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heathersdesk · 3 months

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The Relationship between the LDS Church, Palestine, and Israel

I have a confession to make. As a younger person, I was obsessed with Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.

"You and every Millennial."

NO. You don't understand. This went beyond "Neat, his talk is up next. He always does a good job. Let me tune back in to this two hour long meeting." This was a parasocial, fandom level, ADHD-fueled special interest that amounted to a kind of hero worship I can't fully explain now, other than to say I outgrew it. I had every talk of his that he had ever given that was available online on my various devices I had in college and would listen to them regularly. I knew them so well I could quote them in entire sections. One of my roommates met him in Southern Utah and got one of my books signed for me, and I cried when she gave it to me. I met him once at a Mark Twain performance (one of his favorite authors and the subject of his study as a student) at Sundance and I wasn't normal about it at all.

Elder Holland had a fan with Swiftie-levels of intensity in 2009, and it was me. It's deeply embarrassing to admit this, but it's crucial to understanding why I know the things I'm about to tell you.

Before Elder Holland became an apostle, he was the president of Brigham Young University. During his tenure, he entered into negotiations with Israel to build the Jerusalem Center, the extension of BYU's campus in the Holy Land. He raised $100 million for its construction. This required buy-in not only from church leadership and donors in the US, but the cooperation of the Israeli government. This was how he ended up winning the Torch of Liberty award from the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai Brith. He was effective enough at building bridges between Latter-day Saints and Jews and the other communities in Jerusalem, he got people to open their checkbooks to pay for the facility that would be dedicated to building that interfaith understanding and cooperation into the future. Finished in 1989, it's one of the most important contributions to the Church in Elder Holland's legacy.

The Jerusalem Center exists because of Elder Holland. How well he handled its formation, in my opinion, is how he ended up becoming a Seventy, followed by the call to become an Apostle in 1994.

The Jerusalem Center was constructed on what used to be Palestinian land. The Church is aware of that fact and makes restitution for it in the form of student scholarships to Palestinian students. Sahar Qumsiyeh, a professor at BYU-Idaho, was formerly a Palestinian Christian. She was introduced to the Church and joined because she received one of these scholarships.

The Jerusalem Center became a real turning point in the Church's relationship with Israel and Palestine because they have strong, close partnerships with individuals and groups who identify with each group. They have sent humanitarian aid many times over years, and have committed to doing so now. I trusted that would be the case.

I do highly encourage you to read the links above, but the TL;DR version is that the Church got fully engaged in helping Palestinian refugees for the first time in 2006. I've given you multiple links for a reason, so you can see the way LDS attitudes to this conflict between Israel and Palestine have been evolving and changing over time. The rejections of Israeli violence and support for Palestine today are not new. They've been going on in the LDS Church for almost two decades now. The Church maintains the campus in Jerusalem specifically to expand our peoples' perspectives and understanding of that conflict, specifically so they won't unconditionally side with Israel and support everything they do. And that's not my interpretation. That's what one of the instructors who taught at the Jerusalem Center said of the program there.

While some Latter-day Saints have adopted unconditional support of Israel because of the influence of their allegiance with the Republican party, it's not a position that's endorsed by the Church. It's a position the Church has made deliberate efforts to undermine with the resources available to them on multiple fronts. In education through the Jerusalem Center, in humanitarian aid to Palestinians, in messaging from General Conference, and in their PR campaigns like "I Was a Stranger," church leadership (and, one could argue, God) has been trying to challenge Latter-day Saints to develop a more unconditional love that embraces the entire human family, not just those who are politically convenient to us in our current loyalties.

So when the Church made their statement regarding the outbreak of the Israel Hamas War, people criticized it for not saying enough. It didn't give the information that people wanted: what the Church's response was going to look like, how it would impact church members in the region, and what precautions the Church was going to take to protect them. Because the statement was given on October 12th, the answers to those questions weren't really known. But there was an additional question people wanted answered: Whose side is the Church on? They wanted the strongest possible condemnation, some in favor of Israel, and some in favor of Palestine, depending on what their political alignments were. And I will say those people missed the point. They didn't have the knowledge base of the Church's relationship to the Middle East to properly understand the statement.

The Church didn't "pick a side" in this conflict because of the longstanding relationships the institution has with both Israelis and Palestinians. No human life in that war is more or less valuable to them based on their ethnic background or national origin. To expect the Church to choose sides demonstrates a total lack of understanding of what the Church's goals are with their presence in the Middle East: getting people to recognize the value in interfaith relationships and developing love that rejects politically manufactured enmity.

If you're demanding the Church to pick sides in conflicts based on your political alignments, you're allowing the process of politically motivated dehumanization to cloud your judgement. You're asking them to choose an enemy, which couldn't be further from what the Church is supposed to do in this situation. The statement reflects a refusal to choose sides by condemning one thing, in the strongest language I've ever seen any modern church leader use: Violence.

All violence, no matter who enacts it or for what purpose, is "abhorrent" in the sight of God. That's what the statement said. Think about the implications of that statement. If a person is doing violence, they cannot please God. Those who please God cannot do violence.

Think about the longstanding relationships the Church has with civic leaders in Israel. Think about the fact that this statement was given on the 12th of October, before Israel's offensive even began. It would have been so easy for the Church to condemn terrorism in that moment instead of violence, but that's not what they did. They stated their commitment to care for Israelis and Palestinians in the coming conflict, drawing a line in the sand—prophetically, if I may add. I fully believe that the strength of the language of this statement anticipates how extreme the Israeli response has been, which the Church condemned before it began.

One of the unfortunate side effects of being terminally online and fluent only in American politics is that a statement like the one the Church gave reads to some as saying passively "all lives matter." That's not what was happening here. There was a reason I gasped when I read the statement and thought to myself "Woooow. They're big mad."

I studied Public Relations in college. Lying is the dumbest approach you can take as a PR strategy. It squanders good will, destroys your authority, and doesn't accomplish any organizational goals long term. A better strategy is to say exactly what you mean in the fewest words possible, and let people identify the implications for themselves. Only those who are truly invested in your message will understand everything you said without you having to say it.

The Church's statement was all but a slap in the face to the Israeli and US governments, telling them that God rejects them for bringing this violence into the world. They will not enjoy his protection while this violence continues. It also stands to reason that any other nation that assists Israel with their campaign of death and destruction will also stand condemned by God.

Church leadership, in partnership with PR, isn't going to say that part out loud. But they'll imply the hell out of it. Working in PR is operating on Jane Austen levels of subtext. I wish more people understood that so they could enjoy moments like this when the Church throws shade.

#mormon #lds #mormonism #tumblrstake #the church of jesus christ of latter day saints #palestine #israel

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blogger360ncislarules · 11 months

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This year has been a melancholic one for collectors of physical media. DVDs and Blu-ray discs, once a source of billions in revenue for Hollywood companies, are at risk of becoming obsolete, or at least irrelevant.

The first blow came at the end of September, when Netflix mailed its last DVD (a copy of the 2010 film True Grit, directed by Joel and Ethan Coen). As of Nov. 1, the DVD Netflix website functions as an interactive in memoriam page.

Netflix’s DVD business had dwindled in recent years (falling from over $1 billion in revenue in 2012 to $146 million by 2022), but it was a safe space for film fanatics who loved its immense library of new releases and classic films and shows that aren’t available to stream. The shutdown was in many ways the end of an era, and while some, like Redbox, try to fill that gap, it is a service that appears unlikely to return.

Then Ingram Entertainment, once the largest distributor of DVDs in the country, said in September that it will exit the disc business — and, in October, the country’s biggest electronics retailer, Best Buy, said it would stop selling DVDs and Blu-rays at the end of 2023.

“To state the obvious, the way we watch movies and TV shows is much different today than it was decades ago,” a Best Buy spokesperson said in a statement, adding that removing the rows of discs “gives us more space and opportunity to bring customers new and innovative tech for them to explore, discover and enjoy.”

To be sure, the market isn’t dead, especially with Amazon and Walmart still in the game. In fact, Media Play News reported over the summer that Walmart was in talks with Studio Distribution Services (a Universal/Warner Bros. joint venture) about partnering on its physical media business. However, without Netflix and Best Buy, and with others perhaps set to follow, the fate of DVD home entertainment has never been more perilous.

Yet there are also signs of hope. A significant strategic shift by major streamers, paired with the current state of play in the music industry, offers a potential way forward for physical media.

When Netflix launched its streaming business, you could find everything you wanted, from every era of film and TV, available at all times. Everyone else followed that strategy — but now things are changing again.

Warner Bros. Discovery last year began a content purge of its streaming service HBO Max (now just Max), removing thousands of hours of programming. Disney+, Hulu and Paramount+ followed suit, canceling shows and culling old titles. As the cost of content will continue to rise in a post-strike world, even Netflix or Amazon might be tempted to remove titles to save a few bucks.

That strategy shift, as jarring as it is to some creators and consumers, reinforces the value of physical media. It’s a similar state of play with digital downloads, which you might “buy” from Amazon or iTunes, but can be removed from your library at any time. Studios could pull Westworld and Good Burger from Max — but not from your bookshelf.

Then there’s the lesson from the music industry, which was upended by streaming well before Hollywood. According to the Recording Industry Association of America’s 2023 midyear revenue report, while streaming accounts for 84 percent of music revenue, physical media is on the rise. Vinyl records are the main growth driver, but sales of CDs have also increased. “The new data also shows the lasting power of physical formats,” RIAA CEO Mitch Glazier commented, adding that “physical revenues reached their highest level since a full decade ago, topping $880 million so far this year.”

Vinyl records, with their unique sound and artists willing to add bonus tracks and content that isn’t available to stream, helped turn around music’s physical media business. It’s not unlike the behind-the-scenes access and director commentary that defined the DVD and Blu-ray era.

With titles disappearing from streaming services at a rapid clip, it might be worth opening that DVD or Blu-ray distribution window one more time: Buy it now, before it leaves your subscriptions and doesn’t come back.

#I hope so #DVD's are important!#dvd's #television #movies #personal

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centaurworks · 1 year

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My thoughts on deviantArt's new Adoptable feature

Hello! So deviantArt released a new feature related to selling adoptables and it had me puzzled. Given dA's more art focus, I would have thought they would have worked on this many moons ago. With Eclipse and AI Art bombs happening, I guess it was better late than never. But rather than just outright saying hell no, I decided to test out 2 adopts with this feature. Tho it was not good.

The Tests

So because I prefer going the Auction-style adopt, I wanted to test out the version with the timer. Each adopt will have a starting price of $2.00. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect with this feature. I did glimpse at the journal talking about it, but looking at setting it up, it feels like there's more of a focus on the "static price to buy" format. With that out of the way, onto the tests.

Adopt 1: Male Mage

This was a WIP I had that I never got around to until now. I really enjoyed working on him even if it was basic. So I advertised it, sent it out into the world and I get the first "bid." I get a message with a pop-up that says "Accept or Decline." I thought that was weird thinking it automatically accepts the bid, I hit accept and it just CLOSES THE ENTIRE BID... Great... At the time, no, there was no message saying this would instantly close the bidding which... why? I'll get into my issues with that system soon. But was it a goof on my part, yeah. But the payment irritates me. The price I set it at, $2, is what I got. After the payment went through however, that's when it got irritating. It went down to $1.33. Now, because I'm Core+, I am suppose to get 15% fee. But this ended up being about 33.5% fee, as well as the money now in waiting for 7 days. I wanted to test again tho because of that mix up with the "Accept" button.

Adopt 2: Merman

It was a little rushed but I wanted something done sooner than usual. This time, I would just wait for the timer to run out. The version dA uses is a simple countdown timer, when the timer is up, you can no longer bid. For context: I like to reset the time every bid to prevent bid snipers. I got a $10 bid during that time, and the timer ended. Now, it says to "make a decision in 24 hours or no big will be accepted." I feel very iffy on this, 1. I feel like this could make it so if there is a bidder that is contriversal to you, you can make it so that the other person wins even tho they bid less than the contriversal person. Personally I'd rather it just automatically accept the bid especially because- 2. The 24 hours to decide is dumb because not everyone is going to be at their computer when the timer starts and ends. :U Sure, that's a very limited issue but it still feels like they didn't think about that kind of possibiliy, or they did deemed it a non-issue. Once again with the money issue. The winning bid was $10, and in the end I got $7.85. This ended up being a 22% fee rather than the promised 15% fee. On top of the 7 days wait. On top of that, when you send the money to your paypal, PayPal takes a fee off of the transaction; creating this feeling of too many middle men involved in a simple auction. I wouldn't be mad if the art community already figured out how to do this.

The community already solved the issue

Even tho the feature is in beta, it comes off more like this will be what it will be in the end, and I feel like it comes off more as trying to get another revenue stream. Here's the thing, for more than a decade the community has already figured out a better way to handle adoptable auctions with a faster payout. Sites like YCH.commish have also been made to simplify the adoptable auctions. I feel like deviantArt can not make any excuses anymore, they've burned away all good will and this does not help them. I'm hoping things do change but the word "Beta" has lost it's meaning to me. I'm glad I tried out the system, but I feel like it's left me more frustrated and irritated than my original thoughts. I want dA to change, but this step is in the wrong direction.

#Casual #Thoughts #Casual Thoughts #DeviantArt #dA #Irritated #deviantArt Adopt #Adopt #Adopts #Adoptables #Half-Baked

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sadachmesarthim · 3 years

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just think about them for a minute:

- i want peter parker, the new boy king of an organized crime unit ben has figureheaded for decades. the entire seaboard adores him - no one knows what's really paying the bills. as far as they know, real estate is booming again

- i want tony stark, our sweet young man from the city, taking after his father howard doing pro bono defense cases and helping the more unfortunate souls of new york

- i want quentin beck, disgraced reporter for the bugle, who is this fucking close to being fired if he won't stop going on and on about these old money families the entire city loves and actually find a credible story

- i want an angry quen beck, heart still aching and shattered, freshly broken up with, ready to spill every single secret about the parkers, and i want tony. poor, sweet, innocent tony, willing to walk right into the parker estate and practically announce that he's there for more evidence. and, because he's a total fucking moron, i want him to get caught.

- i want a peter that likes this little fly he's caught, this... tony stark. a peter that'll play with his food before he eats it. maybe he doesn't keep him - at least not locked in his basement or chained to the wall. but maybe he brings buck & steve over, whispers to them just loud enough for tony to hear. tells them to bring q to the house, however they had to.

- and maybe they sit tony down in front of quentin, not bound or restrained in anyway - just sitting in front of quentin and watching as peter forces q onto his knees and pulls the bag off his head. and tony .... doesn't want to run. this is just more evidence, right??? and peter is so content, inside, because he knows tony is just a tad bit too interested, and quentin beck is scared as fuck. because he knew he would get caught. he just didn't think it would be so soon.

- i want peter to sit next to tony as steve and bucky take turns whaling on quentin. i want tony watching, unwavering, as fists fly and blood runs. i want peter watching tony, eyes not leaving the man next to him, absolutely enraptured by his lack of fear. i want peter not at all concerned with the feeling in his gut as he watched tony's eyes get big when he sees quentin spit a bloody tooth out of his mouth. i want tony really fucking concerned by the total lack of fear and self preservation instincts he has within himself throughout the entire thing.

- i want him even more concerned when he doesn't even flinch, not when the two big buff guys are hitting quentin, not when peter stands up. not at all concerned when peter pulls a gun out from underneath his jacket. not when peter glances back at tony from over his shoulder, or when peter clicks the safety off and lines it up with quentin's right temple. not when peter shoots the little rat that got tony here in the first place, not when a fine spray of blood ends up all over his face. not when peter comes to kneel in front of him, safety still off and barrel still warm and gun resting right next to tony's dick what the fuck is this guy doing. not when peter snatches his own silk square from his breast pocket and wipes tony's face off, dabbing away the offensive red stains. not even when peter brings his lips up to tony's ear and whispers "i know you can keep quiet for me, can't you baby?".

- not when the gun is pulled away from his crotch and brought up to his hairline, tip of it dragged so gently from temple to chin. not when peter tips his head up so tony can fully face him, fully meet his eyes. i want the butterflies in tony's stomach when peter uses his loaded gun to force tony to his feet. i want them when peter uses his gun instead of his fingers to draw tony's lips toward his own. i want the catch in his throat when peter's unoccupied hand closes around it, when tony's forced into a box he didn't even know existed. i want the questionable sense of safety that wraps its way around him after the only first night he spends in peters bed. i want the security he feels when the blood is rinsed out of the clothes he wore that day - good as new, it never happened. i want the love he feels when peter buys him a ring - for his middle finger of course, a modestly sized titanium band, with an inscription on the inside

- i want the emptiness that he feels when peter tells him to never come back to the house. to never contact him again. that he can never come back. i want the tan line that develops around that ring - the feeling of distant ownership that comes with being peter parker's silent boy - i want the raised imprint on his skin - "quiet for me" - that's visible whenever he takes the ring off. he never takes the ring off. and maybe peter still helps fund howards tonys law firm, and helps make it possible for him to take all those pro bono cases and still eat regularly. and maybe he still keeps tony safe from the less desirable people seeking his services, that peter knows would look at or touch or think about him in ways that ,,, set peter's skin on fire. and maybe peter likes it. having his hands around the sweet defense lawyer boy from down the street, even if it's from afar. and maybe tony likes it too. likes keeping peters secrets. likes being his metaphorical kept boy. likes having the physical reminder on his finger that if he were ever to open his mouth, he would end up just like quentin.

- but maybe. maybe it isn't really enough for either of them. so maybe tony fucks up one day and asks to be seen. he knows he's not allowed to come back to the house. he knows he's not allowed to talk to peter again. but he has to. tony has to see him again. so he goes and he insists and that gets him a nice swift punch to the stomach - but he still gets to see peter. and peter waives everyone else away but tony, and they go, and they talk. they talk like lovers 50 years married. they talk like soulmates ripped from each others grasp. tony breaks down and says that he cant stay away. that he'll stay quiet for the rest of his life - that peter can do whatever he wants to him to make sure of it - but he can't just stay away. and peter's heart... it hurts. it aches for the man in front of him because he wants so desperately to keep him.

