropping it off at your house. It is calling you and hearing the same things I have heard since childhood. It is listening to the same story I have heard one hundred times but smiling and nodding along anyways. It is staring at old photos of us for too long. It is sneaking my cousins their favorite snacks. And not scolding them when they curse. And laughing at their stories. And never letting them win card games. It is ice cream during the hot summer. It is kissing their heads and whispering I love you and I can’t believe how big you’re getting. It is saying “I remember the day you were born” and choking up with tears. It is knowing I’d give the world to them if I could. It is holding my grandmother’s hand. Running my fingers through her hair. Listening to my grandfather talk about the Army, and every job he’s ever had. It’s remembering how he let me play games at the carnival even though I never won anything. It’s forgiveness. Forgiveness for all the things I needed that you could not provide. Forgiveness for the raising of voices, the breaking of dishes and the hurling of insults. It is never sharing how I felt as a child, because I know it would break you. It’s sitting in silence and watching HGTV with my father for five hours. It is sweeping his floors, and helping him fold laundry because I worry, he won’t do it without my help. It is watching TV with my mother even though she pauses the show and stretches a 30-minute show into almost 2 hours. It’s sitting down on the couch, and then being immediately asked to grab something and doing it anyways. It is birthday cards, and Christmas cards, and even Easter cards every single year. It is the soft rays of an early morning drive. It is the swelling in my chest when I remember you are all human. It is feeling satisfied, but still sad, that you tried your best and it was not enough.

Then there is the love that drives me. But I guess there isn’t just one.

The soft yellow, a warm ray of light slipping through the blinds. Looking straight at the sun and smiling.

The waking up at 11 am on a Sunday, limbs tangled, light spilling into the room, a barely audible hum and a feeling of peace. It is making chocolate chip pancakes with smiley faces that exist for ten minutes at most before you devour them. It is reaching across the table with a napkin to wipe your face. It is grabbing onto your forearm in public when I am scared. It is the intertwining of feet at the dinner table. It is grocery shopping together and running with the cart. It is laughing so hard that people start to stare. It is watching your favorite movie 100 times and not complaining once. It is waiting to watch the next episode of tv with you even though I’m dying to find out what happens. It is leaving love notes in your lunch. Or on the bathroom mirror. Or the refrigerator. It is sending you snapchats of ugly faces because I know it makes you laugh. It is standing on my tip toes begging for a kiss. It is holding hands while we eat dinner. It is waking up at 3 am and looking at your face, so moved by your existence that I start to cry.

 Then there’s an apple green.

Riding carnival rides and screaming together. Carving pumpkins and one of us definitely cuts our finger. It is singing karaoke and neither of us knows the chorus. It is pulling your pants down as you cut an apple in the kitchen but as I run away, I run into the wall. It is buying dinosaur band aids because I know you will love them. It is rolling the windows down and driving far over the speed limit while we both scream into the inky night. It is driving at the dead of night; darkness surrounds me and your snoring is so loud I cannot hear the radio. It is being horribly drunk in public, and I warn you about getting sick, but you keep drinking and we end up in the bathroom, me holding your hair back while you spill your guts. It is loud electronic music in a club as we flail our bodies around. Your face looks so good in neon flashing lights. It is doing dishes together and accidently flicking soap on you. It is the time I dumped noodles in a soap covered drainer and you never let me live it down. It is being sprawled out on the couch while you play video games, I scream at the TV pointing out all of your enemies as they shoot you dead. It is being selfish and not pausing the show even though you fell asleep 20 minutes ago. It is your morning breath that I can taste but don’t care because I have to kiss you as soon as I wake up. It is when you force me to cut your hair and my hands shake terribly but I am so moved by your trust in me. It is when you make me try new food and I hate it so you eat it all. It is anger when you say you don’t want any fries and then proceed to eat all of mine, but I don’t say anything. It is playing hide and seek in the aisles like we are children, not held down my societal expectations. It is holding back all the “I told ya sos”. It’s the absolute chaos sharing your life with another person brings. But god I’d take all the chaos in the world as long as you’re by my side.

There’s a lilac color. Like lavender.

It is so similar to platonic love. Picking up after you, seeing things and thinking of you, trying my best to make you happy. But it is different. It is running my fingers through your hair absentmindedly. It is leaving lipstick kisses all over your face. It is doing your laundry because it saves time. It is telling you my fears and hopes for the future. It is kissing all the spots on your body that you aren’t ready to love. It’s holding your hand when you try new things. It is listening to your hopes and dreams. It is encouraging you to be who you are inside. It is picking up your habits and being amazed when I catch myself doing them. It’s slipping your name into conversation with other people. It is laying on freshly cleaned sheets and listening to your heartbeat. It is our fingers intertwined during a nap. It’s getting used to your little quirks. It is finishing each other’s sentences. It is knowing your standard Chinese food order. It is going to corporate Christmas parties and watching you interact with all your co-workers as I stand in the corner. It is running a thumb across your lips. It is familiarity and comfort.

Then there’s a deep red. Like dried blood flecks on my face.

It’s the screaming and crying and shaking because I need you to understand me, but you just can’t seem to. It’s the splitting my knuckles on the wall that I punch out of frustration, and you gently wash my hands and bandage them in silence. It is the awkward silence when I meet your family and they just don’t seem to like me. It’s the pain that shoots across your face when they ask me “So what are you?”. It’s being curled in a ball on our bed, desperately sniffing your shirts because I haven’t seen you in days. It’s the white-hot pain that shoots through my body when your fist connects with my jaw. It’s the absence of air in my lungs, and the audible struggling as your fingers squeeze the life from me. It’s wearing pants in the summer because I can’t let anyone see all the bruises you’ve left on my thighs. It’s the strands of your hair, ripped from your head and grasped tightly in my fingers as you leave bite marks all over my body. It’s the slightest hint of blood on your back as my nails dig into your skin. It’s the sound of flesh hitting flesh in my car parked in an abandoned lot. It’s my backseat being covered in white and red fluid, clashing against my tan carpet. It is the smell of sweat. It is stained sheets. It is screaming into the void with you by my side, but not being sure what we’re screaming about.

It can be confusing. When it’s crying your name out. When it’s begging you to hurt me. When it’s feeling empty when I’m not with you. When it’s chains and shackles. When it’s warm breath pleading “Take the pain for me”. When it’s being covered in bruises. When it’s shaking uncontrollably when I’m with you. When it’s flinching when you go to touch me. When it’s crying in my room because you aren’t there. When you are all I can think about. It is a slightly metallic smell. Slightly off-putting but also intoxicating too.

