#the deviancy is the point. it’s not real and it’s my right to indulge in it or not to. quite simply im NOT down with that in real. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mnictasbcl · 4 years ago

Text

2:42 am

For #dbhcolorsofdeviancy, prompt:

June 1st: Watching a human sleep. @connor-sent-by-cyberlife

Rating: Teen

Characters: Connor, Hank Anderson, Sumo, Amanda

Relationships: Connor & Hank Anderson

Additional Tags: Fluff, then, Angst, Nightmares, Hurt, Panic attack, sort of, Swearing

Summary: Connor comes back home with Hank after the Revolution. His first night after everything that happened, including the mind control by Amanda, would be fine, right?

Alternatively: Connor finds himself in Hank’s room at 2:42 in the morning.

Story below! Or, read it on AO3

The sun was setting on the day the revolution had succeeded. Rays of light glinted off the rusted metal truck that was Chicken Feed, as Hank and Connor, human and android, embraced. In that moment, none of their differences had mattered, not the disagreements from before, nor the variations in their biology. The hug was warm and loving, metal encased in artificial skin just as squishy, just as human.

They couldn’t stay there forever, of course. Chicken Feed wasn’t even currently open to serve food, and the day was drawing on. In silent agreement, the two stepped back before making their way over to the car.

The door shut. The hula girl on the dashboard bobbed back and forth, back and forth.

“You got someplace to stay, Connor?”

“No, Lieutenant.”

“Hank.”

Connor raised a brow, blue LED swirling in thought, before coming to realisation that Hank wanted him to call him that.

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

“Little shit.” The man breathed, slotting keys into the ignition of the car, no real heat behind his tone. “I was going to offer for you to stay at my place. But maybe with that snark, you don’t want to come back and meet Sumo again—”

“I wouldn’t wish to intrude, but… I think it would be beneficial to have a safe place to stay.” He fiddled with his tie, head twitching briefly to the side. Wearing a suit after being in the more comfortable deviant clothes definitely wasn’t pleasant. He’d much rather shed the tie and jacket for the beanie and baggy clothes, but he was still on the fence about such matters.

“You just want to pet the damn dog again.”

Connor couldn’t help it, he snorted. When Hank glanced over, he covered it up with clearing his throat. If he’d still been a machine, maybe he would have retaliated something about probabilities or how he could not ‘want’ anything. Instead, he pulled off the tie and remarked,

“I like dogs.”

___________________

It wasn’t a lie at all. As they arrived home—back at Hank’s home, of course—Connor couldn’t help but feel eager to see the Saint Bernard again. His fingers itched, somewhat remembering the silky feel of the dog’s fur under his fingertips from their brief encounter that one night.

And it seemed Sumo was just as eager to meet the android again, because, as the two walked through the house, as soon as the dog saw Connor, he let out a deep bark, paws padding along the floor. He smiled and leant down to pet him.

Hank cleared his throat dramatically, after a few minutes of belly rubs and ear scratches.

“Sumo? Hello to your master?”

The dog whined and nuzzled his head closer into Connor’s touch.

“Traitor dog.”

Sumo barked in response, tail wagging, sweeping on the floor and almost tripping Hank up as he attempted to step around the pair.

“Jesus Christ.”

Connor glanced up. “No, it’s me, Connor.”

“I changed my mind, get out of my house.”

The android looked up swiftly, processing, almost taking it seriously as his cue to leave before detecting sarcasm. He chuckled, making no effort to get up until he’d deemed enough attention given to the canine. Okay, nevermind, there was never enough attention to give to Sumo, but he had to stop at some point.

As he got up, he looked up the time briefly. 8.54pm. It was getting fairly late into the evening, but he knew Hank hadn’t eaten at Chicken Feed.

“Would you like me to cook you a meal, Lieu- Hank?”

The main raised a brow at him in question.

“I haven’t observed you eating yet, and it is not healthy to skip meals—”

“I’ll order some takeout.” Hank waved a hand in dismissal.

Connor narrowed his eyes. It was something he could recall feeling distantly before he deviated, whenever he saw Hank eating something incredibly unhealthy, such as that time with the burger. The levels of lipids and—it was annoyance, he realised. No, was it? The android tilted his head to the side in thought. He wasn’t sure if he could pin the correct emotion on it, being new to deviancy, but he definitely felt as if he should stop the man from ordering out.