- and maybe... maybe tony stark, new york lawyer, 28, heir to the stark law firm, goes missing one day. maybe howard and maria are devastated and do everything in their power to find their son. maybe they wake up one morning to a loud knock on the door and an envelope sliding underneath. maybe they open it to a letter from their missing son and a check for $10,000,000. maybe they read a beautifully worded goodbye, a heartbroken apology for abandoning them, but assurance that he's okay. maybe tony spends his days in plush robes and silk shirts and $500 boxers. maybe he has a beautiful collection of collars and bracelets and rings and even crowns that his lover has bought him. maybe he enjoys it when peter comes in with a new circle of gold to wrap around his neck or finger or wrist or head. maybe he likes playing dress-up for his prince. and maybe, just maybe... peter likes spoiling the little fly he caught in his web. he likes putting gold and diamonds and gemstones all over this precious little catch

- because he loves his tony, and his tony loves him, and the best way to keep him quiet is to keep him close

inspiration: black treacle - arctic monkeys, suck it and see - arctic monkeys

i know the formatting on this sucks i don’t know how to fix it i’m sorry

#starker #.text #.mine #peter parker #tony stark #quentin beck #idk where this went or where it came from #i'm high #this took an hour ngl #oh well #hope u like it #gun violence #murder

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years

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Patent troll's IP more powerful than Apple's

I was 12 years into my Locus Magazine column when I published the piece I'm most proud of, "IP," from September 2020. It came after an epiphany, one that has profoundly shaped the way I talk and think about the issues I campaign on.

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

That revelation was about the meaning of the term "IP," which had been the center of this tedious linguistic cold war for decades. People who advocate for free and open technology and culture hate the term "IP" because of its ideological loading and imprecision.

Ideology first: Before "IP" came into wide parlance - when lobbyists for multinational corporations convinced the UN to turn their World Intellectual Property Organization into a specialized agency, we used other terms like "author's monopolies" and "regulatory monopolies."

"Monopoly" is a pejorative. "Property" is sacred to our society. When a corporation seeks help defending its monopoly, it is a grubby corrupter. When it asks for help defending its property, it is enlisting the public to defend the state religion.

Free culture people know allowing "monopolies" to become "property" means losing the battle before it is even joined, but it is frankly unavoidable. How do you rephrase "IP lawyer" without conceding the property point? "Trademark-copyright-patent-and-related-rights lawyer?"

Thus the other half of the objection to "IP": its imprecision. Copyright is not anything like patent. Patent is not anything like trademark. Trade secrets are an entirely different thing again. Don't let's get started on sui generis and neighboring rights.

And this is where my revelation came: as it is used in business circles, "IP" has a specific, precise meaning. "IP" means, "Any law, policy or regulation that allows me to control the conduct of my competitors, critics and customers."

Copyright, patent and trademark all have limitations and exceptions designed to prevent this kind of control, but if you arrange them in overlapping layers around a product, each one covers the exceptions in the others.

Creators don't like having their copyrights called "author's monopolies." Monopolists get to set prices. All the copyright in the world doesn't let an author charge publishers more for their work. The creators have a point.

But when author's monopolies are acquired by corporate monopolists, something magical and terrible happens.

Remember: market-power monopolies are still (theoretically) illegal and when companies do things to maintain or expand their monopolies, they risk legal jeopardy.

But: The corporate monopolist who uses IP to expand their monopoly has no such risk. Monopolistic conduct in defense of IP enjoys wide antitrust forbearance. What's the point of issuing patents or allowing corporations to buy copyrights if you don't let them enforce them?

The IP/market-power monopoly represents a futuristic corporate alloy, a new metal never seen, impervious to democratic control.

Software is "IP" and so any device with software in it is like beskar, a rare metal that can be turned into the ultimate corporate armor.

No company exemplifies this better than Apple, a company that used limitations on IP to secure its market power, then annihilated those limits so that no one could take away its market power.

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/06/adversarial-interoperability-reviving-elegant-weapon-more-civilized-age-slay

In the early 2000s, Apple was in trouble. The convicted monopolist Microsoft ruled the business world, and if you were the sole Mac user in your office, you were screwed.

When a Windows user sent you a Word file, you could (usually) open it in the Mac version of Word, but then if you saved that file again, it often became forever cursed, unopenable by any version of Microsoft Office ever created or ever to be created.

This became a huge liability. Designers started keeping a Windows box next to their dual processor Power Macs, just to open Office docs. Or worse (for Apple), they switched to a PC and bought Windows versions of Adobe and Quark Xpress.

Steve Jobs didn't solve this problem by begging Bill Gates to task more engineers to Office for Mac. Instead, Jobs got Apple techs to reverse-engineer all of the MS Office file formats and release a rival office suite, Iwork, which could read and write MS Office files.

That was an Apple power move, one that turned MS's walled garden into an all-you-can-eat buffet of potential new Mac users. Apple rolled out the Switch ads, whose message was, "Every MS Office file used to be a reason *not* to use a Mac. Now it's a reason to switch *to* a Mac."

More-or-less simultaneously, though, Apple was inventing the hybrid market/IP monopoly tool that would make it the most valuable company in the world, in its design for the Ipod and the accompanying Itunes store.

It had a relatively new legal instrument to use for this purpose: 1998's Digital Millennium Copyright Act; specifically, Section 1201 of the DMCA, the "anti-circumvention" clause, which bans breaking DRM.

Under DMCA 1201, if a product has a copyrighted work (like an operating system) and it has an "access control" (like a password or a bootloader key), then bypassing the access control is against the law, even if no copyright infringement takes place.

That last part - "even if no copyright infringement takes place" - is the crux of DMCA 1201. The law was intended to support the practices of games console makers and DVD player manufacturers, who wanted to stop competitors from making otherwise legal devices.

With DVD players, that was about "region coding," the part of the DVD file format that specified which countries a DVD could be played back in. If you bought a DVD in London, you couldn't play it in Sydney or New York.

Now, it's not a copyright violation to buy a DVD and play it wherever you happen to be. As a matter of fact, buying a DVD and playing it is the *opposite* of a copyright infringement.

But it *was* a serious challenge to the entertainment cartel's business-model, which involved charging different prices and having different release dates for the same movie depending on where you were.

The same goes for games consoles: companies like Sega and Nintendo made a lot of money charging creators for the right to sell games that ran on the hardware they sold.

If I own a Sega Dreamcast, and you make a game for it, and I buy it and run it on my Sega, that's not a copyright infringement, even if Sega doesn't like it. But if you have to bypass an "access control" to get the game to play without Sega's blessing, it violates DMCA 1201.

What's more, DMCA 1201 has major penalties for "trafficking in circumvention devices" and information that could be used to build such a device, such as reports of exploitable flaws in the programming of a DRM system: $500k in fines and a 5 year sentence for a first offense.

Deregionalizing a DVD player or jailbreaking a Dreamcast didn't violate anyone's copyrights, but it still violated copyright law (!). It was pure IP, the right to control the conduct of critics (security researchers), customers and competitors.

In the words of Jay Freeman, it's "Felony contempt of business-model."

And that's where the Ipod came in. Steve Jobs's plan was to augment the one-time revenue from an Ipod with a recurrent revenue stream from the Itunes store.

He exploited the music industry's superstitious dread of piracy and naive belief in the efficacy of DRM to convince the record companies to only sell music with his DRM wrapper on it - a wrapper they themselves could not authorize listeners to remove.

Ever $0.99 Itunes purchase added $0.99 to the switching cost of giving up your Ipod for a rival device, or leaving Itunes and buying DRM music from a rival store. It was control over competitors and customers. It was IP.

If you had any doubt that the purpose of Ipod/Itunes DRM was to fight competitors, not piracy, then just cast your mind back to 2004, when Real Media "hacked" the Ipod so that it would play music locked with Real's DRM as well as Apple's.

http://www.internetnews.com/bus-news/article.php/3387871/Apple+RealNetworks+Hacked+iPod.htm

Apple used DMCA 1201 to shut Real down, not to stop copyright infringement, but to prevent Apple customers from buying music from record labels and playing them on their Ipods without paying Apple a commission and locking themselves to Apple's ecosystem, $0.99 at a time.

Pure IP. Now, imagine if Microsoft had been able to avail itself of DMCA 1201 when Iwork was developed - if, for example, its "information rights management" encryption had caught on, creating "access controls" for all Office docs.

There's a very strong chance that would have killed Apple off before it could complete its recovery. Jobs knew the power of interoperating without consent, and he knew the power of invoking the law to block interoperability. He practically invented modern IP.

Apple has since turned IP into a trillion-dollar valuation, largely off its mobile platform, the descendant of the Ipod. This mobile platform uses DRM - and thus DMCA 1201 - to ensure that you can only use apps that come from its app store.

Apple gets a cut of penny you spend buying an app, and every penny you spend within that app: 30% (now 15% for a minority of creators after bad publicity).

IP lets one of the least taxed corporations on Earth extract a 30% tax from everyone else.

https://locusmag.com/2021/03/cory-doctorow-free-markets/

Remember, it's not copyright infringement for me to write an app and you to buy it from me and play it on your Iphone without paying the 30% Apple tax.

That's the exact opposite of copyright infringement: buying a copyrighted work and enjoying it on a device you own.

But it's still an IP violation. It bypasses Apple's ability to control competitors and customers. It's felony contempt of business-model.

It shows that under IP, copyright can't be said to exist as an incentive to creativity - rather, it's a tool for maintaining monopolies.

Which brings me to today's news that Apple was successfully sued by a patent troll over its DRM. A company called Personalized Media Communications whose sole product is patent lawsuits trounced Apple in the notorious East Texas patent-troll court.

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2021-03-19/apple-told-to-pay-308-5-million-for-infringing-drm-patent

After software patents became widespread - thanks to the efforts of Apple and co - there was a bonanza of "inventors" filing garbage patents with the USPTO whose format was "Here's an incredibly obvious thing...*with a computer*." The Patent Office rubberstamped them by the million.

These patents became IP, a way to extract rent without having to make a product. "Investors" teamed up with "inventors" to buy these and impose a tax on businesses - patent licensing fees that drain money from people who make things and give it to people who buy things.

They found a court - the East Texas court in Marshall, TX - that was hospitable to patent trolls. They rented dusty PO boxes in Marshall and declared them to be their "headquarters" so that they could bring suits there.

Locals thrived - they got jobs as "administrators" (mail forwarders) for the thousands of "businesses" whose "head office" was in Marshall (when you don't make a product, your head office can be a PO box).

Productive companies facing hundreds of millions - billions! - in patent troll liability sought to curry favor with locals (who were also the jury pool) by "donating" things to Marshall, like the skating rink Samsung bought for the town.

https://hbswk.hbs.edu/item/why-south-korea-s-samsung-built-the-only-outdoor-skating-rink-in-texas

Patent, like copyright, is supposed to serve a public purpose. There are only two clauses in the US Constitution that come with explanations (the rest being "truths held to be self-evident"): the Second Amendment and the "Progress Clause" that creates patents and copyrights.

Famously, the Second Amendment says you can bear arms as part of a "well-regulated militia."

And the Progress Clause? It extends to Congress the power to create patents and copyrights "to promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts."

I'm with Apple in its ire over this judgment. Sending $308.5m to a "closely held" patent troll has nothing to do with the "Progress of Science and useful Arts."

But it has *everything* to do with IP.

If copyright law can let Apple criminalize - literally criminalize - you selling me If copyright law can let Apple criminalize - literally criminalize - you selling me your copyrighted work, then there's no reason to hate on patent trolls.

They're just doing what trolls do: blocking the bridge between someone engaged in useful work and the customers for that work, and extracting a toll. It's not even 30%.

There is especial and delicious irony in the fact that the patent in question is a DRM patent: a patent for the very same process that Apple uses to lock down its devices and prevent creators from selling to customers without paying the 30% Apple Tax.

But even without that, it's as good an example of what an IP marketplace looks like: one in which making things becomes a liability. After all, the more you make, the more chances there are for an IP owner to demand tax from you to take it to market.

The only truly perfect IP is the naked IP of a patent troll, the bare right to sue, a weapon made from pure abstract legal energy, untethered from any object, product or service that might be vulnerable to another IP owner's weapons.

A coda: you may recall that Apple doesn't use DRM on its music anymore: you can play Itunes music on any device. That wasn't a decision Apple took voluntarily: it was forced into it by a competitor: Amazon, an unlikely champion of user rights.

In 2007, the record labels had figured out that Apple had lured them into a trap, selling millions of dollars worth of music that locked both listeners and labels into the Itunes ecosystem.

In a desperate bid for freedom, they agreed to help Amazon launch its MP3 store - all the same music, at the same prices...without DRM. Playable on an Ipod, but also on any other device.

Prior to the Amazon MP3 store, the market was all DRM: you could either buy Apple's DRM music and play it on your Ipod, or you could buy other DRM music and play it on a less successful device.

The Amazon MP3 store (whose motto was "DRM: Don't Restrict Me") changed that to "Buy Apple DRM music and play it on your Ipod, or buy Amazon music and play it anywhere." That was the end of Apple music DRM.

So why hasn't anyone done this for the apps that Apple extracts the 30% tax on? IP. If you made a phone that could play Ios apps, Apple would sue you:

https://gizmodo.com/judge-tosses-apple-lawsuit-against-iphone-emulator-in-b-1845967318

And if you made a device that let you load non-App Store apps on an Iphone, Apple would also sue you.

Apple understands IP. It learned the lesson of the Amazon MP3 store, and it is committed to building a world where every creator pays a tax to reach every Apple customer.

#pluralistic

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whump-town · 4 years

Note

Whump Whump, tell me your headcanons for witsec Hotch please.

He gardens. He likes bright flowers but really likes yellows and purples and even orange— and though he likes roses he can’t think of them without associating them with that case with all those dead children. So, no, he doesn’t try roses

WITSEC forces regular doctors appointments and he hates them with his entire being. “Try to work on managing your stress” they say but that’s a little hard to do running from a serial killer. They’re always picking something new to worry about. Drawing blood. Checking this. Poking that. He’s worse about it than Jack

He reads to cope for a while. His library triples in a matter of no time because he’s sitting on a decades worth of book recommendations from the team. Even reads Dave’s last book (well, he skimmed it the first time when Dave sent it to him in rough draft format but this time he actually reads it and doesn’t like it but makes thoughtful notes to bring up to Dave later). After a while, that’s not enough

He writes letters— some are never meant to see the light of day and others are heartfelt and he imagines that if this all goes to shit he’ll leave them behind these (others are filled with confessions and broken thoughts that drive him to tears just thinking about but those get shredded and burned)

He can’t sit still for very long. He runs but can’t maintain a schedule for that in case he’s found out. He buys a treadmill and that helps him sleep.

He’s hypervigilant and sitting still produces restless anxiety. After spending so many years constantly doing something— paperwork, meetings, cases, running to a soccer game, picking Jack up from school— he’s overwhelmed by nothing. He starts to listen to music while he does things and develops a schedule to do a deep, deep clean every Sunday. He always has to be doing something. His mind has convinced itself that every chance he gets to just breathe is a moment he’s wasting and there’s something to be done

Obviously, he gets put on medication. He may not speak up for himself but his body is doing some talking. The anxiety is treatable and Jack is horrified by the idea that something was wrong and Hotch didn’t tell him. They meet each other half-way and while Jack doesn’t get the full disclosure he wants he does get to check the medicine (and Hotch would tell him but Jacks a kid and he will stand by his decision to treat him as a child and not burden Jack with things he can’t control)

He gets to be more involved with Jack and school (and more than that he gets to see he wasn’t uninvolved before). They don’t ask him to coach but he gets scoresheets to manage and assists things when needed for Jacks soccer team. He doesn’t have to worry about rushing here and there.

He spends a lot of time thinking about what will happen next. Will Jack graduate before they get out? What will that mean for Jack’s future? Would Hotch go back to the BAU? Would they let him? If they even miss him half as much as he misses them or if it’s better that when he’s released he disappears. Takes all his trouble and move away

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wonderlandleighleigh · 3 years

Text

A winding kind of post

(if you’re not into talk about Israel, then you should skip. If you’re Pro-Israel, you’re probably not gonna enjoy this post.)

My father taught me very few positive things in life. He has narcissistic personality disorder, PTSD and a myriad of other issues. so mostly what I learned from him was what not to do.

But here are the few positive things that Bruce taught me that I’ve taken with me in life.

1. Try every piece of food that is placed in front of you once. You never know what might be delicious.

2. Few things feed the human soul like music does.

3. A joke with the punchline “Somewhere in all this shit there’s gotta be a pony!”

4. Zionism is bullshit, and any fellow Jewish person who buys into it should be viewed with extreme skepticism.

It’s a viewpoint I didn’t understand as a child. Why did my father skip giving to the sadaka box during services? The money would go towards building a new temple in Israel.

When I was young, I assumed the answer was “because he’s a mean man and he hates everything.”

As an adult I know that the answer is: Because he’s an avid history student who knows the formation of the state of Israel and what’s happened since is bloody, and Israel is filled with sufferers of generational trauma, and giving them money was always a bad idea.

In my 20′s I had the opportunity to go on a Birthright trip to Israel. My cousin wanted me to come with her. She said it would be fun. For those who don’t know, Birthright trips to Israel are offered to Jewish people between the ages of 18 and 26. Essentially, it’s an attempt to convince young Jewish people to marry other Jewish people and have Jewish babies in the guise of a guided vacation to learn about Israeli Jewish culture and life.

And I almost went. But there was something in the pit of my stomach that stopped me. That said “This isn’t for me. There’s something not right about doing this.”

And ten years later, reading about what’s happening between Israel and Palestine right now? I know. I know that it was because Israel is full of Zionists, and Zionism is insane.

Should there be a safe space for Jews somewhere in the world? It’s not the worst idea. People have been attempting to exterminate us for a really long time, and we’re still not totally safe. Anti-Semitism has been on rise in the last decade. I’ve experienced it. So a place where we could be safe doesn’t sound awful.

Should we be willing to kill others to get it? Absolutely not. Full stop. We should know better. The Jewish people are well known for using phrases like “Never again” and “Never forget.” But it shouldn’t only apply to our own circumstances. It needs to apply to everyone who faces oppression. If it doesn’t, then we’re violating the modern meaning of Tikun Olam, and that sucks.

It’s time for Israel to wake up and take a long look in the mirror and check out what it’s become.

And then go the fuck to therapy and stop killing people.

#politics #if you come at me and tell me that They started it or "Israel is defending itself #Then we're gonna have to start looking at how big Israel's military is #and that in itself is a rude awakening #because it's enormous and their responses are far from proportional #AOC called it an apartheid state and she's probably right

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rainbowvamp · 3 years

Text

Miracle Merlin

Hi Friends! So.. I'm about to drop 4 chapters of the Princess Bride AU in one day. Sorry about that. :) Fill for “The Blessed Ones” for Albion Party Week 2 (plus red)

Warnings? some mentions of Gwen’s trauma around the color red and trauma in general. More Gwen and Merlin :)

To catch you up: Elyan asked Merlin to take Gwen as an apprentice so he could sell the forge and pursue revenge. This is establishing the Gwen & Merlin dynamic. I think it’s cute. :)

WC: 6.9k || Previous chapters. 1 2 3 4 5

----

At first light, the day after it is decided that Merlin will take Gwen with him, Gwen and Merlin ride out the half day to the nearest market, Merlin’s list and pouch of gold at the ready.