But I know for sure what it isn’t.

It’s not emptying my first aid kit every month because we just seem to run through bandages like it’s nothing. It’s not sweeping up broken glass from our living floor. It’s not sweeping up pieces of ceramic in the kitchen. It’s not the smell of bleach as I scrub the spots of blood from the bathroom floor. It’s not the heat radiating from my cheeks as you humiliate me in public, in front of your friends because I dared to suggest you needed assistance in any form. It’s not crying. So many tears. It’s not waking up at 2 am to an empty bed. It’s not doing our laundry alone because you have worked 10 days straight. It’s not looking in the mirror and not recognizing who is looking back. It’s not cursing and screaming and crying and pulling away. It’s not knocking glasses off of tables as I run from you. It’s not waking up at 12 am to greet you as you come home from your closing shift, but finding you on the couch, talking to someone else through your headset. It’s not unanswered text messages. It’s not boiling water washing over me as I sit curled into a ball in our shower. It’s not wearing headphones and blasting music for a single second of peace. It is not our apartment filled with the sounds of chewing because we have nothing to say over dinner. It is not constant pain. It is not constant fear. It is not fearing for my safety.

I live every day because I think I might get to see the soft hazy yellows, or the bright candy apple greens. But the fear of rusty reds keeps me alone. It drives me to pull back from every encounter. It plants seeds of doubt in me.

And so, I settle.

I dream of those colors, while isolating myself. I consume literature and media that paints with such pretty colors. But me? I can’t imagine ever picking up a paint brush again.

And so I long for something I will never pursue.

I live knowing love is possible but not willing to risk it all again. Only to be left bloody, bruised and alone.

I’ve got no problem with blood, or bruises. But being alone while someone out there knows every inch of me?

I’d rather not.

[lunamanar]

1011

So. Hey. 

Some thoughts I’m having right now. 

I’m staring at the list of people who follow me. I’m thinking, “I know so few of you.” I’m thinking about research that says we can only really “know” and keep track of something around 120 people before we literally start to forget our friends. 

It kind of hurts. I’m thinking about feeling invisible, disposable, and how often I’ve warred against exactly those feelings. I remember a lot of destructive things I did because I didn’t know what would actually work. I turned away, I stopped talking. I thought, ‘if they’re going to forget me, there’s no point in staying.’ I wondered what it was I was doing so wrong, how unimpressive I must be, to put so much into something I love and then show it to the world only to hear nothing for an answer. I remember pushing through and trying again. I remember, over time, gaining a small audience, and thinking, maybe, if I just kept working, maybe something I did would actually matter enough to move people to discussion, to be talked about when I wasn’t there anymore. I wanted to do something worth remembering. I wanted to think, if I left, I’d be missed. 

Seems like such a strange thing to want. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to hear that I was known. Or more specifically, that my creations were meaningful to a large group of people, or to one person with a broader reach than I could ever have. I wanted to be recommended, for what I wrote to be cherished and persistent. I wanted that feeling, so I could validate my own attachment to that work, to help me overcome the sharp doubt that anything coming out of my mouth or typed from my hands into a text field held value. 

I was struggling with two beasts in my mind tearing pieces of “I’m brilliant!” and “No one cares!” from the bloody mess of my self-image. 

I was catching breaths every time a review notification showed up in my e-mail, punching my desk every time it was a one-line message on par with “nice story” or “you made a typo.” Someone would link me to an author whose writings regularly got upwards of 60 comments, many of which were paragraphs long, and I’d spend the rest of the night playing video games or writing angrily, trying to figure out why I kept coming back. I was this tiny voice trying to get through a cacophony of other tiny voices and a few people with megaphones. 

I didn’t need to be the greatest. I just wanted to be audible, and visible. I wanted to be associated with this thing we were all circling, and more generally, I wanted to be associated with the ideas I put forward, whether or not they had anything to do with the subject of a given fandom. 

I remember wondering what “popular” people did with their “numbers.” I saw a lot of them organizing events, running contests, doing panels at conventions. 

I was on one of those, a couple of times at Otakon. It wasn’t because I was well-known; compared to the other panelists, I was nothing. I was there because my friend happened to be running the panel and asked if I wanted the empty seat left behind by a panelist who had called out sick. I said yes. 

It was weird. I had a really good time. I had a good stage presence and I was pretty quick, funny and I engaged the crowd along with the other authors. I felt, for the first time, hey--maybe I’m not just a loser who can’t write worth a damn. 

Then it was over, and I watched as people lined up to get things signed by the other authors, and no one came to me at all. You may be brilliant--and no one cares. 

Well...except one person. I remember him as “Green Notebook Guy” because he apologized for not having anything for me to sign except the notebook he’d brought with him. I signed it blindly, and listened to him thank me. He’d come to the panel just to hear me talk. He liked the things I’d put up on FFN and that had gotten onto RPGamer (this was 2001, I think) and was very eager to read more. If he told me his name, I don’t remember. I was too busy trying to restart my heart, to process the fact that anyone came up to me at all. 

He was the only one. I think about him a lot. Green Notebook Guy might not even remember me now, but he was someone who, for years, I used to invalidate “no one cares.” He cared enough to meekly come up to my seat on the stage and ask for a momento from me, like what I was doing meant something. 

Well, I thought, maybe I’m not recognized by the “popular” people, but hell, Green Notebook Guy cares. And if he’s still paying attention, if even one other Notebook Person is reading, then what I’m doing matters. 

There were other events in my life that encouraged me to throw off No One Cares, but that one stands out. Just...this one acknowledgement from one person who I never saw again. Sometimes I think the fact it was a stranger is part of what made it so powerful. 

There are a lot of accounts following mine. More than I could ever befriend. A lot of them are abandoned, I’m sure several are here for the reblogs and artwork I signalboot, and some of them are probably bots. But even accounting for those, there are a lot of actual people--strangers--who have more than a passing interest in what I have to say and the idea always floors me. It’s so unusual, so not how most of my life has been, it’s difficult for me to parse as being something real. 

But I have numbers to back up the facts. So I try to remind myself, from time to time. Read through every name, from people who followed hours ago all the way back to my first follow (a friend who no longer uses tumblr). I try to wrap my head around it, and appreciate it. I try not to take it for granted. 