“I insist.”

“Yeah? Well, I insist.”

“But I can cook—”

“It’s been a long day. Hell, you’ve been busy today fighting in an android revolution. I think I can order a burger.”

Connor couldn’t help but shake his head.

“No burger? Fine, pizza time it is.”

Exasperation. That was what it was, he decided, watching in defeat as the man took a leaflet out from the kitchen draw and mumbled the number of the pizza place under his breath. But maybe the man was right. He wasn’t sure if this was what humans called tiredness, but the revolution had certainly taken a toll on his systems. And maybe it was okay for Hank to indulge in less optimal food choices once in a while. His diet would certainly grow to be healthier in the future if Connor had a choice in it.

___________________

The pizza arrived, Connor snuck Sumo a small piece of it, got scolded by Hank for being a hypocrite- all in all, it was an eventful evening. Definitely not the sort of thing machine Connor would have imagined himself doing. But something the real Connor surely did, and he loved every moment of it. Apart from the scolding, of course.

It was drawing on 9.29pm, an unusual time to be finishing a full meal, when Hank switched off the TV, stretching. They’d whiled away the time watching the news after the revolution, seeing the androids celebrating in the streets. Connor felt tired looking at them. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with them- on the contrary, but the day had indeed been exhausting enough. Perhaps he would attend the parties he knew Jericho might throw in the coming weeks, once all the politics and such things had settled down.

Pointing Sumo to his bed, Hank got up from the couch, stretching. “I’m gonna call it a day. You—” he paused, glancing to Connor, expression shifting as he seemed deep in thought about something. “You can, uh, stay on the couch and… rest? I don’t know what you do. But you can, you know, do it on the couch.” He cringed at his choice of wording.

“Thank you, Hank. Androids don’t rest, but I can go into a mode of stasis in order to recharge and perform system updates—”

“Sounds like sleeping to me.”

Connor pursed his lips, looking displeased. “In a crude manner of speaking… yes. The couch will be fine, thank you.”

Hank nodded. “Great. Well, have a nice stasis. Don’t let the… android bed bugs bite.”

As he walked out the room, Connor blinked, thinking over the statement. “Bed bugs…” He murmured, LED circling yellow. “But this is a couch.”

He shrugged off the quandary eventually, storing it in his mind for later to think over, before adjusting his seating position on the couch. It would be easier to lay down, in case he startled the Lieutenant, finding him sleeping sitting up. Of course, androids used to stand up in stations built around the city to go into stasis, but that was before. It was funny to think of it like that, when before was simply yesterday and all the time before the success of the revolution.

Connor pushed aside the cushions before laying down on the couch, eyes flicking shut. He took a few breaths, which were usually unnecessary but helped to calm his systems and it was in a few moments that he fell into stasis.

But strangely, sometimes, stasis could produce images in his mind. He was a detective model, perhaps it was a way of thinking of possibilities and probabilities of things happening in the world. One would assume, then, that these images would be realistic.

Tonight, however, something seemed fantastical about them. His inner eyes snapped open, and he was in a swirling snowstorm. His arms clutched around his middle, sensors picking up the frigid temperatures. It wasn’t dissimilar to the scene he’d experienced earlier that day in his Zen Garden, when he’d been standing up on that stage, Markus giving his speech, and Amanda had pulled him out of reality.

But there were changes. The way out… Kamski’s secret way out of this control over his systems… it wasn’t there. The paths were all different, winding and winding on, not leading to the stone platform where he could place his hand and resume control over his own body. He followed the winding paths, Amanda’s voice whispering in his ears, feeling as if he’d never reach anywhere, not in time.

You’ve failed, Connor.

The paths stopped. He could see the trellis in the distance, roses snaking up it, choking it, further and further into the sky. Suddenly, he could see the glint of the escape he was meant to reach, somewhere up there in the heavens.

Connor picked up his pace, pulling his hands away from his sides, ignoring the ice creeping over his fingers, and grasped at the trellis. Pulling himself up, he managed to find a foothold.

Cyberlife always planned for you to become compromised.