Gwen has to ride with him on the way there, because Elyan and Gwen don’t have a horse. It’s uncomfortably close, having to keep hold of Merlin’s waist, but she doesn’t waver when Elyan helps her on, and she doesn’t flinch when she settles behind him.

The ride to town is quiet. Gwen doesn’t feel much like talking, and Merlin doesn’t force it. They will probably have to find lodgings in the town, or else make camp, he tells her, but other than that he says nothing.

They arrive when the sun is beating down on them, and take lunch at a stall. Sweet bread drizzled with honey that is more decadent than anything she has allowed herself since her father died. She didn’t choose it, never would have presumed to, and by the look on Merlin’s face she thinks he might be bribing her. Either way, she enjoys the rare treat and even licks her fingers clean when she’s finished. Merlin hands her a cloth to wipe her face with, and she does so graciously before they set off to buy what they need.

Merlin is not rich, by any means, but what he buys her is far more than she likely would have ever afforded on her own. He buys her a couple of traveling dresses she’ll have to adjust, and a pair of boots she’ll have to stuff the toes of to keep them tight on her feet. He promises to have better things made for her, but she tells him over and over that this will be enough for her. She’s been wearing her mother’s altered clothes for years, she hardly needed anything made new for her when what they could find was just fine.

The traveling gear he buys after he buys her her own horse. It’s a beautiful creature, even if she’s getting on in years. Merlin hadn’t expected he’d be leaving with a companion, or he’d have brought a horse with him. “It’s always easier to fetch a good price for a horse that isn’t needed desperately,” he tells her. It reassured her a bit that Merlin had never intended to whisk her away, and was truly doing it at Elyan’s request.

Merlin’s idle chatter is soft spoken, and she finds him an easy companion once she has her own horse to ride. Merlin inquires about lodging, but it’s no good. Everything’s booked up and they’ve spent enough time in town that they’ll never make it back before dark, even with summer’s longer days.

“I know a place we can make camp. Come on.” He clicks his tongue and his horse just seems to know where to go. Her own follows suit without her even having to command it. That’s very helpful, but she wonders if it’s the horse’s training or Merlin’s magic that makes her follow him.

They make camp in a small clearing of trees that Gwen doesn’t remember having seen before. The grass is short, but plush, and the bedroll she lays out on it doesn’t feel as thin for it. They supped at the inn, and so now all that’s left is to sleep. She stripped to just her chemise while hiding behind one of the horses, wrapping herself in the thick blanket that still smelled new to preserve her modesty.

“You’ll want to keep that blanket with you. It will get cold tonight. The enchantment to make your clothes waterproof is too complicated to do on the road, so if you get up after the dew has formed, try not to let anything get too wet.” Merlin gives her several similar instructions about sleeping out in the open, and then he walks the perimeter of their camp, muttering to himself.

This, he doesn’t explain, but she feels entitled to know. So once he comes back to his bedroll, she asks him.

“Wards.” He says with an easy shrug. “I always put them up when I’m not home. It keeps away ne'er-do-wells and any opportunistic thieves. It won’t stop someone determined to find us, that sort of magic is harder to do, but it will misdirect anyone who might just happen to stumble upon us.”

That did seem like a handy bit of magic. Gwen nodded, satisfied, and settled herself down to sleep, careful to keep herself covered completely in the blanket.

“You need sleeping clothes.” Merlin muttered, but it seemed to be mostly to himself. She quite agreed, but she hadn’t really thought of it during the day.

The pillow she uses is rough, and better suited for laying on her back than on her side. She finds that she can’t sleep with all the thoughts of what may be in her future. There’s a very real chance, no matter what Elyan or Merlin say, that she’ll be burned at the stake for Merlin’s magic. She finds it hard to care about that, though, when she knows that if Elyan and his treasonous plans are discovered, he’ll be killed and she’ll be all alone in the world.

The stars are easier to focus on, so she turns her attention to the clear sky.

The canopy of trees breaks toward the center of the clearing, and so she looks there for the few star formations she remembers. Hunt as she might, she can’t find anything that she recognizes. It’s disappointing, but she just pulls her blanket in closer to her chin and reminds herself that stars rise and fall just like the sun does, and she could very well see some later.

“That’s the great bear, there.” Merlin says, startling Gwen and making her sit up, clutching her blanket to her. He laughs, and she looks at him, indignant that he could be laughing at a time like this.

He’s still laying down, looking up at the same patch of clear sky she had been. “Not in the woods. Up in the stars. The great bear is just there.” He points and she tries to follow his line of sight, but it’s useless. He seems to see her struggle and he gets up, in only hit shirtsleeves and his trousers, and lays down beside her to get a better look at her vantage point. “Alright, see” He points his finger and she leans her head closer to him to try and see what he sees. “By that leaf, that’s the bear’s body.” He makes a square with his finger and she can sort of start to see it. “There’s his head, and his two legs.”

“Where are the other two?” She asked, and he laughed.

“Probably hiding. Or maybe he’s just got the two.” He shrugged. When Gwen focused she could see the shape that he was pointing out, and though this wasn’t one of the ones her mother had taught her, she’d try to watch for it, now. He points again and shows her Lyra, which was one of the one’s she’d been looking for, though she hadn’t called it by that name. Her mother had shown it to her, the musician’s constellation.

“My mother told me the story of that one, when I was young.”

“Did she? I think every culture tells it a little differently. What did she say?”

Gwen settles in, turning her body unconsciously to face him while she kept her face turned toward the sky. “There was once a girl who sang and played so beautifully, that she was the envy of all the five kingdoms. She traveled for miles and miles to bring her music to new places, and to bring joy to the people she met. But one day, a man was jealous of the power she had, and he slew her, and broke her instrument. The gods were so displeased that they sent wild dogs to attack him and tear him to pieces, but they never touched the girl’s body. She was found by the townspeople, who loved her music so much they buried her with a brand new lute so she could sing and play in the afterlife. The gods immortalized her in the stars, and she watches over musicians who travel alone.”

Merlin laughed, turning to face her, despite the hard ground beneath him. “I’ve never heard that version.”

“My father used to tell my mother not to make up stories, so it’s possible she just made it up.” Gwen smiled, but it wasn’t nearly so joyous as Merlin’s as the weight of memories pressed in on her. “She never went to school, or had tutors, but she was a very smart woman. She always told the best stories.”

“You may have inherited her gift.” Merlin tucks a stray hair back into her cap and lays a soft kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight Gwen.”

She’s so flushed by the action that she stays frozen there for a time. When her senses finally return to her she turns away from him, completely lost for words at his actions. They weren’t family, and they were barely friends. It was totally inappropriate to kiss her. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this was a mistake. The anxiety of that thought made her wake several times in the night, and she could never seem to get back to sleep peacefully.

In the morning, she finds the grass wet with dew, and she takes heed of Merlin’s warning not to get her blankets wet. She puts on the same dress she’d worn yesterday, since the traveling dresses wouldn’t quite fit her, and for the sake of her modesty didn’t change her chemise. She’d change when they returned home.

Home. Well, not home for long, was it? They’d pack up the few things Gwen had, she’d say goodbye today, and they’d likely be on the road again tomorrow. That wouldn’t give her enough time to mend her dresses…

“Come along, Gwen, we’re losing daylight.”

It was just past first light, but sure, they were losing daylight.

Merlin gave her a helping of bread and cheese and an apple for breakfast, and they ate while they packed up camp. Gwen was glad that she had her own horse to pack, and that she’d likely be able to decide where everything went and how to organize it without having to deal with Merlin’s input. She’s spent years having to cater to what Father and Elyan liked best in the house, and this space would be just for her.

Well, at least that was one good thing to come from her brother selling her off to a wizard he met in the forest once.

She sighed at herself and tightened the clasp of her saddlebag too much in her frustration. Elyan wasn’t selling her. No money was exchanging hands. Essentially, she was going to work for Merlin. She’d even make a small wage. Not much, but with her room and board covered by Merlin, she wouldn’t need much. Just maybe to have for emergencies, and to keep her wardrobe up to date.

She’d already tried to talk him into considering everything he bought her yesterday a loan, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Called it part of the favor he was doing for Elyan. She couldn’t begrudge his logic, because she couldn’t have afforded half the supplies she needed without his help, but she still wished he’d let her pay him back.

Well, her gratitude would just have to come out in the work she did. Gwen was no stranger to hard work, and she’d do the best she could for Merlin, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he needed her for.

——

They’d been living and traveling together for several months, now. Gwen had a routine, all her supplies fit, and she enjoyed the work. She liked to think that she was picking up medicine quickly. Plus, being able to help people, attend to their needs and make them feel better was fulfilling.

They were just about to set out to help a pregnant woman give birth when Merlin surprises her.

“I’ve been thinking I’d like you to train as a midwife.” He doesn’t even look in her direction, just continues saddling his horse. “I’ve found women are much more responsive when it’s other women helping them through the birth. What do you think?”

Now he looks up at her, piercing blue eyes curious, but unwavering. He wanted her to do this. Really.

“I mean- I would- I think that would be great.” Gwen didn’t have much understanding of what a midwife did. She’d never had occasion to know more than the basics about childbirth. This would be only the second birth she was present for, aside from her own, but Gwen imagined that it would be a bit uncomfortable to have a man poking around down there who wasn’t your husband.

Merlin smiles at her, bright and warm. “Good. There’ll be a midwife in attendance today. I’m mostly going in case bleeding gets out of control or there’s something wrong with the baby. Young mothers.” He shrugged, and she couldn’t tell what the look of disapproval was on his face. “There can be complications, but she’s married, and it’s all above board, and so, we’ll be seeing to her.”

Ahh. He thinks the girl was too young to be married. She can see it in the way his shoulders are stiffening and his movements are a little more jerky than is normal for him.

“How old is she?” Gwen asked, and Merlin has to pause a moment before he answers.

“15.”

“And the husband?” Gwen hates to ask, but she needs to know what she’s walking into.

“26.”

Gods, that’s older than Elyan. Imagine Elyan being married to a 15 year old girl. She shook her head, thanking the gods once again that Elyan hadn’t forced her to marry. And Gwen was 18.

“I can’t do anything to help her.” Merlin said quietly, and Gwen looked over her horse at him. “But we’ll do what we can to make the birth easy. The midwife will be inside with her, and probably the girls’ mother. Between the three of you, she should have everything she needs.”

Gwen nods and mounts her horse, bags packed and ready to go.

—

It takes a year for Gwen to be trained enough as a midwife to attend births on her own. And “on her own” actually means with Merlin attending along side her, but their services count as one fee, and so for families with less money, it’s much more affordable to have Gwen there than an more qualified midwife. And Merlin is there to answer questions if she needs any help.

Merlin is very encouraging, and Gwen does very well for being so new. Merlin tells her she’s a natural with patients, and Gwen is inclined to believe him.

She likes helping with babies, though it does make her very glad she doesn’t have to have one anytime in the near future. Cleaning them up and handing them off to their mother for the first time is a always a joy. Watching a mum and dad coo over their new little baby. It really made this job feel worth it.

It’s birthing season, lots of babies this time of year, and this is their third birth this month. As eager as Merlin was to have Gwen trained as a midwife, she thinks that Merlin prefers these sorts of calls to the ones where they’re tending the injured. The eldest daughter of the household had offered them each a mug of warm cider and a sweet roll while they waited for the mother to finish the first feed, for Merlin to give her and the baby a last check to make sure everything was going to heal alright and the baby was as healthy as could be.

“Do you two have any children?” The eldest daughter asked. Sigrid, Gwen thinks her name is. The birth was early, the baby crowning when they got there, so she hadn’t had much of an introduction.

“No,” Merlin answered easily, not an ounce of unease in his tone. She doesn’t know how he can say that so easily. She always feels awkward anytime anyone assumes they’re married. Gwen does wear a ring on her finger like they’re married, but that’s mostly for appearances sake.

As Merlin has grown more and more dear to her over the year, the question has only become more awkward, more intrusive. And Gwen always felt powerless beneath it.

Because there’s no hint of briskness in Merlin’s tone, the girl doesn’t catch on that these are questions better left unasked and presses on. “Any plans to?”

Gwen had liked the girl, really she had, until she started asking these sorts of prying questions that were honestly better left unspoken.

“It’s a sore subject,” Merlin took a sip of his cider and reached across the table to squeeze Gwen’s hand and break the building tension inside her.

The girl looks away then. The implication is that they have tried, and could not, which would be hard to discuss for anyone. The girl gets up and busies herself tidying the already immaculate kitchen, but Gwen is just relieved not to be in her company any longer. She sends Merlin a grateful smile and he returns it easily.

A few minutes later, the husband comes out and lets them know that the wife and baby are ready for their last check in. Gwen sees to the wife while Merlin looks over the baby. She sees him slip a drop of the potion he gave most babies to stave off sickness, but the wife is listening to her explain next steps for her recovery that she probably knows all too well.

The woman seems surprised when she recommends abstention from “wifely duties,” with the implication being sex specifically, for at least a month, preferably longer. Gwen only nods and assures her that yes, she really does mean a month.

And by the time everything is done and she and Merlin are packed, it’s only barely past noon. They accept a bit of food for the journey home, the small amount of pay Merlin takes for births, and they head back home. The ride should only be a few hours, and they can make it back easily before nightfall. This time of year the roads are well kept, and the traveling is pleasant. Gwen never used to move around this much before she met Merlin. It was… really refreshing.

So was Merlin’s company. He was just so much more accepting than most people she knew. Growing up in a small village, the blacksmith’s daughter, she’d been fairly sheltered. And even after her Father died, Elyan was always there to scare off anyone who even thought twice about Gwen (right up until he’d decided it was time to marry her off).

So this feeling she had for Merlin, whatever it was, was strange and new and left her stomach dancing in a way that was unpleasant to experience, but still somehow made her smile. She was afraid to call it what it might be, and so she didn’t. She just enjoyed herself as best she could.

They pass a mother duck and her little ducklings that make Gwen laugh and smile. Merlin smiles as well, but he’s not nearly so amused. Mostly thoughtful.

“Would you?” He asks her, while he’s still looking at the ducklings. He even turns back to watch them once they ride past, which Gwen finds just as strange as his incomplete question.

“Would I what?” Her lip quirked up at one corner, watching Merlin like she was afraid he’d lost his marbles.

“Like to have kids one day.”

She and Merlin have had a lot of very awkward conversations in the year and a half that she has been his assistant. There was the time she’d bled through her dress in the night and had to explain why she so desperately needed to find somewhere private to change and clean up. Then there was the incident where she’d had to establish that, yes, she did still want Merlin to not look at her while she changed, even though they’d been living together in a one room hut for a year. And they’d even had a frank talk about self-stimulation in men shortly after a visit with a patient where they’d walked in on something that left Gwen a little shaken.

Somehow, Merlin asking her if she wanted kids felt worse than all those conversations combined.

It wasn’t, it just felt worse, Gwen knew. She was making a bigger deal out of it than she needed to.

“Right now? Not particularly. I’m only 20. I’ve years to think about it.” Gwen was proud of how she managed to keep her tone even. Maybe she was learning more from Merlin than just medicine.

Merlin nodded keeping his eyes firmly ahead. “I’m sure you do.”

Gwen thinks maybe the conversation will end there, but it doesn’t.

“If that were something you wanted, you would have to find it elsewhere. Not that I don’t love children, I just… don’t have any interest in having them. Or in having any kind of relationship that would lead to them.”

Gwen suddenly feels very put on the spot. She doesn’t look at Merlin, and the way her whole body tightens, trying to reel herself in, accidentally signals the horse to go faster. It looks like she’s running off.

Well, maybe she is. Maybe she should. What a strange and terrible thing to say to her.

“My brother made it very clear that there was nothing like that between us.” Gwen holds her head high, even though her chest is tight and her throat is aching with a desire either to scream or sob.

“I know. But… I know these things sometimes happen. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.” He sounds a bit contrite, at least.

“You think very highly of yourself, Merlin.” Her tone is harsh, making it very clear that she is insulting him.

He doesn’t speak again, seeing that the battle is lost, and they ride most of the way back in silence.

When they arrive back at home, Gwen doesn’t ask Merlin if anything needs doing. She goes straight to the back, fetches her thimble and her sewing, and starts work on her embroidery. Elyan was due for a visit in a months time, and she’d wanted to give him a little handkerchief with his initials stitched on it on the finest piece of fabric she could afford. It also served as a distraction from Merlin, the man who acts too cool to care right up until he puts a foot in his mouth.

Even with the thimble, she stabs herself a few times, and she has to stop once, to staunch the blood flow on the underside of her apron before she continues. She can hear Merlin puttering around with his potions and his tinctures on the other side of the house, but she doesn’t pay him any mind, just like he doesn’t pay her mind.

They don’t speak again till supper.

Gwen cooks, as she always does. Merlin can cook, but it’s mediocre, and Gwen has no patience for subpar food. He’d complained more than once that she was trying to make him fat, but she’d just tell him to do more hard labor. It always evened out for Elyan and her father, at least.

There’s no remark about Gwen trying to fatten Merlin up, or even a lighthearted comparison of Gwen’s cooking to another place or time in Merlin’s life. They eat quietly, but just for a few minutes, before Merlin feels the need to speak.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier. I really did just want to make sure we were on the same page.”

“Yes, and you made yourself very clear.” Gwen muttered, stabbing a piece of a potato more harshly than she meant to, cutting it clean in half.

“I only meant. I can’t love, Guinevere.”

She hates when people use her full name. None the less, it catches her attention. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t love?’” It was the stupidest, strangest, vaguest confession she’d ever heard. Gwen had watched Merlin fight tooth and nail for the lives of his patients, spend hours upon hours developing remedies, and secreting magic just beneath the noses of common people to cure their sicknesses.

What part of that wasn’t love?

“I mean that… I mean, well, I do love you. But I love you like a very dear friend. I’m not capable of anything else. I can’t love a woman like a man might love his wife.”

She raises her eyebrows, thinking, and then her mouth pops open. “Oh.”

Suddenly, his bachelorhood well into his twenties, despite being more than capable of supporting a family, made much more sense.

She paused, trying to find the right words to say what she wanted to say, trying to be delicate. “You… prefer the company of men?” It’s a question, and she’s not sure how he’ll take it, but she feels like she has to ask.

He smiled, but his eyes don’t meet hers, and the corners of them stay turned down, sad and wary.

“I don’t prefer any company at all.” He shrugs, and his lips are thin, tight, like he’s waiting for some sort of rejection.

It’s hard for Gwen to imagine that he simply doesn’t love, but she does believe him. She nods her head and puts her hand on his, much like he had done to her earlier that day. It has the desired effect, draws him out of his thoughts, his eyes back on her. “I understand.”

He still looks so sad though.