I don’t know how I come off to those followers, reader, or even the friends I’ve made...if I’m pegged as “popular,” or just another FFVIII fan. I don’t know how well-known I am. But I am known, and that’s enough. I have what I wanted, years ago. 

And then, there are days I still feel invisible. I forget, somehow, how to participate. Those days, it’s easy to forget the numbers. I think of other people with bigger numbers and imagine how quickly I could be erased if just one of them decided they didn’t like me. It paralyzes me, some nights, nights like tonight, the idea of all these people who watch me, just shrugging me off. I imagine how that might happen. I’m terrified of going stale. I’m afraid my ramblings come off as tired, annoying, or conceited. More than anything, I’m scared of making other people feel like I felt when I was in my early 20s...lost in the noise. 

In 2015 (I think?) I did a thing where I called out pretty much every follower and told them what they did for me, or at least acknowledged their presence if I had no idea who they were or why they were here. I remember how many people were just happy they were noticed. I remember how, at the same time, I was happy to have brightened their day, and how sad I was to remember the sort of headspace where being noticed at all by someone I respected or even a stranger was something I’d pined after. 

I did something similar with the Things I Try to Remember When I’m Nervous About Writing post, and received a similar response. I keep myself up at night trying to think of ways to combat this phenomenon. I made an FFVIII Discord, and that’s been wonderful. We rebooted @timblr-maniacs, and that’s been great, too. I’ve seen a lot of people who I’ve never seen before start speaking up and sharing, making connections and being seen. If I can imagine I had any hand in that, it makes me feel really good. Like I did something good. 

Everyone has a story to tell, something to say. Even if you aren’t a writer, or an artist, even if you’re just someone who reblogs everything, you need social capital as badly as the next person. I think the days I’m the most lonely and frightened are the days I feel I’m not paying it forward, where I worry there’s no good way of doing so.

I guess...I’m not sure what the point of this post is. I’m trying to solve a problem in my head that might not really be solvable; the problem that, as you make connections with people and develop an audience, a rift inevitably begins to form between you and that audience. Your experience, as someone who is more visible, differs from the experience of those who are not. And you can’t befriend every single person, it’s physically, neurologically impossible. 

But...if you are reading this, and you’re someone who feels unseen, who has no “Green Notebook Guy,” who thinks I wouldn’t care about you because we’ve never talked and I seem out of reach, or you feel like there are other people you want to communicate with who are out of reach, too popular, etc...I guess, tell me about it. Send an ask, or a message, leave a comment, anything. Tell me what you’d like to see from such out-of-reach people, what would encourage you, what you want to know or hear to feel like you aren’t lost in the noise, to keep yourself going. Because it is worth pressing on, but fuck knows I’ve been there, wondering why. 

I’m asking both because I’m curious, because I want to know where my own blind spots are, and because I’m thinking about Green Notebook Guy, selfishly, wondering where he is. I feel ineffectual, and I’m coping by trying to do something that matters. I’m not even sure what. 

[dreamshapers-universe]

14 30 55 :D

Thanks for playing! :D All three under the cut :D

14. “They’re so cutewhen they’re asleep.”

“Awww”, Pattywhispered as she stood in the doorway, Abby right next to her, the researchersmiling, as well, “look at ‘em. All peaceful and in dreamland. I didn’t thinkI’d ever see Holtzy so quiet and snuggly.”

Abby nodded heragreement, already pulling out her phone; she made sure that the camerawouldn’t make sound, then took a picture, capturing the image of Erin lying onher back and Holtzmann halfway on top of her, both of them sleeping deeply,Holtzmann snoring just loud enough to have it be audible, Abby somewhat amusedto see a bit of drool trickle from the corner of her mouth and onto Erin’schest.

If anyone had told Erin a year ago that she’d shareher bed with a woman like that and let her drool on her, she would have calledthem crazy, Abby thought to herself,smiling, making sure that she had taken a good picture before she put her phoneaway.

“They’re so cutewhen they’re asleep”, she whispered to Patty, earning a bright smile and a nod,the historian holding back a snicker at what the smaller woman said next, “toobad we have to wake them up.”

She took in adeep breath, giving them a few more seconds – before she started yelling on topof her lungs, drowning out Patty’s snickering.

“RISE AND SHINELOVEBIRDS”, Abby yelled, “RISE AND SHINE!”

“Argh!” Erin letout, not quite articulate yet; Holtzmann had no such problems, shooting up intoa sitting position and yelling “SHIT”, prompting both Abby and Patty to burstout laughing.

“Okay”, Pattysaid once she had calmed down enough to talk, unperturbed by how both Erin andHoltzmann glared at her, “you two are adorable, and you know Abby and I meanthat, but… no more nightshifts for the two of you together. Clearly, you didnot stay awake all night.”

Erin blushed andcleared her throat, while Holtzmann just smirked and shrugged; Abby and Pattyshook their head in perfect unison, then let them know that breakfast was readydownstairs and left them to get ready, Erin’s blush fading as her eyes metHoltzmann’s – before they both started to giggle and fell back onto to the bedto snuggle a few more minutes, both of them agreeing that this was the best wayto start the day.

 30. “Be you. No one else can.”

Ghostbusters – Fact or Fiction?

The headline hascaught Erin’s eye when she’s been out to get lunch with Abby, and it made herstomach clench; she knows that a lot of people know they are not frauds, therehave been hundreds of eyewitnesses for what happened in Times Square and thepeople of New York lit up their windows for them afterwards, spelling out messagesof love and support, she knows all this.

She knows allthis, but reading an article which speculates about all four of them beingfrauds still hurts, and while she has gotten better about her need to havepeople accept her – having true, real friends, a true family for the first time, certainly has helped with that – it stillmakes her anxieties flare.

She also knowsthat she shouldn’t read the article, that it’s only going to upset her, but shedoes it anyway; and while the article doesn’t outright call them frauds, itspeculates a bit too much for her liking, and she’s quite dismayed and upset bythe time she finishes reading.

“Oh, paper”,Holtzmann’s voice distracts her from these thoughts, and she flashes back tothe last time she heard Holtzmann say that, shortly after she’s punched thatannoying blogger guy; she’s left back then, Erin remembers, for a while, butshe’s come back, and thinking about this makes her realize that she’s notregretting that she came back, even when she has to read such things about hercolleagues and herself.