Gwen doesn’t push it. She retrieves her hand and goes back to her supper, giving Merlin the opportunity to do the same and put the whole thing behind them.

She’s had many awkward conversations with Merlin, and will likely have many more as his assistant, but there was one thing she could say for these talks. Eventually, slowly, they learned and grew from them. In the end, their friendship was stronger for having spoken than it would have been otherwise.

—

One of the reasons Gwen likes Merlin is that he always asks for her opinion. Anytime something affects both of them, he takes what she will think into consideration. This is especially true when a messenger rides in one evening and asks Merlin to go to Camelot proper to try and heal the King’s ward.

“What’s wrong with her?” Merlin asks while Gwen hangs back, images of men in Camelot red glimpsed through trees, of blood on dirt floors and Elyan’s broken ankle coming to the forefront of her mind, more prevalent than the scene actually playing out in front of her.

“She won’t eat, isn’t sleeping well. They’ve had to force feed her, but she’s withering away still. No energy to get out of bed. Her parents died just a few months ago. The physician on hand couldn’t find anything wrong with her physically, but the King refuses to accept that. He’s looking for second opinions.”

“Camelot is a far ride.” When he says this, he glances back at Gwen, though she doesn’t see him. She’s chewing the extra length of her fingernail off, eyes focused somewhere Merlin can’t see but knows all too well.

“The king will provide you with money and protection for your travels.” The messenger doesn’t even spare a glance for Gwen, and Merlin is grateful for that. She didn’t need any more stress than she probably already had.

Even though the messenger doesn’t look her way, Merlin takes a step or two subtly to the right, so that the messengers gaze moves completely away from Gwen when he looks at Merlin.

“Let me think it over. There’s a woman who houses people for just a few coins down the road. See about getting yourself a room for the night and I’ll have my decision for you in the morning.”

“The king will not accept a no.” The messenger said, and Merlin nodded.

“I’ll see.”

The messenger goes and Gwen’s breaths deepen from the shallow, fearful things they’d been, practically gasping now. Neither of them had expected a Camelot man to knock on their door that evening, and Gwen had already been about to settle into bed. Merlin took her wrist, subtly feeling for the beat of her heart while he lead her to the bed, sitting her down on it gently.

Gwen looks between Merlin and the door, like she’s afraid of something and Merlin pats her hand before he gets up to bolt it closed.

“He’ll be back in the morning.” Merlin said with a sigh. “He already knows where we are, so a misdirection spell won’t work. If you don’t want to go, we can pack a few things and go on the road for a few days. He’ll give up looking for us eventually.” Merlin went through his potions, looking for the calming draught he sometimes gave her.

“If I don’t want to go?” Gwen asked, looking at Merlin like he’d grown a second head.

He looked over his shoulder at her, brows furrowed. “The man killed your father, Gwen. I’m hardly going to force you to service his ward. It’s your decision.”

“My decision?” This is a question, but it’s not one she’s posing to him. When he returns with her calming drought, mixed into a cup of cider, she’s looking at a blank spot on the floor, but seeing nothing he can see.

He sits beside her and presses the cup into her hands, muttering a quick warming spell so it’d be more comforting.

“Merlin?” She asked when she’s held the cup for several minutes without taking a drink from it.

“Yes?”

“If we don’t go, that girl will die, won’t she?” Her eyes finally meet his, and he is moved by the determination beneath her own uncertainty.

He tries to ease her mind a bit, “It’s possible that someone else will find a cure for what ails her.”

“But it’s not certain.”

“No.” Merlin nodded, “But it’s not certain that I will be able to heal her either.”

“But you have a better chance than anyone else, because you cheat.” The last bit is teasing, more light hearted than anything that has happened in the house since the messenger walked in.

“I maintain that using magic is just taking advantage of all my resources, not cheating.” He bumps her shoulder with his and she smiles for the first time since the knock had come upon their door.

“You can keep saying it, but that doesn’t make it true.” Her gaze fixes on the a spot on the floor again, and Merlin sits quietly, waiting for her verdict.

Eventually she nods and turns her head up, squaring her shoulder like she’s bracing herself for her own decision. “If we don’t go, and she dies, I’ll never be able to live with myself.” She nods, but this is most certainly reassurance for herself, because she doesn’t even look at Merlin. “We’ll go, and you’ll do the best you can for her. I hate Uther, but that doesn’t mean his ward deserves any less than anyone else.”

Merlin grins and pulls his friend into a hug. “You’re one of the strongest, bravest women I have ever known.”

She laughed. “You’re just saying that because you don’t know very many women.”

“I know plenty of women. Great women. It’s a very high compliment.” His tone is earnest, sincere, when he says this, and he feels Gwen clutch him a bit harder, making the hug more firm.

“Thank you.”

“It will be okay. I’ll make sure you never have to see him.”

“You can’t promise that.” She said, rolling her eyes at him to keep herself from being scared again.

“Well, I can promise I’ll do my best.” He kissed the top of her head, just like that first night almost two years ago now. “Get ready for bed. I’ll settle the house for the night. You’ll need your rest.”

Gwen nods and Merlin gets up to put out the candles in the main room and close all the windows up for the night.

Merlin always gives her a choice, always listens to what she has to say, and she appreciates that so much.

—

In the morning they set off, Merlin packing much like he would to go to a house call for an unknown ailment. He takes nearly everything with him that he can, putting some of the overflow in Gwen’s bag and leaving some of their traveling gear in the care of their messenger, now turned guide. The man’s Camelot red is much more brilliant in the light, and Gwen is grateful for the spell Merlin does to make her horse follow his. She looks just slightly away from the path in front of her, where Merlin rides alongside the messenger she now knows to be a knight, and tries not to think about where they are going or whose company they may soon be in.

They make quick time to Camelot’s castle, and true to his word, Merlin tells the knight to show Gwen to their accommodations for the short time they’ll be there, rather than bringing her with him to see the king. Gwen doesn’t think that Merlin is particularly fond of Uther either, considering his magic ban is what keeps Merlin from practicing openly, but he never gives any sort of indication of it. Just smiles and leaves her and the knight with their things to make their introductions.

It is much more difficult to follow the knight on her own two feet, especially laden down as she is with equipment and supplies. The way the red cape flows behind him reminds her too much of a party of knights glimpsed through woods when she was just 15.

The knight is nice, at least. Tries to make small talk and be kind to a woman who is so obviously afraid of him. She does him the courteousy of at least looking up at him to thank him for helping her with her things and showing her to the room. He bows to her, and she is struck by the gesture. Being the supposed wife of a physician did leave her in a higher class than a simple servant, or blacksmith’s daughter, but she hardly earned such a show of deference. He leaves and only says, “I’m Sir Leon, if you require anything else.”

She doesn’t plan to require anything.

In their room, an empty space in the servant’s quarters with only one bed, Gwen unpacks Merlin’s medicines and supplies from their careful travel wrappings and puts them back in the order that she knows he prefers them for treatments. As she’s sorting through the bottles of potion, she notices that some of them are ones she’s never seen before, or only seen once or twice. When Merlin had said he was bringing everything, he’d really meant everything.

“There you are.” Merlin said from the door well after Gwen had finished organizing their things. “Let’s go and meet our new patient, shall we?”

They don’t actually meet their new patient first. At the door, waiting for them, is the crown prince, Arthur Pendragon. Gwen had heard a few snippets about the prince, but she’d never thought she’d meet him. At first glance, he came off very unkind and almost brusk, but it took only a few questions from Merlin about Morgana’s condition to realize that his standoffishness was born from worry. He cared about Morgana, and he was concerned for her wellbeing. Of course he was a little bit harsh.

Gwen stood by and listened while Merlin asked questions, getting more and more specific. Asking about her loss, asking if there were anything else that she might be upset about. Arthur tells him that previous doctors have determined it must be mind sickness, and Merlin confirms that this is his theory as well, just based on the symptoms that he’s heard.

Gwen and Merlin go in behind Arthur, but the Crown Prince stands to the side and lets them work. Gwen sets out one of Merlin’s bags on the bench at the foot of the bed, and Merlin sets his own carelessly aside, choosing instead to go through the contents Gwen has placed. Merlin has his back to the Arthur, so he doesn’t see the flash of gold in Merlin’s eyes, a part of his regular examinations, but Gwen does. He nods his head while he’s looking through the potion bottles and he reaches for one that Gwen has never seen him use. It’s a soft purple color, clear with a few small flowers suspended in it.

“Take this.” He says to Morgana while the woman looks off in the distance, like she can’t even be bothered to focus on what’s being said.

Merlin’s beside manner is never usually this curt, and Gwen huffs a bit at him before taking the potion from his hand and setting it on the nightstand. Whatever it is, he thinks that it will cure her, and Gwen will make sure she gets it.

“He looks very young, doesn’t he?” Gwen asks. It’s a problem they’ve faced before, where people who didn’t know Merlin worried about his skill, and so she tried to reassure her, smoothing a strand of hair that was very nearly falling into her eye away from her face. “He is, but he is very knowledgeable. Studied with all the best physicians in the five kingdoms.” Gwen smiles softly, her tone gentle and calming. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” She takes Morgana’s hand and after a few idle seconds, she squeezes it. Morgana squeezes back and Gwen smiles. “Good. I’m Guinevere, Merlin’s assistant. We need to sit you up so you can take the medicine Merlin has for you. Do you mind if I help you sit up?”

Morgana says nothing, and Gwen frowns, tilting her head like she’s thinking, the funny little wrinkle forming between her brows that Merlin finds such delight in.

“Squeeze my hand if it’s okay for me to help you sit up.” She tries again. There is a little delay between her question and the responding squeeze, but once she has her permission, Gwen helps Morgana sit up in bed, careful to leave the sheet covering her from her chest down, since it looks like she’s only in her chemise. The crown prince moves to adjust her pillows and she smiles gratefully at him, trying to be reassuring in the same glance, but his eyes stay hard and untrusting.

According to the prince, a dozen physicians had been to see her already, and none had any effect. It only made sense that he was starting to lose hope.

“There, now. I’m going to give you the medicine. Drink it if you can.” She puts the bottle to her lips, and when they part, Gwen carefully tilts the bottle, letting the contents drip slowly into her mouth.

The bottle empties relatively quickly, and Gwen lets Morgana relax. Maybe it was because she was sitting up, or maybe Merlin’s potion was already working, but Gwen could swear some of the pallidness of her cheeks was starting to fade, and a bit of rose was returning to her lips.

“What did you give her?” Arthur asks Merlin, who is still much less receptive and kind than he usually is. Gwen finds it strange, but she’ll ask him about it later.

“Something to ease the mindsickness. It won’t cure it. Nothing will cure it but time, but the symptoms, the body ache, the lack of drive and appetite, will all be decreased, maybe even vanish if she takes to it well.”

“You are not the first man to give her something meant to cure mind sickness. What will you do if it doesn’t work?” Arthur’s tone is accusatory, and Gwen bites her tongue. He is worried for Morgana, and she can excuse his brashness because of that, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“It will work.” Is all Merlin says, and Gwen can hardly believe that he’s being so dismissive to a royal. Of course, Merlin has always been a little funny. What else did she expect?

“It’d better. You’re dismissed.” Arthur returns to Morgana’s side and Gwen puts the empty bottle back in the place it had come from, taking the bag of potions with her as she and Merlin leave.

In their room, with the door shut, Gwen dares to ask Merlin what he’s given her.

“It’s safe.” He said dismissively, rather than explaining himself, and this was the first clue Gwen had that something was suspicious about this remedy.

“Of course it’s safe.” Gwen said while unpacking the two extra dresses she had brought and hanging them in the wardrobe to be ironed later. She also hung up Merlin’s two sets of clothes, but he’d have to iron those himself. “But that isn’t what I asked. You examined her. What was wrong?”

“Mindsickness, just like I said. The potion will counteract the worst of it, and she should be back to herself in a couple days.”

“You’re not worried someone will be suspicious of her being better so quickly?”

“She won’t be better, not really. The symptoms will just be gone.”

Gwen looks at Merlin, who pretends to be sorting through his potions. He’s hiding something, and she doesn’t know what, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

#albionparty21 #merlin #gwen #arthur #fic #leon #pbau proper #pbau #lysa's pbau

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pearlsephoni · 4 years

Text

When Immortal Meets Ineffable

Can also be read on AO3

Rating: G

Fandoms: Good Omens, The Old Guard

Pairings: Joe/Nicky, Aziraphale/Crowley (ofc)

Summary: Nicky's love for books has introduced him to many wonders, but he never anticipated meeting a pair of men whose existence seems just as impossible as his own. Or: a gay, immortal couple walks into an old bookshop owned by a gay, angel/demon couple.

A/N: The sign on Aziraphale's bookshop door is real, I copied the text from here lol And I owe my life to this 3D recreation of the shop Also this is my first time attempting to publish a fic on here, so pardon any formatting weirdness. More author’s notes can be found on the AO3 page!

Immortality was exhausting. It was impossible to build a normal life and settle down without sparking suspicion, so no single place could be “home” for very long. They couldn’t build a family, or climb the ladder of a career, or even build many friendships outside of their core group.

Without the more…“standard” goals available to them, each member of the Old Guard ended up setting their own personal quests. Andy learned every language and style of martial arts she could. Booker challenged himself to try a new whiskey at every bar they visited. Joe was close to completing his goal of visiting every possible art museum in Eurasia, and would soon be expanding his scope to the world. And Nicky was determined to read as many of the world’s books as possible.

But that wasn’t the only reason why he and Joe ended up seemingly visiting every bookshop in Europe. Living forever meant you had an infinite amount of time to lose and find things, and unfortunately for Nicky, his list of lost items included a near-first edition copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Books didn’t hold the same appeal for Joe, but he was still always willing to join his life partner in his visits to bookshops. What caused him chagrin wasn’t the visits, but the seemingly futile quest to find such a rare copy of a classic book. So when Nicky immediately tugged his jacket back on to head into London, Joe was a bit more reluctant than usual.

“Hayati, wouldn’t we have better luck looking in museums for something so rare?”

“I’m not just looking for La Commedia, my heart,” Nicky reminded him with a small smile. “I need a new book to read, too.”

“Of course, and that’s why you are going to Waterstones and not another small, old bookshop?” That small smile turned guilty, and Joe couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “Do you have a destination in mind, or will you be wandering again?”

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?”

It wasn’t fair of Nicky to use his rare, broad smiles to win their smaller bickers, he knew it. But even a relationship with the love of his life wouldn’t have lasted almost a millennium without the occasional cheap trick. And it was so hard to feel guilty when his little tricks resulted in Joe’s hand warmly wrapped around his as they walked through London.

As it so happened, he did have a destination in mind: A.Z. Fell & Co., an old bookshop that he remembered seeing on a random street corner in London. It had been closed the first (and last) time he tried to pay it a visit, all those years ago, and the sign on the door detailing the store hours simply raised more questions than answers for Nicky:

Bookshop Opening Hours:

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.)

-A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

“It’s a miracle this place is still running,” Joe muttered now, squinting at the wordy sign. Nicky was more interested in the sign hanging next to it, blissfully simpler and blessedly flipped to read, “Open.” The door was unlocked, and rang with a cheerful jingle as the immortals pushed it open.

“Hello there! Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co!”

Nicky had barely been able to fully take in the warm, crowded space of the bookshop before his attention was pulled to a small, pale man dressed in a white suit. He seemingly appeared out of thin air from behind a small desk next to a bookshelf to the left. He had a bright, welcoming smile, and looked positively cherubic with his light blonde curls and rosy cheeks. “How may I help you today?”

“Oh, I-”

“We’re just looking,” Joe cut in, giving Nicky a gentle nudge. It was a reminder enough not to draw attention with their unusual search. “Wanted to see what we could find in such a unique shop.”

“Lovely! Well, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to ask!”

“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a smile, before wandering over to the cluster of bookshelves on their right, pulling Joe with him.

He always lost track of time in bookshops. Even Joe, for all he insisted that Nicky was the reader, could get lost in the trinkets and random findings to be seen in an old shop. Maybe that was why, for all their battle-honed instincts and attention to detail, they didn’t realize someone else had entered the store until a new voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Angel!”

“Ah, Crowley! What a pleasant surprise! What’re you doing here?”

“Just wanted to see what you’ve got in stock.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not, I was going to ask you to lunch.”

“Oh! Well...that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just close my shop in the middle of the day!”

“Yes you can, it’s your shop, if anyone can, it’s you.”

“But I have customers! Like...like these young men!”

Nicky, with a thousand years of life behind him, never thought of himself nor Joe as “young.” No matter how ageless they were, every year weighed on them, a burden that was only bearable because they didn’t have to weather it alone. So it didn’t occur to him that they were the “young men” the shop owner referred to, until the small, pale man suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Hello there! May I help you with anything?”

A Genovese curse flew from his lips, followed by a grunt after Joe gently pinched him. Nicky smiled apologetically at the owner. “Sorry, ah...we’re alright, just looking.”

“Yes, well…” The shop owner had a confused tilt to his eyebrows, at odds with his kind smile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but...was that Old Genovese you were speaking?”

“You recognize it?” Nicky blurted out before he could stop himself. It had been centuries since either of the immortals had met someone else who knew the language.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” A pink tint had risen to the small blonde’s cheeks, and his eyes now had a proud glint to them. “That’s very impressive, I didn’t think anyone spoke it anymore!”

“No...neither did we.” He glanced at Joe, and was met with eyes that looked as disconcerted as he felt.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you need help with anything!” The shop owner cheerfully strolled back to the counter, where his friend - Crowley, Nicky remembered - was staring at him and Joe with what felt like suspicion, even through his sunglasses. The redhead murmured something to the blonde that made the latter glance back at them with another smile, one that Nicky returned before he quietly urged Joe behind another bookshelf.

“What the hell?” Joe hissed as soon as they were out of eyeline of the shop owner.

“Language, tesoro mio.”

Joe’s words switched to old Maghrebi, but remained just as confused and indignant. “Nico, we haven’t met anyone else who speaks Genovese in decades, maybe even centuries, if we don’t count linguists.”

“I know.”

“So how does an owner of an old bookshop recognize it?”

“We’ve seen some books that are much older than what we usually see in a shop like this. Maybe he recognized it from a book?” Even as he uttered the words, Nicky knew the explanation was pathetic. The look of disbelief he received from his lover let him know he wasn’t alone in thinking that.

“He said it’s been a while since he’s heard it,” Joe reminded him. “And he recognized it as it was spoken, not written down somewhere.”

“What are you trying to say? That he’s another immortal? One we somehow haven’t dreamed of in all this time?”

“No, of course not...but…” Joe peered at the shop owner and his friend through a gap in the books. “Maybe there’s something different about him. Maybe immortals aren’t the only strange people in the world.”

“Even if that were true, Yusuf, don’t you think we would have run into one before? Our abilities have been noticed before, by people who didn’t know what to look for. We of all people would have noticed if there were other powers out there.”

“Unless they do as much as we do to stay out of notice.”

It was Nicky’s turn to peer at the odd couple through the books, except this time, the redhead, Crowley, was looking right at him. Or at least, in their direction. He jerked away from the bookshelf and immediately moved deeper into the shop, tugging Joe with him. “We can talk with the others about it later. For now, let’s buy something and leave.”

“Still determined to find your book?”

Nicky offered a sweet smile to Joe, but didn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes. “Of course, my heart.”

He didn’t end up finding the book he was looking for, much to his disappointment and Joe’s quiet amusement. But he did find an old, old Italian Bible that stirred distant memories of a classroom reciting verses, and that was enough to justify the visit.

Satisfied in his choice, he moved towards the cashier register, only to be pulled up short by Joe. Nicky furrowed his brows in confusion - for someone who had been so reluctant to come, Joe suddenly seemed very keen on staying. He glanced back at him to find those dark eyes trained on the men behind the counter, one finger to his lips. Battle instincts kicked in, and he obediently trained his hearing to the low muttering coming from the other men.

“Now really, Crowley, it’s simply not possible! Even if the Almighty really did send spies after us, I would at least recognize them. I’ve never seen those men in my life!”

“Then maybe they’re demons. We’ve always had better corporeal disguises anyway. Would explain why we don’t recognize them.”

“Have you ever seen demons behave like that with each other?”

“Like what?”

“Oh come now, you must have felt it. The energy around them is downright bursting with love! It’s just like…”

“...Angel, like what?”

“W-well...like two people in love. Nothing at all like you demons behave.”

“‘You demons’? Might I remind you of who saved the most valuable books here, Aziraphale?”

It could’ve been just another argument between an old couple, especially an old married couple. There was no mistaking the love and pure affection that drenched every bickering phrase between them. But where Nicky had thought “Angel” was a sweet nickname, the casual use of terms like “demons” and “the Almighty” stirred a deeper sense of suspicion awake in him...and a rush of exhilaration. The sensible majority of his mind told him there was no earthly way he was staring at an angel and a demon. Even if angels and demons were real, they wouldn’t own an old bookshop, or walk around dressed like a dandy or an aged member of a rock band.

But a small part of him, the part of him that had him wandering to a church on calm Sundays and uttering panicked prayers over Joe’s body in the middle of battle, felt a thrill at the idea that he was staring at proof. Proof that his centuries of faith, his short-lived livelihood in the church, wasn’t in vain. When he finally tore his eyes away from the odd couple to look at Joe, he was met with a small smile of understanding under an unsure gaze. Of course his love understood what was running through his mind, even without a single word uttered between them.

Nicky took a steadying breath before he finally nodded at Joe, giving his hand a light squeeze. The shop owner and his...friend (partner?) were still bickering when they approached the cashier, and Nicky caught snippets of something about a church, a bomb, a satchel of books, before the argument was cut short by their arrival at the counter.

“Ah, gentlemen, hello again! Did you find everything alright?” the small blonde man - Azira...phale..? - greeted them with a wide smile, while Crowley simply stared at them with an unnervingly straight face. His gaze prickled at Nicky’s awareness, despite his best attempts to ignore him and return Aziraphale’s smile.

“I didn’t find the book I was looking for, but you have many rare gems here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you couldn’t find it!”

“Don’t be. We have visited almost every bookshop in Europe in search of it,” Joe snorted with a grin. “At this point it’ll take a miracle to find it.”

Aziraphale perked up at Joe’s response, and glanced eagerly at Crowley...who returned the blonde’s hopeful smile with a stony stare. A moment of silence passed before the redhead finally muttered, “Sounds like you won’t be finding it any time soon.”

“No, but that’s alright. Seeing all these wonderful little shops offers a special kind of joy,” Nicky murmured with a reassuring smile to Aziraphale. “You should be proud of this shop. It’s a lovely refuge in this city.”

The owner looked a bit crestfallen, but brightened at Nicky’s smile and words. “That’s very kind of you to say! I’ve had it for quite a while, so it’s turned into a home of sorts for me. I’m so glad it feels that way to my patrons as well!”

Crowley’s attention was back on Nicky, and even though he couldn’t see the redhead’s eyes, he didn’t feel as burdened by the scrutiny anymore. It felt somehow softer now, more of a mild annoyance as the transaction was carried out. Crowley had been so quiet throughout their visit that when he suddenly spoke up, the surprise nearly made Nicky drop the small paper bag containing his book. “Just out of curiosity...what book were you looking for?”

“Ah...an early edition of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian. First edition, if possible.”

“...Dante’s Divine Comedy?” Crowley repeated, skepticism practically dripping off his words. “You’re looking for a first edition from the late Middle Ages?”

Nicky could hear the rustle of Joe straightening just behind him, ready to defend his admittedly-futile quest. He shifted just enough to hook their pinkies together in reassurance while he shot a small smile at Crowley. “More just seeing if it’s possible to find outside of a museum.”

Crowley nodded, but he still had a small frown of disbelief on his lips as he wandered towards the bookshelves at the very back of the shop. Aziraphale watched him meander away with wariness and hope lining his eyes, a combination of emotions that made Nicky wonder what kind of history the odd couple shared to prompt that kind of response.

“Nicolo,” Joe murmured, pulling him out of his idle curiosity. “We should be going. Andy will wonder what happened to us.”

“Right...yes, of course.” Nicky smiled again at Aziraphale, who suddenly looked panicked at their impending departure. “Thank you again.”

“Oh, are you leaving so soon? A-are you sure I can’t help you find anything else? I have other first editions that might interest you!”

“Really, it’s alright-”

“Here we are.” Crowley was suddenly back at Aziraphale’s side, tossing a book onto the countertop with a carelessness that became alarming when Nicky realized what he was staring at: an old, worn volume, the cover made of what used to be red leather, but was now faded into a dull brown. Pressed into the leather, and traced with gold flakes, were the words “La Commedia.” Nicky reached out to brush the worn cover, gingerly lifting it to reveal the title page, where he could read the publication date: 1438. “This...this is…”

“Not quite first edition, but about as good as you’re gonna get outside of a museum.” Crowley’s voice was casual, as if he had simply found any old book. But his smirk was smug, the gravity of his achievement definitely not lost on him, especially when Aziraphale was staring at him in what could only be described as adoration.

“How...how did you find this?”

“Call it a little miracle. How much does a little miracle cost, angel?”

“Oh, ah...well, the best miracles are priceless, wouldn’t you say?”

Nicky’s gaze jerked away from the book to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “No, I’m sorry, I cannot in good faith take this without paying you.”

“No, really-”

“Please, I insist-”

The shopowner was strangely reluctant to give Nicky a price, but with Joe’s help, they were able to settle on an amount. By the time they left the bookshop, it was even later than they had planned on leaving, but Nicky was in such a daze of disbelief over his luck, Joe ended up being the one to call Andy.

“Boss, we know, we’re sorry, but you’ll never believe- no, trust me, even Booker will get excited over this. We’ll be there soon, it will be worth the wait, I promise.” He laughed as he tucked his phone away, shaking his head fondly at Nicky. “Well, my heart, I hope this find is worth Andy’s wrath. She is not happy with us.”

“Yusuf...who were those men?” Nicky was staring numbly into the bag, still not believing the impossibly old book he held in his hands.

“What do you mean?”

He finally looked away from his new treasure to meet Joe’s eyes. “Do you think...that maybe…”

“What? That an angel and demon helped us find a book?”

“Stranger things have been true.”

“Perhaps…” Joe’s arm wrapped around Nicky’s waist, tucking him against his body to drop a kiss to his temple. “Whatever those men were, they were kind. I hope the bookshop continues to do well.”

“Mm...thank you for coming with me.” Nicky’s smile was full of adoration, and earned him another kiss, this time on his lips.

“Of course, hayati. Anything for you.”

“Anything? Well, there’s another book I’ve been looking for-”

“Buuuuut Andy and Booker might not approve.”

After almost 1000 years, he should have been able to better resist the effect of Joe’s cheeky smile. But after almost 1000 years, Nicky wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the little joys to be found in life, especially when they came from this impossible man.

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genuflectx · 4 years

Text

4th Dimensional Being/OC - CH1

Full Length: 19,543

Chapter Length: 4,248

Main Themes: Other dimensions, tentacles, confinement, nsfw

Other Warnings: politics, "godly" behaviors, vomit, feeling of loss of autonomy, comparison to a toy

(all images in aesthetic board are labeled for reuse with modification or are mine)

I ended writing a novella... this is my longest short, non-fanfic work yet. It's not perfect but was a fun exploration of these characters and themes. Yes, there will be explicit sex in a later chapter :) Later on I will format the novella correctly for a nice little Gumroad/Patron release! Enjoy! (WILL BE NSFW IN LATER CHAPTERS)

The 4DB Chapter 1: Heartburn

“Do you need any stamps?”

The middle-aged woman re-set her teeth subconsciously and rose a brow. “No, I just came to drop off the package.” Her eyes crinkled in a way that passive aggressively said 'get on with it.'

Chris pursed her lips, features big and round with false politeness. “Okay then! If you could just insert your card-”

“Is it one that takes chips?” She interrupted.

“Yes, it's ready for you.”

The mail room was a quiet murmur as the card clacked against the plastic scanner. Eventually it happened to slipped in. “It's not doing anything.”

“You might have it in the wrong way ma'am,” Chris suggested, tense.

The woman squinted, a corner of her mouth raising in distaste. She ripped the card from its slot and turned it around. The machine asked her pin. She got it right on the third try. Finally, the package could be put in its place as the lady left with a stick up her ass.

“Some customers are just the worst,” Chris concluded as she and two of her co-workers were closing shop.

Vincent shrugged. “They just like to take out their anger on strangers to make'em feel better,” he smiled and locked the door.

Mildred chuckled and rolled her eyes, patting Chris on the shoulder. “Make sure none of them hear you talking like that!” She started to walk to her car. “I been here for a decade. You'll get used to them.”

“Well I been here a year, I ought to be too!” Chris groaned, slumping dramatically where she stood.

“Just get some rest, tomorrow's the big event!” Vincent grinned and pranced off to his own car.

Chris found her feet dragging on, her hand fumbling for keys. “Yeah yeah, see you there,” she mumbled, climbing on in with exhaustion.

She was never much of a people-pleaser, but she did her job alright. After a long exasperating work week the weekend was blessedly encroaching upon her, right along side the annual downtown gathering of Gabriel's Children. Chris was not one of those children. However, Vincent had been since the horn had first begun to blow. Chris did have to admit it was an astounding scientific phenomenon, but that's all it was. Just something science had yet to explain. The little festival the locals vended had delicious food, though. Hearing the horn was a fun little bonus.

The festivities started early in the morning and she arrived with Vincent in the afternoon. There was a talk being held at its center, which Vincent felt the need to drag her to hear after gathering snacks. They nibbled on freshly baked pastries and sipped hot coffee as a man high on the stage explained recent discoveries of the hum- another word for the horn. Chris thought maybe they'd come in a little late, as the man was already beginning to finish off his speech. Plus, it was hard to hear with the bustling of the surrounding crowd; all the people laughing and chatting and cooking at their stands, necklaces jingling and children begging parents for magnets of trumpets and angels. She strained her ears to listen.

“So if it wasn't the factory, if we are inland unlike the Children of Europe, we have no buzzing wind farms nor major fault lines, then what is it? What is the 'horn?'” He stalked across the stage, pacing and looking so, so serious. “Twenty years and we have no answers. But we know it's sped up. We know it's moved and honed in to few locations; from our little mid-American town, to Washington D.C., all the way down to the hot, dry climates of Texas.”

Chris sighed and slid further in her chair, looking bored. “We've heard all this before. They haven't learned anything new in years,” she whispered across to her excited co-worker. Vincent shushed her and she resisted a bored moan.

The speaker was unaffected, totally unaware of a particular audience member's dry indifference. “Every year now it comes, and every year we gather again to try and learn something. Anything,” he frowned.

Chris crammed cinnamon role into her gob and huffed quietly. “Good luck.” She washed it down with a big swig of coffee.

Vincent gave her a look that could melt the bones right out of her body. She smirked at him.

“Maybe this year... things will be different,” the speaker trailed off quietly and quit pacing. He became eerily still, looking out over the heads of the crowd and into the mottled stone walls of downtown. Vincent felt that he was pausing for dramatic effect, but Chris rose a brow. He'd stopped speaking, almost wall eyed.

“Shit,” Chris suddenly whispered, bringing fingers to her temples and shutting her eyes.

“You okay?” Vincent worried, glancing from her to the stage with a sense of terrible unease.

She grit her teeth and shut her eyes. Her ears were ringing, one even popped. A few seconds passed. It slowly subsided into a dull pain. “Just a weird headache? Guess it's all the noise,” she dropped her hands, exhaling.

“Guess he got one too?” Vincent gestured uncomfortably.

She followed his hand up to the stage, where the speaker was continuing to pause. By now it had just become awkward; his palm on his forehead and a pained expression encased his wrinkled visage. The crowd had begun to murmur in confusion. Slowly he swallowed, like forcing down vomit, then became relieved enough to continue.

“That's... that's all. Thank you for coming to listen to me speak,” he shuffled away to the shallow stairs and disappeared, making way for the next speaker.

“Weird,” Chris mumbled. “Maybe air pressure then? Well come on, I want to look at some shops before the countdown reaches zero.”

He jumped up enthusiastically, all starry eyed. “Yeah! I want a new key chain!”

As they carefully navigated the crowd back to the local art shops, Chris shook her head and laughed. “Don't you already have like, six trumpets?” She scolded.

He scoffed and waved a hand. “Pch, sure, but they're all different!”

An hour to go. They browsed, they made small talk, they sat stiff on freezing metal benches outside of local junk shops. Vincent not only snatched up a key chain but a copy of a screen print as well. He turned it upside down and squinted, humming. It was some abstract piece. Flat shapes seemed to wiggle around at him in a colorful confusion.

“Why don't you buy anything?” He asked, tuning the print right side up again.

She shrugged, chilled hands in warming pockets. “I'm not a tourist like you.”

“Heeey, I resent that!” He joked, trying to hide a smile.

Suddenly Chris winched, putting a hand at the nape of her neck. There it was again, that creeping feeling of a splitting headache coming back. She sighed and slowed her pace, feeling nauseous.

“Listen, I think I'm gonna head home.”

Her friend expressed disappointment. “What! It's only fifteen minutes now! Really want to miss Gabriel?”

She nodded, rubbing her neck and looking down. “Yeah, I really feel icky. Besides, I'll probably still hear it in my car if I roll the windows down. I think the crowd and air pressure are just overwhelming me.” Chris did hate to leave her friend to himself, but he was a big boy, even if he was two years younger. She just didn't feel up to staying any longer.

He pretended to pout and waved her goodbye. “See ya at work Monday,” he called across the loud, mingling voices of the festival.

Chris waved back and found her way through downtown, back out into the more empty streets. She pressed a red button. The streetlight sounded and the image turned white so she crossed swiftly on numbed feet. She made it up the car park elevator, found her car among the dimly lit concrete slopes, and finally was on her way home. The headache had yet to return during the trip so she counted herself lucky.

The roads were relatively empty due to the majority of traffic having already settled in to wait for Gabriel's horn, though a few roads were annoyingly blocked off for the event. She was deathly glad for the vacant roads that allowed her to slip out of downtown with an ease she'd not get to enjoy any other day.

“Oh right,” Chris rolled down her side window. Fresh cold air flowed in, which soothed her head a little. “Not long now.”

She was just about out of downtown when it happened. But... there was no horn. No rusty screech, no hum that she'd grown to know so well. However, there was an awful, unaccounted for noise that came from the rolling Heavens. A sharp, quick sound; a hard whispered word blasted her brain and set it on fire. It hurt like Hell. Like the loud screech of white noise when one had forgotten to turn the volume down before pressing 'on.' Chris slammed her breaks and cried, her wheels screaming. Was that what Vincent heard, waiting patiently back in the crowd? Or was it just in her head?

Chris pressed the gas gently, teeth grit and eyes barely open. She veered into an empty parking lot and stopped askew over two spaces. She yanked her hair and pressed her forehead against the wheel then suddenly felt extremely sick. She fumbled for the door then stumbled out. Chris felt pressure and collapsed clumsily to her knees against the broken asphalt. After a few moments some of the pressure let up, but then she heard that word again.

“What's wrong with me?” She slurred, feeling dizzy.

A look around found that she was very much alone. There was nothing but empty parked cars. The pain was suddenly gone. She froze and took a deep breath, her eyes re-focusing and hands shaking. She needed to go to the hospital but did not want to pay for the ambulance. Vincent could drive her. Her hand slowly retrieved the phone from her pocket, but as she pressed the button to find Vincent's contact she heard the word one last time. Sharp, quick, just like the first, but it was more clear.

“Wh-what? I'm hallucinating,” She mumbled, knowing full well that that was not the sound of Gabriel's horn.

“Chrysanthemum,” a loud-quiet voice called out in her head.

“Shit!” She dropped her phone and watched it smack against the faded asphalt.

“Chrysanthemum, don't be afraid. You are not hallucinating. The pain you felt was an... accident,” it explained, lowering its voice.

“God?” Chris called, slipping onto her butt and staring with fear into the sky. She was shaking from head to toe now.

It made a weird sound. “No, we are not a god, though we may seem it to you. We are the noise you call 'Gabriel's Horn,' but we are neither Gabriel nor Horn. The 'Horn' you've heard was merely our days affecting your years as we... tuned equipment,” Not-Gabriel explained plainly.

She glanced from cloud to cloud, brows furrowed so hard her forehead hurt. For a moment she thought if she just searched long enough she'd be able to find the face that was talking down on her.

“It will be difficult for you to understand and will take many of your days to acclimate. Do you at least understand this Chrysanthemum?” It sounded condescending at the end.

Chris scowled. “Well you can't be God if you keep using a name I don't go by,” she complained.

“We are of the 4th dimension. We are not a god. Here. I will touch your insides, it may feel strange,” it warned. “See?”

She screamed and grabbed her stomach. It felt like her acid churned, and suddenly she had heart burn. Chris burped and felt woozy. “That's... ohhh I think mm gonna pahhh-” Chris collapsed heavily to her back, unconscious.

There was nothing, nothing, nothing, then there was something. She saw herself amid a void. It was like a thick goo, as if the gas or lack of gas in the air had solidified. There was no cold nor heat, no apparent up nor down. But then, as she turned her head towards her feet, there was an illumination that lit the ground beneath her. A flat plain decorated with complex, ornate geometry rested below. She squatted against her calves, though it felt years before she came to a halt, and with every tiny change in posture she saw a ghost of her former self.