“What a dumbheadline”, the engineer says, glaring at said headline as if she could make itchange by just looking at it strictly enough, her gaze turning concerned thoughwhen she looks up at Erin again, “you didn’t read that, did you.”

“Of course I did”,Erin sighs, and Holtzmann grimaces, “they’re not outright slandering us, butthey do wonder if ghosts are real or if we made it all up. Conveniently ignoringthe eyewitness accounts from Times Square, of course.”

“Of course”,Holtzmann echoes, shaking her head before she tosses the paper back onto thedesk, “come on Er-Bear, don’t let this get to you. I know that’s easier saidthan done, but… These guys, the people who write articles like that, and who’dslander us on the internet, they’re not worth our nerves and anger.”

“I know”, Erinsays with another sigh, then corrects herself, “well, part of me knows. But…there’s another, louder part, perhaps the one which was in control when Iabandoned Abby and for such a long time after that… the part which wants to fitin, be seen as respectable, a proper scientist, as… normal and sane. And… if Ishut that part up, I’m not even sure I’ll know who I am anymore, it’s been soloud for so much of my life…”

“You’ll still beyou, even if you don’t listen to that part anymore”, Holtzmann reassures her,and is glad when she smiles weakly in reply, “and who you are is perfect, Erin,all the parts of you. If you start worrying about who you are, just… beyourself. No one else can, and it’s more than enough. Way more.”

“Thank you”,Erin says, choking up a bit, only now realizing how much she’s needed to hearthat; she reaches out to grasp Holtzmann’s hand, and when she feels theengineer’s fingers curl around hers, her doubts and troubles vanish into thinair.

Perhaps, shethinks to herself as Holtzmann finally pulls back and changes the topic byasking what Erin wants for lunch, soon, she’ll have the courage to truly beherself, and show Holtzmann that one part of her which no one has ever seenbefore.

55. “You’re a nerd.”

“I guess we won’tget any dough for this one, huh.” Holtzmann’s assessment after they took careof a baker’s ghost and he’d been fighting them by throwing ghostly loaves ofbread and donuts at them.

“Guess that wasa sweeping success.” After a ghostly cleaning lady had tried to whack them withher equally ghostly broom.

“Think we can tire him out?” During the bust of a usedcar salesman, his weapon arsenal having consisted of tire irons and wrenches.

“Well, that hita sour note.” A ghostly musician, attacking them with a guitar and withdrumsticks.

When they takeon a ghostly lumberjack who fights them with an axe and a chainsaw, they alllook at Holtzmann once he has been taken care of, but she just shrugs, andsmiles.

“I got nothing”,she then announces, and Erin raises an eyebrow; she would have thought that a lumberjackwould be quite inspiring for Holtzmann’s endless puns, but apparently, hergirlfriend has an off day.

“Well”, she thusspeaks up, not wanting the bust to end without an appropriate pun, “guess henever saw us coming.”

“Oh my God”,Holtzmann snorts, while Abby and Patty groan – here they’d been thinking thatfor once, there would be no pun, and now, Erin was starting with that, too, asif Holtz had rubbed off on her, “that was funny. And awful. And funny. You’re anerd, Gilbert.”

“Yeah, but I’myour nerd”, Erin points out, making the engineer beam brightly and nod; theyshare a brief kiss, then Holtzmann grabs the trap in which the lumberjack hasbeen stored and they had back to the firehouse, yet another job done.

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[trulycertain]

the light of day

Because it’s the Inquisition, and apparently everyone has an opinion (a.k.a. the companions are idiots with no sense of boundaries). Fluff.

Dorian wakes wondering why he’s wrapped in an extra blanket - he’s been meaning to requisition one, they aren’t in the hotter months yet and the Plains can be cold - until he realises that said blanket is actually an astonishingly warm, asleep man. He doesn’t particularly mind. This far south, he’ll take any heat he can get. He absentmindedly examines one of the arms around his waist, plucks at Gal’s sleeve with half-conscious curiosity, and touches the hand that’s glowing slightly in the dim light.

He’s certain they started out with separate bedrolls, or at least nominally separate ones. He wonders when the gap was closed, but considering it in any more detail would require proper thought, and for now he’s quite happy to enjoy the haze. He lies there, on the edge of sleep and thinking in circles, until he finds himself closing his eyes and savouring the feeling. It’s far too comfortable, and it shouldn’t be.

He extricates himself as gently as possible, shifting and rolling over. It’s an art, leaving without waking a bed partner, and really he should be finding his leathers and his gear. But he glances at Gal, and for some reason he lingers.

In the silence, he allows himself a moment without pretence. He finds himself watching Gal sleep and wondering how he found himself here with this strange southern Inquisitor - or this odd, quiet man with warm hands and such terrible bravery. In the early half-light, he allows the thoughts to creep in. Some part of him is still waiting for the turning away; waiting for the convenient, polite excuses and the moment it’s understood that he’s simply too much trouble to deal with, a minor stain on the Inquisitor’s reputation. That Gal may want him but the Herald of Andraste can’t afford such diversions. He wonders whether he’d be able to smile through it, or whether he’d try to fight it, to hold Gal to the sweet words and murmured promises.

He wonders how he became so thoroughly ensnared, and what he expects. Perhaps it’s been so long that he’s no longer sure what to do with a man who stays until the morning. Or a man who seems to want to declare this fragile entanglement to the world, who seems proud of it. Of… him. He’s grown used to vain hope; the thought that it may not be in vain has an allure that frightens him.

He’ll never learn. He’ll get his heart broken, and he’ll have welcomed it.

Even with the tattoos and the day’s worth of stubble, there’s a softness to Gal’s face in sleep, and for a moment Dorian can’t understand how anyone could find this man fearsome. Gal’s brow creases, a frown growing on his face, as if he’s dogged by worries even in the Fade.

Before he can think better of it, Dorian reaches out a hand and brushes away the hair that’s fallen into Gal’s face, then touches that tattooed brow, attempts to smooth away the tension in it. He finds his fingers following those curious lines of ink, and he wonders how and when they were designed.

Gal’s eyes blink open, and he looks at Dorian in surprise.

Ah. Dorian freezes. “Can we pretend I have a little more dignity than this?” He attempts to take back his hand.

Gal only smiles and catches it. “I don’t know. Think I like the lack of it.”