“Hello?” She called, echoing into the void. Her word simultaneously stuck in the goo and penetrated its atoms all at once. This world was a contradiction.

Something small screamed, a high-pitched trill of terror and shock. Chris glanced down at the geometry and squinted. The geometry was moving; it shivered and vibrated like cells in a body. It was all scrambling so fast compared to her.

“Hello?” She asked again, balancing with a hand so she may come closer.

It screamed again. A tiny little organism wriggled backwards, and across the plain something tickled Chris's hand. She lifted it and gawked with disgust and horror. She'd squished something, and it lay in bits in pieces.

“Whoops, I think I broke something,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Don't smite me!” Squeaked the thing by her feet.

Chris frowned. “What are you? You're so small and... flat.”

It rotated and looked around, but it never once looked up into the sky. The creature could not see anything but the outline of her shoes where she'd stepped atop its planet.

“You don't know?” It asked, sounding only slightly less panicked. “Then you're not God? Are you from Somewhere Else?”

She shook her head, confused. “No, I'm not a god. I'm Chris. And you're a cell?”

“A cell?”

“Yeah, a small organism that can group up to become a bigger organism. I'm full of them. You look like all the diagrams we used in school. But you can talk and I can see your insides. Which is the mitochondria?” She scrutinized the inside of the creature's body. It was sorta gross.

The flat creature's brain was working hard as it stared at the funny outline of Chris's shoes. She could even see it working. It nervously moved around her shape, making a full circle to get a whole picture.

“You're gigantic, please don't hurt me Chris. What do you want?”

“I don't- woah!” She began to sink. The illuminated plain was caving to her weight, but only she passed through. The plain itself remained as flat as ever. “I'm gonna fall!”

The creature's panic sky rocketed as it watched the line gyrate and change, growing larger and longer. “Ahhh!” It yelled, backing into a corner. If Chris continued to grow it would have no way of escape and be crushed against the side of a wall. “What's happening? What's wrong?”

She slipped further. Now it was Chris who was in a panic, scared of the endless black void below the flat planet. She sunk through to her elbows, leaving her to sprawl her arms and claw at the ground for purchase. Across the world her fingers scraped through a once wondrous shape, which crumpled and splintered as she accidentally destroyed its existence.

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” She freaked out, heart beating like on a roller coaster. Chris fell.

She gasped, her skin clammy and damp. Everything was too bright and she shielded her eyes.

“You're awake, good. Here,” a man said.

Chris sat up and exhaled, her eyes adjusting. She was in a stranger's house and was being handed a glass of cold water, though the ice inside had since melted. The flat planet was a dream. She had not really scraped a building from the face of a world. As she took the water, her hands shaking, she realized something.

“...You look familiar. Where am I?” She fretted, sipping a little.

He sat across from her in a chair. “What's the last thing you remember?” He asked rather than answer.

She crossed her legs atop the couch and dabbed sweat off with her sleeve. It took some brain power to get any semblance of memory going. “I had some sort of weird... episode. Then I passed out in a parking lot. I think I need a hospital,” Chris groaned.

He grinned. “So you did hear it?”

“What?”

“You heard it? The thing that says its from another dimension?” He was star-struck.

Chris stared down into her cup, thinking. Flashes came back to her until finally she remembered everything, right down to the nausea. A chill came over her body so she sat the cold water down. “It wasn't a hallucination.”

“No it wasn't!” He exclaimed, shivering with excitement. “It spoke to me too! It told me where to find you since you fell unconscious! But we aren't the only ones. It spoke to even more.”

She quirked the corner of her lips and let that information sink in. Suddenly something came to her and she tilted her head curiously. “You're that man from the stage.”

“Call me Cole,” he scooted closer and stuck out a hand.

Chris hesitated, unsure. “Chris.” She shook his hand daintily.

He explained everything. The headache, the ringing in his ears, how he'd been packing up his laptop to leave backstage when the countdown hit zero. To everyone else it had been a disappointment, for this year the horn did not hum to the eager ears awaiting it. Instead, it narrowed down its focus and spoke to them. Chris and Cole, but others, too.

“It told me there were six others. That includes you. So outside of us there are five other people it spoke to directly,” he explained.

“But... why? Just seven people?”

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged, nonchalant. “I asked, after the initial shock and having dropped my laptop (may she rest in peace). It just said: you work for your government.”

Chris looked off, expression soured. It was true. The Postal Service was a branch of the government, but she hardly equated government with the mail.

“What do you do?” She asked him nervously.

“Department of Energy.”

Chris got the creeping notion that his house was vaguely radioactive. Or, at the very least, he was. “Great.” She stretched her legs over the couch's edge and stared at her shoes awkwardly. “So now what?”

“We wait to be called upon,” he answered simply. “I'll go start some tea,” and like that Cole was out the room.

So they waited and waited. Chris thumbed through books as she did, glancing at Cole's collection and idly sipping tea. Sometimes she'd get the fear that he was making it all up, that this was all a scheme to kidnap her without freaking her out. Or that maybe he was just some guy screwing with her head. But then her stomach would churn and she'd remember how it felt to be touched. Chris felt queasy. At the same time she couldn't help but feel... honored? It was strange. This was all so new to her.

Finally it came to them. This time there was no pain, no headaches or heartburn. Cole fell to his knees as soon as the creature spoke, but Chris just sank shakily back into couch, empty teacup in hand.

“You will be transported to a location for study,” it said.

Cole nodded his head and agreed instantly, but Chris found herself asking it: “Why? And where?”

“Why: a 'mutual' exchange of information in a controlled environment. Where: the center of your 'country' in a long-term observation facility.”

She balked. “For how long?” But Cole spoke over her.

“That's brilliant! Brilliant! Have you spoke to the president? Surely you have,” he clasped his hands together and smiled.

“...Yes. Unfortunately. Some deep convincing was needed to induce submission,” it replied with obvious irritation.

Chris was uncomfortable and suspicious of the wording, though she was not surprised the president was a nuisance to converse with. The creature assured them there would be at least a day or two before anyone came for collection, so they had some time to prepare. Cole questioned why this creature could not simply pick them up and plop them back down, but it was uncertain that such action would be healthy. So again they played a waiting game.

Chris went back to her house. Cole stayed in his. Sunday dawned upon the world and there was no one yet at their doors. Chris paced uneasily in her little home, her suitcases already packed in the living room. She didn't know what to do with herself. Couldn't even stomach trying to explain anything to Vincent or Mildred. Hell, did she even want to leave? She was sure she had no choice.

Finally, come Monday morning, there was a knock at her door. She jumped from bed and scrambled to answer, a measly robe tossed across her shoulders. A stoic man dressed in all black was there to greet her, his eyes unreadable though they crinkled. She could sense some strange dread in him from his hard posture alone. Only the automatic light of her porch lit their way as this stranger led her to the car.

Cole was there, his white teeth gleaming at her as she boarded. Despite his cheer, Chris felt like she was in a daze the entire time. Her hands settled frozen in her lap and eyes glued to the window. She watched her little town pass her by just as the night drifted to day. The ugly office building next to the apartments, the fenced off government buildings. There went the post office. She sighed.

Where are you? Vincent texted Chris when they were already hours from town.

Her thumbs hovered sleepily over the keys. She didn't know what to say. Eventually she just settled for:

It's been a long weekend. I don't know when I'll be able to come in again. Something's happened

…

Are you sick?

Don't know what I'm allowed to say. I'll text later. Xoxo

Well that's not totally vague but ok

…

Tell me if u need soup fam

Chris smiled at her phone. She really hoped this didn't cause her to lose her job, even if it was something way more pressing than delivering mail. She'd miss her co-workers the most. Even Mildred. With any luck the 'long-term' in 'long-term research facility' wouldn't be any more long-term than a vacation.

The driver drove non-stop, through the night and the day, across interstates and through small cities. It was unnerving. Cole whispered that he was sure the creature was to blame, even though it hadn't spoken the whole trip.

“It's fascinating,” he whispered.

Chris hummed and faked a smile in acknowledgment before staring back out the window. All she could think was what a weird vacation before she found herself nodding off.

“We've arrived,” the driver announced as sudden as summer rain.

Chris jerked, her stinging eyes glued in confusion to the dim window. They were inside of a painfully lit parking garage and there were droves of black-suits and white-coats to greet them. She must have fallen asleep for some time.

“Thank you,” she heard Cole dully as his door was opened for him. Her door was next.

“Have you been in contact?” Asked a man sternly, no trace of emotion in his voice.

She furrowed her brows. “What?”

He didn't miss a beat. “With the 4DB?”

Both she and her jittery acquaintance were being led away through the garage. Someone gently guided her through a door with a palm against her back.

“The... the Four Dee Bee?”

The man re-adjusted the wireless device in his ear, lips crinkling. “The Fourth Dimensional Being.”

Chris began to sweat and tried to explain. “Not since before we were told we'd be sent here, but-”

A woman patted her shoulder nonchalantly and shook her head. “Can't even wait till she's in the room huh?” She teased her co-worker, her heels clicking against the hall tile. “We're just eager, don't be afraid! You and Mr. Artrip will speak with a scientist and be briefed before joining the others. This was all very sudden so don't mind the dust bunnies.”

Chris nodded quietly, glancing ahead to get a glimpse of Cole- Mr. Artrip. This was all so weird and she felt she had some sort of jet lag. She wondered when she'd be allowed to talk with the creature again. It had been a few days now.

“And then after everyone's settled it's about meal time! But first,” she carefully pushed Chris into a dimly lit room, had a quick word with her co-worker, then silently shut the door. “Have a seat.”

She did as she was told. Chris sat before a small wooden table, as if this was meant to make the room more inviting than it really was. It just made her feel interrogated. Or like she'd been called to the principal’s office.

The woman took a seat across from her and peeked into a thin file. After a short pause she looked up, smiled, and said. “Chrysanthemum Sain... tell me everything.”

Read CH2 early on Patreon or wait for it to go public!

#terato #monster lover #monster romance #tentacles #exophilia #writing #short story

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vanxcks · 4 years

Text

and a movie

Abed Nadir lives in LA now, and there's something they still haven't done.

Word count: 1766

AO3 link in notes

“I want to make a movie.” Abed says it abruptly. It’s the reason he came, after all. And it’s important to make your point early in the conversation; otherwise it runs away from you.

“You know I’m not a producer, right?” his friend asks.

“I know that. But I wanted to be able to air the idea out. See if it’s Hollywood-ready. I know what I’m doing, but a second opinion can’t hurt. Besides, you seem to have some success.”

His friend laughs. “I mean, a couple movies in, I guess my opinion counts.” Abed cracks a smile. “What’s it about?”

“Friends. Not the show. Friends of mine. Old friends, actually. From before I moved here.”

“A movie based on your friends?”

“I was thinking my friends could be in it, actually.”

“So, a biopic?”

“Yes. I could document some portion of their lives.”

“You mean it would be a documentary.”

Abed pauses and then says, “Technically, yes, but six seasons and a documentary doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

Abed doesn’t have a roommate, but he does have friends. People that he hangs out with regularly—going out to dinner after work, having movie nights where they all bring different snacks. They have bad taste in movies, but so does he. He’s the first to admit Kickpuncher isn’t a masterpiece. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have his costume hanging in his closet for emergencies.

Or non-emergencies. But only if they involve watching the movie alone at two in the morning and acting out the scenes as they go. Those are acceptable.

In high school, he didn’t think he’d ever have any friends. He thought he was stuck in the underdog role, the nerd that got his books knocked out of his arms, the kid that no one wanted to be partners with. Although Abed had never actually gotten his books knocked out of his arms. He thought it was a ridiculous trope. He’d fit into the rest of the categories though.

At some point at Greendale, he’d thought he would never again have friends like the study group. These were the days, the short period that would change their lives forever. The period that they would eventually have to leave behind, but that nothing would ever measure up to again. He’d expected to spend the rest of his shallow life thinking back to these four (five, six) years with his found family. As it turns out, though, tv shows are short because of budget, because of the inability of writers to churn out more, because of low viewership. And just because they’re short doesn’t mean there isn’t more to the story. He’s happy now. He’s comfortable.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a picture of that first halloween up on his bulletin board, though.

“So, what exactly would this documentary be about?”

Abed cocks his head. “I don’t know. It would be about them. It would be about them and...I guess it would be a little bit like Friends, except funnier. I mean, the relationship and drama of it. Although the emotional bits were always my least favorite. I liked the action episodes the best.”

“The action episodes from Friends?”

“No, from when I was at Greendale.”

“Oh, sorry, yes, the episodes from when you were at Greendale,” his friend says, and Abed can tell it’s sarcasm, but he can also tell that it’s not mean.

Abed nods. “Yes. Maybe I should do something more whimsical, like that. It’s not exactly in the sitcom format, but the show never was.”

“And by whimsical, you mean…”

“Oh, you know, paintball fights, eerily accurate homages, the like. Genre-bending stuff.”

“That’s what college was like for you?”

“I told you,” Abed says. “Genre-bending stuff.”

Everyone still keeps in touch. Annie visits the most. She’s happy, and he’s glad he told her to take a forensics class. It’s better for her.

She visits and she asks how he’s doing (well), what he’s doing (he’s working on his portfolio before he starts trying to get a big title—it’s an important step), and where his new dreamatorium is (he doesn’t have one. He’s grown past the need for childish things like that. He doesn’t need a designated room for rendering imaginations. He’s an adult. He can do it anywhere in his house now.)

Annie’s doing well, too. She had to intern for a few years, but now she’s properly training at the FBI Academy. (“Basically, I’m, like, really fit now,” she says and laughs. “And they let me carry a gun.”

“But you already had a gun.”

“What? No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Troy and I found it in your bag when you moved in.”

“You searched my bag?”)

Abed and Troy talk to each other sometimes, when Troy has cell service. It’s not often.

Troy didn’t bring a DVD player (which is ridiculous, Abed should have helped him pack), but he did manage to buy a crappy portable one from one of the places he’d stopped for fuel and food. Every several weeks they call, put the same DVD in, and then count down to play. Troy’s movie is always scratchy and terrible, so it’s awkward (“Pause. No, wait, play...oh no, it’s lagging again. Did it just skip over a scene? Pause.”) They dress up and make popcorn, and a couple of times they even made a blanket fort like back at Greendale.

Troy has been on his trip for longer than any of them had expected, but that’s what happens, right? And that has to be okay. He’ll be back eventually, and Abed is okay with that.

Troy says he’s been making music. It makes sense. He’d always liked writing raps for the two of them.

Britta visits often too. Mostly to detail him on the rampant racism and misogyny in the film industry. (“You work with these people? Abed, I can’t believe you. Do you understand the history behind this? These people have been silencing voices for decades. Blackface, yellowface, and don’t even get me started on the women’s roles in a lot of these movies.”

“They’re good movies.”

“Yes, but the impact of them on our society is astronomical!”)

He knows about all of it, anyway—he’s a muslim and half-arab man watching movies made in the twentieth century. It’s difficult not to notice the bigotry. But he knows she means well. And he likes it when she visits.

Abed shows her the neighborhood. It’s small and busy and feels like a movie set, probably because it is the movie set. He’d seen so many stories told in Los Angeles. Being here is amazing. They go to a coffee shop, and she drinks coffee while he eats a cupcake. Then, they go for burgers.

-- New Message To: [email protected] Subject: Props

How much would it cost me to get enough paintball guns to stage a school-wide fight if the school had about one thousand people in it? Try and get back soon.

New Message To: [email protected] Subject: Re: Props

Disregard the paintball guns. It’s been done too many times.

Shirley visits the least, although he knows that she wishes she could come more. (“I’m so sorry,” she says, “I just wish I could take care of all of you, but my babies take up so much of my time.” Then, “did you know that Ben Benjamin took his first steps last week?”

“Yes. You sent me a video, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Wasn’t it nice?”

“Very nice.”)

She bakes for him. She bakes for all of them, actually, since she always makes them send pictures of themselves with the food to the group chat. It’s not like it was. She knows her worth, and she knows that they need her. “I just like to take care of you, is all,” she’d said. They sit at the table and eat. Shirley doesn’t like silence. Which is nice, because it means that she’ll listen to him talk for hours. He can’t always tell if she’s getting bored, but she doesn’t outright stop him, and that’s nice. She thinks everything is nice.

New Message To: [email protected] Subject: Re: Props

How about a vat of lava?

Jeff doesn’t visit the most out of all of them, but he does stay the most in touch. He’s still at Greendale, the only one other than Britta. They’re still trying to keep the school running. Britta started a bartending class, which is ironic because Britta is terrible at bartending. But being incompetent is part of Greendale’s charm, isn’t it?

When Jeff comes to visit, he wants to watch Abed’s documentaries. They’re getting good. Jeff thinks so too, and Jeff would say if he thought they were bad. Abed likes that about Jeff—he says what he thinks. Except for the sarcasm. And the lawyering.

The point is, Jeff rarely lied to them.

He does critique everything except the filmmaking, though. He jokes about Abed’s friends, about his boss, about the logo for the coffee shop at the corner of the street. He gets distracted by every conventionally attractive woman that comes on-screen, too.

“Hey, you’re doing all of this documentary filming, Abed,” he said, during his last visit.

“Yeah?” Abed pressed pause.

“Remember when you would film us? Make all those movies? Like when Pierce tried to fake his goddamn death, and you wouldn’t put down your camera even when we were all having breakdowns? Or when the dean made that commercial, and you wouldn’t put the camera down because of his breakdown?”

“Yeah, I do. Why?”

Jeff paused, and Abed turned a little to stare at him. “I don’t know. It was fun.”

“You’re right.” Abed’s brow creased. “It was fun.”

Jeff didn’t reply, so Abed pressed play again.

It takes a lot more planning, but Abed eventually cobbles together some things. A ragged film crew. The equipment he needs. He isn’t sure what he’s going to do with this, once it’s done. Sell it? Keep it on his shelf, along with his other documentaries? Their adventures had always seemed like too much to keep from an audience.

He types out the email a few times, many times, because he’s not sure it’s right, because it’s too long, because it’s too brief, because it’s too cliche, too plot-twist-slash-sequel-slash-unecessary-renewal. In the end, though, he deletes the whole thing and just writes what he wants to say.

New Message To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected] Subject:

Hi,

I want to make a movie.