Gal tugs on his hand, and Dorian finds himself being reeled in until he’s once again wrapped in scarred, strong arms, his hand placed firmly on Gal’s waist. He says sardonically, “You don’t have a morning meeting, do you?”

Gal laughs, low and husky. “Not this morning.”  

Dorian remembers the others having a bet on whether Gal could ever smile; troops speaking in nervous tones about the silent, frightening Herald and wondering whether Andraste had made a mistake. He finds that more than ever, he’s glad he ignored the lot of them and relied instead upon what he’d seen in a rift-torn Chantry.

“Oh?” he says, playing at lightness. “No soldiers deciding they need to have a look at the Herald of Andraste?”

“None.” Gal squints and says, voice rough with sleep, “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

He hmphs. “I look like I spent yesterday trudging through a battlefield. Still, there’s no accounting for taste.” He runs his hand along Gal’s side, feeling the heat of skin underneath roughspun wool and wondering if all Marcher men are furnaces, and then raises it. He traces Gal’s cheekbone with his thumb and touches one of those damnable dimples.

Gal mumbles something that might be, “Still look like you.”

Dorian runs his palm over stubble that almost obscures some of the tattoos, gently turning Gal’s head and examining him. “And you need to shave, before you frighten the Orlesians. As do I, come to think of it.” They’ve been on the road too long. They’re beginning to lose all traces of civilisation.

Gal just grins. “What d’you think the tattoos are for?”

There’s a flapping of canvas, and they look to see if there’s been a sudden invasion of undead. Instead they hear, “Oi, you two - “ There’s a small silence, and then… “I bloody knew it!” Sera cackles, bolting out of the tent.

Dorian mutters, “What have we unleashed?”

Gal just sighs. “Leave her to it. She’ll tire herself out.”

Sera’s practically dancing; it’s somehow audible. They can hear her say to the camp at large, “Guess who went to wake our Herald up and found him in bed with Ser Fancypants?”

Varric sounds wry. “Sera, they share a tent pretty often.”

“Not like this they don’t. They were all sappy and… snuggling and that.”

And that’s that. There’s only so much his pride can take. Dorian takes himself from a thoroughly tempting bedroll and grabs his pack. “Flagrant lies,” he responds, ducking out of the tent.

Varric sighs, but he’s grinning. “Come on, Sparkler, we all figured it out months ago.”

He sniffs disdainfully, sitting by the fire and rifling through his gear. Soap, where did he put the soap… “There wasn’t much to figure out months ago.”

He hears a sigh and a muffled curse from the tent, and a rustling. Well, at least he’ll soon have backup.

Sera says, “Well, Varric did. Mostly Cassandra thought he kept taking you along because Vivienne hated him and Solas was boring, then I said it was cause you were a laugh and he liked your arse.”

“It was because he’s our best battlemage,” Gal says from behind him.

Dorian looks up and raises a surprised brow. He’s never been called modest, but this had escaped his notice.

Gal looks back at him. “You’re still standing when I’m on my back.”

Dorian pauses, ignoring the flutter of flattered surprise in his chest, and remarks, “There are so many comments that come to mind. I’ve no idea where to start.”

He’s still waiting for the hasty denial of any improper connections, something, but he’s also beginning to realise that it won’t come. Instead Gal’s just looking at him with that quiet, infectious warmth that makes him want to smile in response. The attention feels a little like being in the sun; it’s the sort that’s tempting to bask in. Gal’s looking for all the world as if he’d like to just lean over and kiss -

Dorian shakes himself from that thought, making sure it hasn’t shown on his face.

Gal sits next to him and adds, “Though you are a laugh.” Gal passes over something small and wrapped in paper. “Found this with my gear. Think it was an accident.”

Dorian takes it, unwrapping... the soap. “Ah. Thank you.” He ignores Sera and Varric’s conspicuous smirking. “Normally I’m better at this sort of thing.”

“You were dead on your feet. We all were.”

“Unwise to say such things to a necromancer. Or, indeed, when the dead are on their feet.”

Gal huffs a laugh, and Sera mutters, “Urrrghhh,” with an audible shudder.

How odd. Dorian thinks he’s starting to get his cheer back. “In fact, with the Veil torn to shreds and all the strange magic floating around, it’s a wonder we haven’t been pounced upon by undead already. They could arrive at any moment. Don’t assume we’ll be warned, either.”

Sera mutters something that isn’t quite audible. It seems to involve muffled cursing.

He carefully examines the contents of his pack, and continues, “I’m told they have a particular fondness for archers. They make lean meat.”

“Ugh. Now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

He allows his smile through. “Absolutely.” He adds, “Now, at least one of us should bathe, before the Inquisition gains a reputation.” He gets to his feet and heads for the nearest river, preparing for his morning ablutions to be… bracing. He thinks longingly of linen sheets, hot springs and sleeping without shambling skeletons around every corner.

“But I was right about you two,” he hears Sera say.

“We were conserving warmth,” Gal replies. “Can’t have my team dying of cold.”

Varric snickers. “Yeah, sure. I’m not about to argue with the mighty Inquisitor. I’m just freaked out by seeing you smile so much. I keep looking behind me for dead demons.”

Gal makes that low laugh - the sort that means the joke wasn’t particularly funny, but he’s happy enough that he’d probably let a stab wound slide, and even the tattoos aren’t enough to make him look menacing. He’s probably doing that silent, wide beam that makes him look like the slightly toothy star of a romance novel cover.

And, Dorian realises, he’s missing it. Shortly afterwards, he realises he’s unduly bothered by that.

Dammit.

Varric continues, “Seems like your… thing makes you happy.”

“Very,” Gal says. “He’s… It’s good.” He cuts himself off quickly, but it’s interesting to consider what he might have said. And the disgustingly bright-eyed look that’s probably on his face, and the fact that he’s only feet away, and they have a (somewhat) free morning -

Dorian inhales, tries not to kick himself, and turns on his heel, striding across camp. He clears his throat and says to a surprised Gal, “My apologies, but I’ve remembered an urgent matter we must discuss. In private, if possible.”

Sera cackles. Varric’s eyebrows threaten to abandon his forehead altogether. Dorian ignores them both.

Gal’s recovery is admirable. He manages, “I… Yes.” He gets to his feet more hastily than is entirely proper.

Dorian puts a hand on his arm, and says as they start to walk away together, “You still need to shave. As I said: it’s urgent.”

Gal watches him levelly. “And that’s all?”

Dorian grins, and makes sure to catch Gal’s eye. “It’s not the only reason.”

Gal beams at him. Dorian thinks that it’s exactly as sappy as he expected. He looks over his shoulder to where Sera appears to be giving him the… thumbs-up? and Varric is carefully absorbed in writing notes, and somehow, the fear he’s been bracing himself for is now nowhere to be found.

It’s good, he remembers Gal saying.

He looks into Gal’s eyes, feels the frankly idiotic smile on his own face, and thinks, Yes, it is.

Perhaps he can have this.

[angstbotfic]

Fic: Ak’tephari Prophecy Ch 45

Read at AO3

It was almost three hours later when Emma arrived at the rendezvous point with Merlin in tow. It was a little risky leaving the city together, but Emma felt better riding with him. She did feel a little bad for him having to endure her foul mood, though. She just couldn’t believe that Robin, who she’d known since almost before she could walk, would be so awful, and alternated between being furious with him for being gropey, being furious with him for almost ruining the plan, and being furious with herself for trusting him.

It didn’t help that they had to search for half an hour before finding the others, sending Emma’s anxiety ramping up again. They had agreed to meet on a small hill with an interesting rock formation that was a local landmark, but the area was big. Emma audibly sighed in relief when she finally saw Henry and Regina sitting and sharing some bread and cheese, with Regina’s bow close by her side.

The sight of Regina made Emma ache to hold her, and even though she couldn’t tell if it was jealousy over Robin touching her or pure worry for her safety, when she dismounted she didn’t hesitate. The way Regina melted against her told her she’d needed it as well.

When they pulled back, Regina frowned at Emma’s swollen nose, and Emma just shrugged. "Everything ok?" she asked, looking between them.

Henry smiled and nodded, and Regina’s raised eyebrow showed that she had noticed Emma changing the subject, but she didn’t push it, instead helping her care for Bug while Henry helped Merlin with his horse.

“Shall we look at our ill-gotten gains, then?” Merlin asked when they finished.

They gathered around as Regina emptied the bag gingerly onto a saddle blanket. Now that she wasn’t distracted by the stress of trying to steal it, Emma felt the magic in it tingling just at the edges of her senses. Merlin went to reach for the piece but stopped himself, fishing out the notes that he and Regina had taken at the Eyad. The others watched while he inspected the piece both with his fingertips and magically. He paused every few moments to make more notes.

After many long minutes, he confirmed, “I believe we have secured the piece of the Orb,” and Emma heard them all let out breath they’d been holding.

“Did you learn anything from the curator that could help?” Emma asked, turning to Regina. “I wasn’t paying attention at that point.”

She shook her head. “Not much we didn’t already know. It’s presumed to be several thousand years old and historical accounts associate it with the citadel of the ancients. It’s considered to be of magical interest, though the king banned its use by mages many years ago.”

Merlin frowned. “That seems odd.”

“Maybe,” Emma responded. “But for us, it’s lucky.”

“Otherwise, some ambitious or curious mage might have taken it long before us,” Regina mused.

“Maybe no one was desperate enough to try,” Henry suggested with a small smile, and Emma spared a moment’s pride at how he was coming into his own, able to tease and joke now, before having a sudden realization.

"Where's Robin?" The original plan had been for him to travel with Henry and Regina, but obviously they’d been separated. "He should have been here by now."

"Hopefully he went straight to hell," Regina growled.

"His horse was gone when we picked ours up. I thought you two changed the plan,” Henry explained. Emma shook her head. “I'll go keep a look out, then," the boy offered quietly, heading toward the road.

"I hope he’s all right," Merlin muttered. Then he chuckled, "But Robin’s bad manners came in handy, no?”

"He put his hands on my body and you think it’s funny?!" Regina was livid.

"I’m sure it was unpleasant, but it was effective,” Merlin said, just shy of pedantic.

“How nice for you for that my body was effective,” Regina said in a low, cold voice that pierced Emma more than shouting.

Emma looked sharply at Merlin, shaking her head slightly.

"But it worked, princess!" he insisted, oblivious to just how angry Regina was.

"You need to go take a walk, friend," Emma said to him, stepping between them.

Merlin seemed aghast and his outraged look would have been almost funny except for the waves of anger coming off of Regina. Emma's expression was inflexible, however, and moments later he started to follow in Henry's footsteps, muttering to himself.

That left Emma to face the princess’s wrath alone. "Was this all part of your plan? Get me in there half-clothed and let that man feel me up?” Regina sneered, her posture stiff with betrayal.

Emma stared at her for a long moment in total shock and confusion. Too long. “No, of course not.”

“Did you all sit down and decide this without me?” She was getting rolling now. “What’d you trade me for, Emma? I hope you got a good price. What am I worth? How are you any better than Leopold?”

Emma had a moment of terrible clarity. Everything that had happened recently had told Regina her body wasn’t her own to control—from Leopold’s demand to being marked for blood sacrifice to being elevated to the vessel by the prophecy. Having her body physically out of her control was probably the last straw, and it had happened exactly when Regina was trying to seize control of her own destiny. She must be reeling with this, and Emma wanted nothing more than to wrap her in her arms and make it better.

"Regina, I-"

Regina cut her off. "Enough, Emma. I don’t even want to look at you right now.” She turned away then, back very straight, walking deliberately rather than storming off, and the soldier knew things were very bad.

**

Without anything else to do, Emma started setting up camp, trying to stay focused on the work rather than indulging her frustration, sadness, and anger. It had been a long several weeks and she felt worn thin by trying to hold things to together and appease everyone’s needs. Plus, her face hurt.

As the minutes passed, her swirling thoughts started to focus on the fact that their lives were still deadly dangerous, and here Henry, Merlin, and Regina were wandering the desert alone. She began to worry. They needed to stick together, and a wave of fresh frustration washed over her. Just as she was about to go looking for them, Merlin returned. His eyes met Emma’s and while there was no smile, he nodded a slow and tired thanks before entering his tent that she’d set up.

Henry returned not long after, without Robin. “I did my best, sir,” he said simply. Emma smiled, and squeezed his shoulder. “I know.” After a moment of silence, Henry nodded and wandered over to the sheltered spot where they had tethered the horses.

Out of work to do for the moment, Emma decided to clean herself up a little bit and was using a cloth and some of their precious water supply to dab the crusted blood around her nose when Regina approached her with a markedly subdued air.