A/N: i binged this show on netflix during quarantine and it absolutely destroyed me. i immediately opened up a document to write a fix it before realising that there wasn't anything to fix, really. i just wasn't used to show creators actually knowing how to write, so props to dan harmon for that, i guess. i have a bunch more fic ideas, so i'll definitely get to work posting them soon!! thank you so much for reading and please leave a comment and/or kudos if you liked it! (all email addresses in this fic are either fake and made up or blatant and obnoxious references to the show! you'll never know)

#community #fluff #fix it #fix it fic #one shot #abed nadir #troy barnes #jeff winger #shirley bennett #annie edison #britta perry #my writing #i love them so much #ficlet #post canon #etc

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ruiyuki-archives · 4 years

Text

Star Tear AU - Alt. Timeline: Todoroki ver. [Part 1]

This is an AU I wrote on the todomomo discord server eons ago. Anything posted to this blog will be transcripts of old original work and not really edited, save for formatting. I have no guarantees if I will ever finish these AUs either so these will only be kept as an archive.

Original transcript posted to tdmm discord: Aug 2020

Momo ver. Alternate timeline: Todo ver. Part 1 || Todo ver. Part 2 || Todo ver. Part 3

Star tears in which Todoroki falls for Momo first.

shortly after the exam with Aizawa he doesn’t know what he’s feeling but just admires her strength and quick thinking

and him hanging out with Deku and Iida at lunch means Todo hears all the nice and good things Momo does when she and Iida to discuss class prez stuff

which intensifies this ??admiration?? and respect more

and he just?? Holds onto those feelings unable to figure out what they are until idk maybe holidays where 1A and 1B throw that holiday hotpot party

and Momos really cute lookin’ in that Santa hat she made with the festive turtleneck

and so that feeling inside Todo grows into something more??? bc "oh shit she cute".... and Todo’s blushing while looking at her from afar. Probably.

so Todo talks to Fuyumi abt it and Fuyumi’s like: “I think you like her Shouto”

and he writes to his mom abt it and Rei's like: “she sounds like a lovely girl Shouto”

and he texts Natsuo abt it and Natsu's like: “aw little bro has a crush”

but all the while this is happening, Momo's gotten closer with Iida over class prez stuff and hero stuff and everyone in 1A (read: mina and hagakure) think iimomo might be a thing???

ofc Momo denies it and making excuses politely like "no no ofc not we're being responsible class prez and vice prez" but she’s kinda stuttery while doing so, so no one buys it

and no ones brave enough to ask Iida except Ochako but he gives some straight laced answer like "i admire her work ethic and respect her as a hero and vice prez" but he also has some tint of blush across his cheeks

so idk fast forward to graduation where Todo's been holding onto these feelings for Momo since first year and iimomo is still very very likely

so its all cherry blossom petals flying around and congratulatory celebrations

and when Todo sees Momo amongst the sakura trees smiling like he's never seen before (bc they're finally officially heroes!!) he thinks she’s beautiful

but just as he's about to approach her, Iida approaches her and Todo can see she's blushing and he knows its really not good to eavesdrop on one of his best friends and the girl he likes

But... he's curious.

or so he lies to himself.

Ofc what he hears isnt what he ever wants to,,,,

cuz Iida just confessed to her.

and she feels the same.

and a star tear slips from Todo's eye as he walks away.

he stops mid step as he touches his cheek bc he didnt even realize he was crying

but what are these tears??? What’s happening?? He's never had these before bc even though Todo is an emotional crier, he doesn’t cry that often.. only when he is completely overwhelmed with emotion

so he has this dumbfounded expression staring at his fingers as these star tears are twinkling out of his eyes catching sunlight and sakura petals

until he hears "Youre a fucking idiot" from a few steps away

Bakugou.

(Baku really likes eavesdropping ok its not the first time lol)

Baku: theyre called star tears.

Todo: You know what these are?

Baku: it happens when you like someone and that person doesnt like you back, idiot.

Todo: ... oh.

Baku: get that shit sorted or you'll go blind

(And for those who are curious, yes maaaayyybe Bakugou has a case of the stars in this timeline too, that’s how he knows. To whom? I'll let you decide bc honestly, I just want todobaku brotp bonding over unrequited love)

so now Todo thinks he might be fucked. One of his best friends confessed to the girl he likes too and she likes him back and now Todo has this disease that might make him go blind and might get in the way of heroing (which they've all secured post graduation positions by now) and what can he do about it?

nothing, says the doctor he sees. The disease is not curable and the only way to stop it is to have your feelings returned else you'll go colour blind and then completely blind, so he's told.

ya he's really fucked.

maybe its a good thing then, that he doesnt cry often. It makes it easier to ice over these feelings, freeze them in time with the memories of U.A.; of his last congratulations to her and her smile at the end of the ceremony an hour after he overheard that confession

maybe its another good thing that right after graduation, everyone went off to their own positions as side kicks with agencies across japan, focusing on heroing

but its 3 months after graduation that Iida tells Deku and Todoroki that he is seeing Momo when they meet up every Friday to catch up

its 6 months after graduation that its publicly announced in Hero Magazine that Ingenium and Creati are dating

its 9 months after graduation that he sees Iida and Momo attending the Hero Association's rising stars gala as a couple and are seated at the same table as them

(Bakugou is scowling at him across the table.)

Todo tries. He really does. To be happy for them.

but he's angry at himself that he can't be happy for them. That it saddens him to see Momo glowing under the ballroom lights but its not himself to make her shine like that, its Iida. That he sees she is the one to make Iida genuinely happy in the way his eyes light up when he smiles at her.

and all three times Todo goes home, lies down alone in his room, an arm slung across his forehead as the star tears leak from his eyes.

he starts to lose seeing colour at 12 months.

after 24 months he needs glasses for colour correction (and ironically gets a sponsorship with the brand. The fashion magazines print headlines for weeks "Hot-Cold Hero Shouto Fall Fashion! See page 7 spread for his newest spotted specks and turtle necks")

at 36 months Iida breaks the news. Iida's gonna propose to Yaoyorozu and wants him, Deku, and his brother to be his groomsmen

she said yes.

and a part of Todo washes away with the star tears flooding him room and twinkling against the tatami.

he tries to stay out of the wedding planning as much as possible. He'll go to the tuxedo fittings as requested and still keep up hearing the updates when seeing Iida and Deku for their weekly get together on Friday nights.

But for anything involving Momo's presence, there will always be a "sorry i have a mission that week", "sorry im visiting my mom", "sorry Endeavor needs to see me about the agency"

... all excuses Bakugou knows, but the others pay no mind. They are rising heroes near the top of the billboard by now

month 48. Wedding day.

she's stunning. Gorgeous. A near goddess walking down the aisle on her big day.

but she's not walking down for him. No its for iida.

there was the ceremony, the cheers, the congratulations, the reception. Fairy lights around the dance floor and along the walls, champagne glittering after the sound of a cork

Todoroki stands off to against the wall as the night dies down, a glass in hand, watching the newly weds grace the dance floor.

someone slides up beside him, he feels the presence. Bakugou.

"She's beautiful isnt she?"

"Yeah."

. . .

a star tear falls from Todoroki's eyes, twinkle hidden among the fairy lights and champagne glitter.

she's beautiful, but maybe its a good thing I can't see

somebody said: what if she knows everything that had happened and the reason why he couldn't continue his career is bc of her?

me: ok you’re asking for it

Momo, 3 months pregnant with iimomo baby, announces with Iida the news to their friends

the soon to be parents want to choose godparents for the baby so Iida gets to choose the baby’s godmother and Momo gets to choose the godfather

and ofc along with the announcement Momo asks Todoroki to be the kid’s godfather

he can’t say no to her.

the same week later Todo and Momo's agencies are requested to deal with this one villain case while Ingenium's agency deals with another in another town (later turns out the cases were connected)

small talk, civil, very professional between Momo and Todo when they’re in the debriefing

at this point Todo's pretty much completely blind and uses some special contact lenses from Hatsume to help "see"

but the contact lenses can only do so much as to detect light movement and shadows and it reallllllllly doesnt work well when he's using his fire

so Todo already had tossed around the idea of running away to the mountains like Roy did in the FMA 2003 ending, "mysteriously" retiring bc really his vision cannot keep up

until this last mission with Momo

and really its been nearly a decade now since they last worked together side by side (not since U.A. he thinks).. so just let the blind man be selfish one last time

and so smth smth missiom happens, Todo and Momo fighting side by side

but Momo senses there’s something off with Todo's movements? His reflexes are slower.. it doesnt seem like he's prediciting the opponents moves like he used to.. he's more so reacting and retaliating than attacking..

she chalks it up to that they havent fought side by side in a long time and his style must’ve changed and really, she doesnt know him anymore... not like she used to

smth smth 3 months pregnant Momo gets hurt, knocked unconscious for a bit

Todo saves her

and when she comes to, while Todo's holding her, star tears fall onto her cheek from Todo's eyes.

She's shocked. Reaches up to gently graze a finger tip at his left cheek.

"Todoroki-san, these are?"

and again its like Todo didnt realize he was crying. He jerks away from her hand and brushes her off with "its nothing”. Changes the subject with "are you ok?"

Momo: yes.. i think so

Todo: and the baby?

Momo, sitting up: we're ok I think

Todo, moving away: good

the mission concludes and they meet up with Ingenium’s group to wrap up the two ends. Todo slips away before Iida and Momo and approach him

theres no activity from Todoroki for the next month

neither Iida, Deku or anyone else in 1A know where he went except the Hero Association's vague comment on "Hot Cold Hero Shouto has taken a sudden indefinite hiatus"

(Only Todo’s family knows and Endeavor asked the Association to say "hiatus" instead of "retirement" bc Enji wants to believe in his son making a comeback. He didnt stop Shouto from taking off)

and ofc Momo upon hearing this is so confused??? Her last mission with him was the last time she saw him and he was crying. Why was he crying? Strange star tears twinkling and landing on her cheeks? What even is that phenomenon?

its too many questions and ofc Momo's gonna investigate. For the sake of her friend.

so she digs up all the texts she can find on star tears. Internet search all the possibilities. Consults the doctors at the hospital. Even asks Tenya if Todoroki has been acting strangely during their weekly catch ups.

but Tenya tells her Todoroki hasnt been the the meet ups since after their wedding

so she asks anyone in their pro hero circle of associates she can think of. Tsukiyomi, Burnin', heros from his agency, anyone she can think of that has worked with Todoroki before and could comment on his behaviour

no body knows. No body noticed anything different either. Sure there were some off days but the Hot Cold Hero Shouto was always on his game being one of the top 3 heroes on the billboard charts

she searches and searches, splitting time interviewing colleagues and researching the possible star tears phenomenon

until eventually her search takes her to...

Bakugou.

Of course.

Momo, pleading: please Bakugou, you know something about him dont you?

Bakugou, who at this point had been very careful trying not to get cornered knowing her investigation: save it pony tail, you’re about to have a baby. Go have people harass you about that brat in your oven instead of harassing other people

Momo, nearly begging: please. You and I both know he's strong and a good hero that would not suddenly retire. Whatever he is doing, he might need help.. please tell me Bakugou.

... theres something about pregnant women that you cant say no to.

Bakugou, relenting: tch. The half ass is somewhere in Yokohama

and thats all she needs nearly running waddling (as fast as a pregnant woman could) out the door

Bakugou, calling out after her, still reluctant: when find that half ass, i suggest you throw him a gift. Literally. Throw it at him. He deserves it.

she finds him along the port, watching the sunset in Yokohama (its really not that hard to find someone with heterochromia and two tone hair in a city, especially if youre a hero that knows what methods heroes will use to go incognito)

and for some inkling of a feeling, Momo takes Bakugou's advice. She has a carton of strawberry milk in hand.

Momo, a few feet away from him: Todoroki-san, it's been a while.

Todo, turning his head in her direction: Yaoyorozu...?

Momo, sadly smiling: the sunset is beautiful here isnt it?

Todo, brows furrowing: .. sure. Yaoyorozu what are you doing here--

Momo, interrupting him: --i brought some snacks. Strawberry milk, you liked this while we were in school right? Catch.

she tosses it at him.

he tries to reach out.

But he'es completely off. And misses

Momo, sad: Todoroki-san. You're blind, arent you?

Todo, guilty: ah.

Momo, tearing up: will you please tell me?

he still can say no to her and confesses his story

and when he's finished telling the tale of star tears, the stars above are twinkling too

she's crying and choking and sobbing through tears and its intensified by baby Iida with pregnancy hormones

But the last thing she manages to croak out at the very least is still wholly her

She apologizes

“Im so sorry Todoroki- san. I cant love you that way.”

“I know.”

END NOTES:

red is the last color Todoroki wanted to lose because it reminds him of Momo

during missions, as long as he could see her, “that’s ok” he thought. she is the only one he sees in color. that is okay with him

to him, Momo is his shining star. And there’s something tragically poetic of him losing his sight to the stars if its for his shining star Momo

He leaves the last stars in a tiny little jar like those paper stars as a gift for her with just the words on a note "goodbye Momo" the day after she finds him in Yokohama

Momo has the jar of stars forever on her bedside and looks at them with this melancholy expression. Baby Iida grows up and asks mom: "what is that jar of stars?"

Momo responds: "a gift from someone that was blinded by love"

Bakugou in this timeline had a case of star tears too but I'd like to think he got his feelings requited so he never went blind to contrast Todo

So thats why Baku is (begrudgingly) sympathetic to Todo cuz he thinks: “that could’ve been me”

The ending shot of a blind Todoroki in a dark room, all alone, eyes closed, thinking back to Momo's shining smile from UA surrounded by star light with a sad smile on his face and it fades to black

> archives masterpost

#todomomo #todoroki shouto #momo yaoyorozu #tdmm star tear au #ruiyukis unfinished aus #sorry not sorry #for spamming the tag #this ones my baby #angst angst baby #oops heres a bandaid for your heart #buckle up yall it just gets worse from here

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iamartemisday · 5 years

Note

90 and 32 for Loki and your choice?

Is there really a choice? lol

Pregnancy Fic + Unexpected Virgin

...hoo boy.

Okay, so Loki decides one day to go to Midgard. No real reason why. He’s just bored.

While there, he meets some mildly interesting people, including a young woman about to graduate college named Jane Foster. She’s just escaped an incredibly painful blind date and Loki further helps her avoid the hapless human by pretending to kiss her in an alleyway. Her hot breath on his face actually makes him think of kissing her for real, but that’s a ridiculous notion. What kind of prince would he be cavorting with mortals?

Regardless, as they talk about life and Jane’s plans for grad school, he finds himself intrigued by her. She’s highly intelligent for her species and while her grip on the Bifrost could not be more basic, if anyone was going to figure it out, he’d say it was her.

Over the next month or so, Loki starts visiting Midgard and Jane more and more. As far as she knows, he’s another student like her home for summer break. As they grow closer, Loki thinks more and more about what it would be like to kiss her. Finally, the day comes and by Odin, can she ever kiss.

Of course, there’s no way something like this can last. Even putting aside Loki’s greater longevity, there are so many people out there he’s pissed off. If they know a vulnerable mortal woman has caught his eye, no way they won’t take advantage.

That’s how Jane ends up a hostage of one of Loki’s many enemies. He is able to save her and kill the perpetrator, but he realizes now that their relationship can only end in pain. He knows now just how deeply in love with her he’s fallen. He loves her so much that he can find it in himself to erase every trace of him from her memory. Everything from their first meeting to the day they first kissed. He gives her one more kiss before he leaves her, pouring all his love and magic into it. Along with a wish that one day, somehow, their paths would cross again.

And so, Loki leaves her. Jane wakes up the next morning in her apartment with no recollection of her harrowing adventure or the prince she once loved. It’s as if nothing ever happened.

Except as the days go by, Jane starts to have some odd symptoms. She’s weirdly sick in the morning and feels faint during the day. She’s moodier than usual, only wants to eat food she hates and gets random headaches.

There is an obvious answer that is also completely impossible. Jane is not ashamed to admit she’s never had sex (like it even matters how long someone waits). In fact, she hasn’t dated since that one awful blind date a few months ago (every time she thinks about it she feels sad for no reason, and she still can’t figure out why). Days later, the symptoms persist. As a joke, she buys a home pregnancy test. Not like it’s going to mean anything.

The test comes back positive.

Jane buys three more. All positive.

She goes to the doctor, who confirms it.

Pregnant.

Now, this is a major problem because again, Jane has never had sex. She rarely drinks and hasn’t been to a bar recently. A few guys in her department like her, but there was no way they’d ever do something like that to her. Right?

The time frame of conception is determined. Jane recalls a day during that time when she did go to the bar, and now that she thinks about it, her memory of that week is a bit spotty...

At that point, Jane, being the determined woman she is, decides she can’t worry about what might’ve happened right now. She needs to think about what is happening. The obvious answer is abortion. That or adoption. How can she, a grad student going into astrophysics of all things, take care of a child? It’s not that she doesn’t want kids, it’s the idea never even crossed her mind because she’s just that focused on her goal.

Now, motherhood is an actual reality. It’s still early enough for her to make an appointment at the clinic. She’s online researching, still unsure if she’s actually going to call, when she feels something. At first, she thinks she’s imagining it. She feels her stomach and there it is again. The tiniest movement. Maybe not even a movement at all. Maybe just a heartbeat...

At that moment, something fundamental within Jane changes. She closes her current web search and opens a new one on pregnancy guides and nearby baby stores.

A few months later, Jane’s daughter is born. While it’s definitely a bit on the nose given the circumstances, Jane can’t resist writing Christina on the birth certificate.

It’s not as hard as she thought it would be. Erik and her mother are both huge helps. They immediately fall in love with the baby and watch her while Jane is at school and studying. By the time she gets her degree, Christina is five and has spent the last few years providing constant encouragement for her mother. She walks at Jane’s side during her graduation. She gets a little stuffed bear with a cap and gown while Jane gets her doctorate.

The next few years are a bit hectic. Jane tries to give Christina as much stability as possible. They live in one place for a few years while Jane teaches at the university and builds up goodwill with the staff in order to get the grant money she needs to fund her research. Her efforts finally pay off when Christina is about to turn nine. Jane sets up her lab in New Mexico and they move there for the summer. They might stay longer depending on what Jane finds, but she doesn’t tell Christina that just yet. She’s already complaining about how boring Puente Antiguo is.

To entertain herself, Christina reads and writes about all sorts of fun adventures she could be having. She’s never showed her mom this, or anyone for that matter, but she has a few strange little talents no one else seems to have. For example, she can sometimes move things around without touching them. One time, she swears she turned a mean kid’s hair blue when he was bullying her and her friends. Snakes seem to really like her. She can’t talk to them like Harry Potter, but they do follow her sometimes. There are tons of snakes in New Mexico, but she’s not too bothered by it. They all seem pretty nice.

Soon Darcy arrives and she more or less bonds with her new boss’s kid. When some guy in town starts hassling Darcy, Christina asks one of her snake friends to make him go away and the guy never comes back. Another guy makes fun of Jane on the street, calling her a crackpot. He rather suddenly trips over nothing and knocks a few of his teeth out.