“Hey,” Regina said softly.

“Hey,” Emma replied, looking down and picking at the cloth in her hand.

"Emma,” Regina said after a moment, then waited for Emma’s eyes to meet hers before continuing, “I may have overreacted.”

"It’s fine. I would never, never do that to you, but I understand why it feels like everything is spiraling out of control. I should have been there for you. I'm-" Emma sighed, "just used to focusing on getting things done."

"That's a good skill for a soldier."

"But the disregard for people's feelings it requires is pretty terrible in a friend."

Regina smiled wryly. "Listen, I don't admit that I'm wrong frequently, so just go with it."

Emma smiled back, then added in an earnest voice, "I do wish I could make this all go away for you."

"I know. That's why I forgive you." Regina poked Emma’s chest playfully when she didn’t respond right away.

Emma’s mood lightened and she gave a little chuckle.

Regina smiled back at her for a long moment. Then her expression hardened, and she added without mirth, "I still don’t want Robin within 20 paces of me."

[michael-radi-the-glamorous-life]

The Creative Corner - Guest Blog #2: Dave Pert

What? A Glamorous Life blog post on a Monday??

Yes friends!

After I put out a call for guest blog posts a couple weeks ago I got some lovely responses, which I would like to share with you all as Monday post bonuses! I figured we could all use a little more entertainment and education during our time of isolation and quarantine.

When Dave approached me and asked what the topic specifications were, all I told him was that it had to be somehow related to making or creating - I mean, this is The Glamorous Life after all!

But - as I say on this blog all the time - since art, artistry, and creativity are so engrained in the world around us in ways we don’t even think about, I had no idea where his topic choice would take us. And I must say, this is one of those bits of creative utility that I had never given a second thought to before now.

So, without further ado, The Creative Corner #2: Dave Pert - Black is the New Gold, or The Blog Post No One Asked for About Credit Card Design.

Black is the New Gold,

or The Blog Post No One Asked for About Credit Card Design

The American Express black card is probably the most well-known and elusive luxury credit card on the market; a brilliant mix of both status and design. Funny story -- it doesn't even exist… yet.

Credit card marketing, like most marketing, is a fickle mistress. Everyone seemingly wants to stand out among the competition, yet is reluctant to think outside the design box in the interest of tradition, or, "well that's how we've always done it" mentality. Then, someone, somewhere in a design meeting (usually at American Express) has the gumption to step out of tradition's line and rise above the fray. Their change is simple, but powerful, because Americans are status hungry consumers and are willing to pay a premium for it. It is then, over a year or two, copied by every competitor and the cycle repeats, waiting for that next break with monotony; the next design-driven status symbol.

How We Got Here

The first credit card was offered by Diners Club in 1950. It allowed patrons to settle restaurant bills with a line of credit instead of experiencing the daunting task of having to worry about cash post-meal consumption. It was made of cardstock and cost $5 per year. Have you heard of Diners Club? Ever seen a Diners Club credit card? No. That's because inventing the credit card is the first and last moment of design genius that Diners Club had. 

Shortly thereafter, in 1958 to be exact, American Express jumped on the scene with a more travel-oriented product. They, too, went with a cardstock design but decided to one-up Diners Club by charging $6 per year. This played into the "if it costs more it must be better" mentality that has served Amex well ever since. Proving that money could be made by appealing to the status hungry American, Amex signed up a quarter-million cardholders before the card even launched. Just a year later, Amex one-upped themselves by launching the standard, embossed plastic design that remained largely unchanged until the 2010s.

It then took Amex seven years to break with their newly established norms and offer tiered products within their line. If one-upping Diners Club worked so well, then surely one-upping themselves would work too -- and in 1966, the Amex Gold Card was born. Gold used to be, well, the gold standard. It was synonymous with first place, number one, the top of any tier-based rank and order. It was the cornerstone of competitive tradition. As such, the most prestigious credit cards in this widely growing market became branded "gold" for the Americans demanding status within status. Then chemistry went mainstream and everyone started talking about platinum. While platinum never caught on as the 1st place medal in the Olympics, it did at American Express. Thus, the next break from tradition was born, the American Express Platinum Card.

The Amex Plat launched one fateful day in 1984 as the elusive tier above gold. It was an invite-only product costing $250 per year for those that Amex deemed worthy. It was so successful that the Amex Plat has firmly seated itself as the new gold standard in travel card products to this day, offering a plethora of travel perks and status to its holders. However, a curious phenomenon took place in the mid to late '80s. Rumors started popping up about a mysterious invite-only card that Amex offered to only its most wealthy and elite customers. It was a tier above platinum, so elusive, so secretive, that its card design was regressive from the flashy elemental medals and awards. It was simply the black card.

In a genius stroke of branding excellence, the Amex black card told the world that it didn't need to be flashy. Its status did not rest on card design gimmicks, simply possession. It said "my owner is so elite that their status doesn't need to be flaunted" and that is the ultimate status to achieve. The only problem was, this card did not exist. Amex never produced a black card. Americans simply invented the idea themselves in a need to achieve that next rung of social existence. That is until, as the story goes, Jerry Seinfeld was passed this black card rumor while shooting an Amex commercial. He called up the Amex CEO to inquire about getting one for himself. The CEO confirmed it was a myth but that it might be time to capitalize on it. 'Merica.

In 1999, the Amex Centurion Card was born. It was everything the rumored black card could be, and to this day remains the pinnacle of credit card ownership. The Platinum card has since moved from invite-only to an application, making way for the Centurion to be the only card that finds you, instead of the other way around. Qualifications and even the card benefits are unpublished and shrouded in mystery. This glorious combination of marketing reluctance, arbitrarily defined qualification tier, and the insatiable lust for status in American consumerism has made profitable a credit card that owners pay $5,000 per year to own. I desperately want one.

Now What?

Arguably, the pinnacle of credit cards has been established. The extremely affluent tend to regress down the card tiers to something that doesn't cost so much, as status tends to become less and less important when contrasted with frugality. So, the uncharted territory in card design occurs within the tiers, appealing to both superficial shock and awe and the mainlined vanity vessel of our time: social media.

The earliest mid-tier break from traditional embossed plastic was the Chase Sapphire Preferred in 2011 (the first was the Centurion Card at launch with anodized titanium). Its "sapphire" branding also broke from the traditional metallic hierarchy, but still fell in line with the theme of the precious materials. This launch hit two home runs at the same time and arguably started the designer card revolution we see today with metal cards and numbers on the back.