Jane does notice a lot of this stuff, but not once does she think to connect it to her innocent daughter. Meanwhile, Christina is well aware that she’s the one doing this. Somehow or other, she does have powers no one else has, and she’s starting to realize just how strong those powers might be.

It all comes to a head with the arrival of Thor. Jane went out with Darcy and Erik to watch for an incoming storm. Christina had to stay home, as this could be dangerous. So, of course, she snuck along in the back hidden under a blanket. She’s right there when Thor falls from the sky. Terrified that they’re all about to die, Christina unleashes a HUGE wave of magic. Big enough to disrupt the bifrost and send Thor flying into a nearby rock formation. He hits his head hard, and as he is now human. this is not an insignificant injury.

In fact, when they get to the hospital, the poor stranger has already slipped into a coma. Jane is left to comfort her hysterical daughter who won’t stop blaming herself for what happened, She finally admits the truth about her powers to Jane and demonstrates by summoning a pen from the nurse’s station. Jane is shocked and has no idea what to do. Christina interprets this as her mother being scared of her and runs away. Jane chases after her. By the time she turns the corner, Christina is gone. Jane searches the entire hospital, but her little girl is nowhere to be found.

Now comes Loki. He’s been pretty out of it ever since losing Jane. Though it’s been close to a decade on Earth, that barely feels like a week to him. Now Thor has been banished, he has some truly uncomfortable questions to ask Odin about his origins, and to top it all off, one of his old enemies has just randomly appeared with a little girl in tow.

(NOTE: I honestly have no idea who the enemy would be. If I actually wrote this I’d just figure it out later)

His enemy mocks him for growing soft and not protecting his progeny like he should have. Loki has no idea what the hell this guy is talking about until he gets a better look at the girl. Her midnight black hair, terrified blue eyes, that face just like a younger Jane.

Jane...

He hadn’t looked in on her since he left. He just couldn’t bring himself to. Now he wishes to all his ancestors that he had. The enemy issues a challenge, daring him to come and save his newfound daughter. He disappears with Christina, and try as he might, Loki can’t trace where they’ve gone. He has a few ideas, but he’s going to need some help.

And he’s going to need to correct some old mistakes as well.

At the hospital, the police have arrived and are searching for the missing girl. Jane curls up in the waiting room, thinking of everything that led them to this point. If only she hadn’t accepted the grant money. If only she’d gone somewhere else to search for bridges. If only she’d paid enough attention to her own fucking child to know that she was literally psychic. Or magic. Or something!

While she cries, a shadow appears over her. When Jane looks up, a tall man with dark hair and eyes like Christina is watching her.

It all comes flooding back.

She remembers Loki. She remembers their kiss, that monster thing that kidnapped her. Loki saved her, and then he told her they’d never see each other again. Then she woke up at home as if from a dream and it was like he never existed at all.

But he had. She knew now that she had, and she had a daughter to prove it.

Which still begs the question of how. She knows now that they definitely didn’t have sex. Loki’s theory is that his magic somehow infused with latent abilities within Jane herself (she might actually have a small percentage of Asgardian in her) and created a child born of them both. It’s a tenuous idea at best, but it’s all he has right now, and who even cares how Christina was conceived. Point is, she exists and she’s been kidnapped and Thor is in a freaking coma now and can’t help them. Time to gear up and save their kid!

Not going to go into too much detail here as I’ve already written way too much. Basically, Loki teaches Jane to harness the magic within. She already knows a few knife tricks from self-defense classes, so Loki gives her a new knife that never dulls and is virtually indestructible. When she’s ready, they strike out to find their daughter in the enemy’s secret hideout. At some point, Thor wakes up and rushes to help his brother. His willingness to go to a far off planet and fight to the death for a child he’s never met makes him worth of Mjolnir again at just the right time. Loki and Jane rescue their little girl, who instinctively knows her father the moment she sees him. The enemy is defeated and now they’re free to start over and live as the family they were always meant to be.

#Lokane #Loki #Jane Foster #fic prompt #fic I won't write

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thismightbeaterribleidea · 4 years

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Accidental Snowbirding

So I went to Florida and accidentally became a snowbird. I drove south in September with no real timeframe for anything in mind, and I ended up staying on the Gulf coast north of Tampa (Pasco County) for almost three months, minus a couple of weeks I was in Georgia.

Some friends have asked me how the new, nomadic life is going, and I tell them that it hasn’t really felt that nomadic. I’ve enjoyed being close to my friend Ron — I had a regular rotation of several campgrounds, none of them more than half an hour from his place. It reminded me of the decade-plus ago when we both lived in Denver, in old, cheap apartments within walking distance of each other. A friend calls and says “do you want to come over?” and you just go over. It’s lovely. We both got into paddleboarding (more on that later) and explored some rivers. We even took an airbnb trip to the Smokies and northern Alabama before the pandemic escalated. So it’s been interesting and good, if different from the types of images that motivated me to buy this big-ass van (wilderness, solitude, aspen groves, desert mesas).

Here’s what I remember from the last few months:

A cotton-candy-pink bird forages on a shoreline and it is so quiet that you can hear its three-clawed feet pattering in the mud. Ninety minutes later we are scarfing down fried chicken in the car in a crowded parking lot.

In the trailer park, people drive golf carts around in loops: maybe this passes for exercise, or maybe they are hoping to run into someone to talk to.

Until November, I sweat and sweat and sweat, and then it cools off enough for me to run in the morning and it’s glorious.

During the day, there is constant traffic and the lights are always red. There are a lot of billboards, all promising different things, but the one that makes us angry is the one that says “Jesus promises stability.”

I spend the night at a trailer park and the ladies in the office are sweet and efficient and wearing masks. But the spot I’m assigned is across from a mobile home with one of those flags that is half the U.S. flag and half the Confederate flag, and although my privilege probably keeps me safe here, I keep running through the equations with slightly different variables: who would be safe in this spot, in this trailer park/this county/this state/this country, and under what circumstances? What could make all of us safer? And the people who chose to pay for and display that absurdity of a flag, why is that flag the story they tell themselves? And what is the topography of the shared responsibility for all of this bullshit?

We paddle the Hillsborough River and see no other boaters but two alligators. One is basking on a log, and when I turn my head for a second it drops into the water with a massive splash: one moment there was a six-foot alligator; the next moment there was nothing but ripples. It was that fast. My friend decides he will not paddle here alone.

I see live oaks that have Spanish moss hanging from their branches, sure — but they’re also covered in lichens, and on the horizontal branches there are carpets of multiple kinds of moss and clusters of foot-tall ferns. It’s a whole ecosystem in one tree.

I’m driving “home” (most frequent campground) late one night and I am alone on a very dark road. In my headlights, I see a human figure in the middle of my lane, facing directly at me. I think: goblin! But it is a human person. I swerve into the other lane in case he moves. But he doesn’t move a muscle. He is in a half-crouch with his hands on his knees. I catch a glimpse of him in profile as I pass: his face is set in a rictus, jaw clenched. He is still staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if he hasn’t even seen me.

I call Ron just to reassure myself that I haven’t slipped out of the real human world and into someplace else.

“Oh my God,” he says. “But no, you’re still in the real world. There’s a lot of meth around here. He’s not a demon or anything. It’s just Florida.” He is wearing a dark sweatshirt and standing in the dark on a dark road; what if he gets hit? I call the police and I hate that to this day I still wonder if that was the right decision.

We get into paddleboarding. Ron already has an inflatable paddleboard, and I buy one with money I should be saving for things like van insulation or the loose crown on my lower left molar that is already living on borrowed time. But the paddleboard is amazing. Previously, I hadn’t gotten it: why stand when you could sit? I’m lazy and I have crappy feet; I hate standing. But this isn’t regular standing. It’s walking-on-water standing. In our favorite river, the Weeki Wachee, you can see all kinds of things from a paddleboard that it’s harder to see in a kayak, just because of the angle. On a paddleboard, you look straight down and there’s a fish striped like a zebra, an old pine log submerged ten feet down in the clear water, a scurrying blue crab, a bed of rippled sand.

We start at the public park and paddle up against a stiff current. Twice, we get to the three-mile mark and there is the same black-and-white cormorant in the same tree both times. We are familiar with the fact that if you time it right, so that you get back to the park as late as possible without actually paddling in the dark, and the crowds taper off so you have the river to yourself, the deepest pools are turquoise on our way upriver and viridian on our way down.

There are sometimes manatees on the river. In this part of the world, manatees are THE charismatic megafauna. And they are charismatic as hell. Once we are out late, a couple miles up the river with no one else around, and we see a mother and baby grazing on eelgrass in shallow water. We watch for minutes, mesmerized. The baby is tiny for a manatee: about the size of a Corgi. It must be very, very new. There is another manatee that I’m pretty sure I see several times on different days: it is very plump, with three pink slash marks across its back. We get to the point where, if there is a throng of other boaters stopped near where manatees are feeding, we don’t try to stop and see the manatees. We’ve seen them before, and we’ll see them again, when we don’t have to worry about the people and their kayaks and canoes in the current.

The last time I went to the Weeki Wachee, I went alone. The leaves were turning, because the calendar’s close-to-Christmas is Florida’s fall. I hadn’t ever planned on seeing a blazing orange maple next to tropical blue water, but it happened. Close-knit formations of big, soft gray, doe-eyed fish darted under my feet, and at the appointed time the water started turning dark green. In one of the final bends just upriver from the park, there is a deep spot called Hospital Hole. As I paddled down towards it, I saw one manatee, then another break the surface to breathe. I drifted over the hole, away from the manatees near the surface, and I saw the outline of another one eight or ten feet down against the very dark blue of very deep water.

The Weeki Wachee is a very narrow river, usually not more than thirty feet across and often only twenty. It’s also shallow, four or five feet on average, twelve where the current has carved a deep groove or pocket. Hospital Hole is at one of the river’s widest points, I’d guess maybe 150 feet from bank to bank. The hole itself — technically a sinkhole, but with a couple of small springs feeding into it — is only about 30 or 40 feet wide, but 140 feet deep. It goes down so far that there are different layers of water: freshwater, saltwater, a layer that is anoxic, another layer that is so full of hydrogen sulfide that divers can smell the rotten-egg odor even though they’re breathing compressed air. I read online that the manatees often go to Hospital Hole to sleep at night. The sinkhole-spring, like a big deep pocket, gives them space to stay together and still spread out. They can sink down below where they have to worry about boat engines or curious paddle boarders or whatever else manatees worry about. Every so often, they come up to breathe, then sink down again. Respire, rest, repeat.

It’s 7:17 p.m. as I am writing this, so they’re probably there right now.

***

So that’s Florida! Other, more nuts-and-bolts things that have happened include...

I installed lights and outlets. This was a big project and a big deal, since it means that I can have things like a fan (to keep me from sweating to death in the summer), an electric cooler (a.k.a. mini-mini-fridge) for things like vegetables and hummus and cheese and cold boozy beverages, and, well, lights at night that aren’t a harsh blue-white solar lantern, which is what I was using before October, when I made these improvements. Anything electrical is always a little scary; I’m nervous every time I have to go into the breaker box and always surprised when I’m able to touch it without shocking myself. I also had an extremely minimal understanding of how to splice wires together and how to connect all these lights to each other, to the dimmer switch, and to the breaker box. This involved a lot of googling, and even though the DIY van blogs seemed to say that installing lights would take half a day, it took me the better part of two days. But it’s done, and I’m very happy with it. Fiat lux, motherf***er!

My new favorite public agency is the Southwest Florida Water Management District. Occasionally, if I’d had a few drinks at Ron’s house, I spent the night parked in his driveway. Sometimes I stayed in private RV parks. (This was mostly driven by the need to empty the van’s port-a-pot once a week or so — public dump stations are not easy to find in this area of Florida; the closest was about an hour away.) But mostly, I stayed at campground operated by the SWFWMD. These campgrounds are in big tracts of forested, marshy, watery land, and they are great primitive campgrounds that cost $0. There’s no water, no showers, no other fancy campground amenities, but there is usually one outhouse, and each campsite has a picnic table and a fire pit. They’re basic and beautiful.

My favorite campground is called the Serenova Tract. It’s about 15 minutes from Ron’s house, and the campground is in a bunch of pines and live oaks. Horses are allowed, and on one of the last weekends I spent there, several people with horses stayed overnight and hung up Christmas lights. The next morning, they were joined by a dozen other horses and riders who all went for a morning trail ride through the woods. I was insanely jealous.

The other SWFWMD campground I stayed at was called Cypress Creek. It’s a little farther from Ron’s place than Serenova, so it was my second choice when Serenova was full but my van’s shitter wasn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, with tons of big pines. But right now I’m a little wary of it because the last time I stayed there I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:51 a.m. when I heard someone singing and talking to themselves. (The campground had been totally empty when I got there and still was as far as I could see.) It was probably just someone who had come in on foot and was drinking because it was cold (40 degrees) outside, but it was still a bit unnerving.

I also have a favorite RV park. I was thinking that my relationship with these places would be strictly utilitarian, and it still mostly is. But out of the three RV parks that I’ve stayed at, there’s one small one called Suncoast that I actually kind of enjoyed: even though I only went there occasionally, the three staff people remembered me when I called or came in, and they often gave me a discount on their regular rates because I don’t use any electricity. They (both staff and most guests) also seem to be taking pretty good pandemic precautions. (I actually saw someone get kicked out of the office when they tried to come in without a mask, something that I’ve never seen in any other business since March!) The place has nice big pine trees, and by the office there’s a table where people put free food that they aren’t using, or occasionally two-day-old bread that someone got from Publix for free. The last time I was there, some people had decorated their campers and RVs with lights and it was kind of charming. I still heavily prefer to be out in the woods by myself and not spending any money, but I’m glad I found someplace pleasant for my once-a-week-or-so sewer/water needs.

I figured out how to stay warm while sleeping. This is a bigger deal than it sounds because a) I haven’t insulated the van yet, so at night, it’s only a few degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is outside, and b) I’m a very cold sleeper. Florida is SUPER WARM compared to any other place I’ve ever lived, but in December, it started getting a little chilly at night: down into the fifties, then the forties, then, a few nights ago, 30 degrees. I’ve camped in near-freezing or slightly-below-freezing temperatures before, but sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable — even with good long underwear and socks and a hat and a zero-degree-rated sleeping bag. But I’ve figured out a system for my bed that uses four blankets, layered like a licorice allsort: a quilt, a heavy wool blanket, another quilt, and a faux-wool blanket. If it gets below 40, I can add my zero-degree down sleeping bag and be not just comfortable but actively toasty, like a baking croissant.

Unrelatedly, I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

I’ve found that my life in a van is basically like my life has been anywhere else. I work. I sleep. I stay up late reading things on the internet when I should be sleeping. Sometimes I go running or do yoga (while trying not to bump into the cabinet or kick the front console or hit the ceiling). Sometimes I do fun things, like paddleboarding or talking to friends. I make goals and plans and don’t follow through on them, except when very very occasionally I do. But when I’m looking up van stuff online, I often run across photos of people who are #selfemployed #vanlife and the photos of them working are:

A woman is seated propped up on pillows in the bed in the back of her van. The doors are open, framing a view of the cerulean sea, so that you can practically smell the gentle breeze blowing over the dunes. She has a laptop on her lap and is looking thoughtfully out to sea while a cup of tea steeps on a tray that is on the white coverlet of her bed.

A man is seated at the dinette in the back of his van. He has a laptop, a French press, a mug of coffee, and a plate with two scones on it on the table. The table, and in fact the whole dinette with its two upholstered benches, would be at home on a small luxury yacht, and it’s the kind of dinette that you make into a bed at night. The astute, intent expression on the man’s face give the viewer to understand that he is competent and disciplined and never stays up two hours past his bedtime because he’s too lazy to lower the dinette table and rearrange the cushions and put on all his sheets and blankets. We are also given to understand that the electrical system in his van would have no problems handling the power drain of a bean grinder, even though he is clearly parked in the high Rockies — again, with the back doors open, the better to take in the late spring air and see the fresh green of the aspen trees — and it’s often cloudy. Lastly, we are given to understand that he baked those scones himself, because when he’s not working, hiking, lumberjacking, or otherwise living his best life, he enjoys unwinding by baking bread and pastries. (Not in the van; don’t be silly! He bakes outside, over a wood fire.)

(A tangent: Why do so many people have their van doors open in photos I see online? Do they only stay in places with no bugs? If I tried that in Florida, or even Maryland or Colorado half the year, I’d be awake half the night swatting at mosquitoes and/or flies.)

In contrast, a photo of me being self-employed in a van would look like:

A woman is sprawled in an ungainly fashion on her narrow bunk. Her laptop is braced by her lower ribs and propped up with a pillow placed over her gut. The pillow has a cat on it. The windows of the van are covered in silver bubble-wrap, so very little light gets in. Absolutely no doors are open, because the van is parked behind a Dunkin Donuts so the woman can get free wifi and not burn through all the data on her phone plan. She takes a break to heat up a can of Campbell’s soup on an alcohol stove, adding a handful of dehydrated mixed vegetables, to be healthy. As she stirs the soup, she gazes contemplatively out the windshield towards the adjacent parking lot, where there is an IHOP. #vanlife

A woman is sitting in the passenger seat of her van with her feet on the dashboard and her laptop on her lap. Beside her in the cupholder is a steaming Hydroflask full of the cheapest tea she could buy at Publix. The van is parked in a grove of live oaks. Spanish moss sways gently in the morning breeze. Behind the woman, in the dark recesses of the van, sets of clothes are hanging: leggings and a shirt, still sweaty, by the side doors, a bathing suit over the sink, a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in by the rear cabinet. Several kitchen towels are draped on the driver’s seat and on the dashboard because the cab leaks above the sun visors when it rains, and even though she’s tried caulking it three times, she still can’t get it to stop. #vanlife

The good thing, though, is that I’m still getting work and making a living. I can do it someplace that’s safe, without having to risk my life to do it. And I’m getting paid a fair hourly wage. But then the very terrible thing is that everyone should be able to say what I just said, but so many people can’t: they’re not making a real living through their work, they have to risk their lives to do it, and they’re not getting paid a fair wage.

(Brief interlude as I stare at the ceiling angrily.)

***

Here’s what I’m doing next: I left Pasco County on the 16th. I’ll be in what I think of as “traveling quarantine” until the 30th, staying in a national forest near Jacksonville. (With a couple of stops at state parks to refill water, empty the port-a-pot, and maybe take a real shower.) I’ll be in Maryland on New Year’s Eve and will stay at my parents’ while I insulate the van, build interior walls, and do a bunch of other stuff so that I can call it (mostly) finished. Then I’m thinking of going to New Mexico and spending late winter/early spring there… parked on top of a mesa… sipping a cup of French-press coffee on my white coverlet while I thoughtfully gaze out the open doors of my van… (I really would like to park on top of a mesa though.)

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