Metal Cards

Metal cards are fantastic for in-the-hand feel and bring a sense of sophistication and status to the credit card transaction. It is the most powerful tool in the shock and awe space. When you hand a metal card to a cashier after decades of flimsy plastic, the difference in weight produces noticeable reactions. 9 times out of 10 you get a comment on how impressive your choice for monetary transactions is. It's the in-person equivalence of a "like" on social media. Not to mention the audible result of dropping metal cards on a table. More of a novelty than anything (dropping your card on a counter for a cashier is the peak of dick moves), the difference in clang between cards is something appreciated by the nerdiest of credit card nerds. That is a card our status-driven society will flock towards, all other things being equal. 

The issue with metal cards is that embossing (raising the pertinent information from the surface like braille) is difficult (costly) to do en masse, so card numbers had to be anodized or etched into the card surface. This meant that the old credit card imprinting machines used at retailers that refused to jump on the internet revolution would no longer work. Luckily for us, this number of retailers has dropped significantly by 2011 and the advent of Square. 

Chase Metal Cards

Chase chose a middle ground for all of their mid to high tier (annual fees of $95 and up) card products in this metallic revolution. Their metal is sandwiched between two thinner layers of plastic. It creates a weightier card with the plastic feel and easier to mass produce unique number/name characteristics by embossing a plastic layer. The table clang is eliminated by the plastic laminate. Their one notable exception is the granddaddy of all metal cards: the Ritz Carlton Card. Now discontinued from application due to the Marriott Bonvoy merger, the original Ritz card was essentially cut and refined from sheet metal and was known as the heaviest card on the market. It had no plastic, incredible weight, and unmatched table clang. It was too niche to catch on in the mainstream, but hand that Ritz card to anyone unfamiliar and their reaction was priceless. It is still possible to obtain by upgrading the new Bonvoy Boundless card to a Ritz after a year of account ownership, but the new Ritz card has unfortunately been reduced to a metal sandwich. 

While on the topic of Chase and their metal sandwich (also used by Citi in their top-tiered cards) I wanted to at least give a mention to the 2016 Sapphire Reserve launch. This was possibly the most hyped launch of a credit card since Amex took a rumor and made it a reality. The sign-up bonus alone was worth over twice the annual fee ($1000 SUB vs $450 AF), which made it a no brainer to apply for and keep at least 1 year. Yet, despite this obvious ploy for high initial sign-up numbers, Chase supposedly ran out of the metal used in their metal sandwich design shortly after launch because demand was SO GREAT. This singular fact has been mentioned by every single news article, blog post, and ad piece written about the Sapphire Reserve, ad nauseam. It was so proliferated that from my vantage point of credit card nerd-ism, I cannot believe this happened by accident. A bank as big as Chase would have known initial interest, known supply chain requirements, and known how to launch a credit card. This now overexploited occurrence, I believe, was an engineered phenomenon to promote the explosive popularity of the Sapphire Reserve. Don't get me wrong, I love the Sapphire Reserve, I love what it did to the high tier card market by forcing competitors to raise their perks, but I am exhausted with reading about how cHaSe RaN oUt Of ThEiR sApPhIrE rEsErVe MeTaL.

Amex Metal Cards

Amex jumped on the metallic train for high tiered cards with the release of their metal Platinum card in 2017. They did it right, albeit late, with a laminated metal front and plastic back. The hand feel is far superior to the sandwich design with the metallic side providing a noticeable temperature gradient from plastic. The additional metal to make up thickness improves the weight. I am a huge fan. This design was implemented into the new high tiered Bonvoy Brilliant card, Gold card, and, most recently, the Platinum and Reserve Delta Airlines cards. Their hand feel is equally as exceptional. The last card holding out at the $450/year fee level is the Hilton Aspire. I look forward to this card's inevitable rise from the plastic ashes.

Card Numbers On The Back

Let me tell you, the pain of blurring out account numbers from the face of credit cards for social media pictures is not conducive to easy posting and sharing. The Sapphire Preferred was ahead of its time by taking all that personal information and moving it to the back. I'm surprised at how long it took other banks to catch on. What better way to promote your card product in a sea of card products than to have your users do it for you in the name of vain "influencing?" 

This shift in paradigm allowed for card designers to focus on excellent card facades, unobstructed by essential information. Chase quickly followed its lead with the majority of its products, notably with each plastic sandwich conversion. Amex, noticing the success of the Sapphire lineup with millennial consumers, seemed to reluctantly follow suit. Although, the Hilton lineup is currently, once again, the Alamo of traditional design. I have not seen a numbers-on-the-back card that didn't look exponentially better than its predecessor design. The front of cards now say "Check me out, I am edgy, unique, all about this card brand, and oh, here is the name of my owner, prominently displayed next to our bank. This owner is a fan. This owner is special." It also makes for much easier blog posting and I am first in line to request design replacements.

Apple

The notable exception to all of this comes from the only company that "thinks different." Apple launched its special credit card with the intent to eliminate the physical card altogether. I could say a lot about this card and did over at my blog, but the highlights are that Apple just flat out removed its numbers altogether and bucked the black card mystique by going all white. Outstanding move. Then, paradoxically, made an all-metal card like the Ritz, but did it with titanium. Titanium is one of the lightest metals per unit volume and thus Apple's card is surprisingly rigid but only as heavy as the metal sandwich cards. It's surprising in a different kind of way.

The Future Of Credit Cards

After all is said and done, I am thoroughly nerded out on the current card offerings in the American market. I am not imaginative enough to predict the next break from tradition, I only hope that Apple fails in its quest to make the physical credit card a thing of the past. As the quintessential American these companies market their products towards, I love having that physical representation of account ownership. I love being able to appreciate the nuance in card marketing and design characteristics. I eagerly look forward to the next big card launch, which, rumor has it, is an Amex Black Card.

Dave Pert

Dave Pert is a Nuclear and Counterproliferation Officer with the US Army. He is not creative in the slightest but is passionate about the creative history and evolution of nuclear weapon design. Dave also enjoys the creation of adrenaline through his hobbies in skydiving, SCUBA diving, fine bourbons, firearms, and of course churning credit cards for free travel. He currently creates more technical blog posts at www.TDWise.com to help military members get creative in the travel hacking game.