He grit his teeth as the thorns dug into his hands but ignored the flares of pain and the red warnings flashing in his vision. He had to get to the top. Had to get away, had to…

We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program…

Somewhere in his mind, as if he could see what his body was doing, out of his control, an image flashed. Connor wasn’t on the couch anymore; he wasn’t in Hank’s house. No… it couldn’t be… had he never hugged Hank outside Chicken Feed? Had the revolution never ended?

He was up on that stage again. Markus was speaking, and Amanda was twisting his limbs to her will.

Don’t have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do.

The escape was too far away. His hands slipped, the snow making the trellis slick with moisture, and he lost his footing. The escape was getting further and further out of reach, and there was nothing he could do, except fall down and down and—

You accomplished your mission.

Connor awoke with a start.

He shot up off the couch as if it had wounded him, breaths stuttering in and out. Sumo looked up at him from where he sat in his bed, whining and looking at the android with concern in his honey brown eyes.

“I’m…” Connor breathed, hand hovering over his LED. It was flashing a jarring red. “I’m…”

He didn’t understand. Out of all the times he’d experienced those sorts of images during stasis, he’d never had any like that… never had any that left his thirium pump beating heavily in his chest, his hands trembling, never…

Cautiously, he made his way back onto the couch, perching on the edge of it. Hands resting on his knees, willing his LED to circle back to yellow, then back to blue—

This trepidation, this fear, was this what came with being human?

Connor closed his eyes. Saw Amanda, saw the gun in his hands, saw the trellis with its blood red roses. Opened his eyes.

He brought his arms around himself, in a sort of self-soothing. It wasn’t real. It was okay. It was just imaging. Just his overzealous detective software figuring out what could happen- no, what could have happened. The revolution had happened. And they’d won. He hadn’t shot Markus, he’d reached the escape and he was free. Finally free. If he went into his Zen Garden now, the roses would be withered and dead, but the waters still and calm, no sign of Amanda anywhere.

Knowing the truth and hard facts made him feel a little more tethered to reality. Lines of yellow cut through the red of his LED. Maybe none of it was true. But… why wasn’t he completely back to normal? He glanced to his jittering hands, and then to the Hank’s bedroom door.

Right. Hank. For some reason, that thought that had lodged itself in his mind during the dream—whatever it was. The thought that none of it had ever happened, that Hank had never brought him into his home, and it had come to stay.

He groaned. He was in the man’s house right now, sitting on his couch and staring at his dog. It didn’t make any sense.

Then again, not a lot of being human had made sense to him that evening. All he wanted in that moment was to dispel the rumours his mind was conjuring, and the solution appeared to be behind that bedroom door.

With a sigh, he got back off the couch, glancing around the room briefly before quietly making his way to Hank’s bedroom door. He raised his hand to knock, before changing his mind. It was 2:42am, not an optimal time to wake the man. So instead, he pushed open the door silently, having learned the last time he’d been in this room where to push it to so that it didn’t creak.

One glance over the room told him it was dark. Well, no shit, Connor, his inner voice muttered, sounding a lot like Hank. Blinking, eyes adjusting to the change, he managed to make out the shape of Hank sleeping on his bed, one leg hanging off the edge, face half pressed against the pillow, cheek squished.

He nodded. Hank was there, he was alive, and he’d certainly let Connor into his house, so therefore none of the bad stuff in his… nightmare… was true. He could just leave and go back into stasis on the couch.

Except, he found he didn’t want to leave the room. Feet planted stubbornly on the floor, carrying out their own form of deviancy to his logical thinking. He sighed. He then caught sight of a chair in the corner of the room.

Connor shrugged. Sitting down in the chair, he found it wasn’t too uncomfortable. In fact, he found sitting up like this a better and more familiar position than lying down on the couch had been. And from this viewpoint, he could see Hank wherever he looked, chest rising and falling. The minutes ticked on. The android found a sense of peace in watching Hank sleep, LED going yellow, yellow, yellow, before finally back to ocean blue. Hank was safe. Hank was sleeping, just like he’d said he was going to earlier. This was the reality. He was in control of his own body, and he would do as he pleased with it, which meant in this moment, watching Hank sleep.

Maybe being human didn’t make much sense to him, but in that moment… it was pleasant.

Eventually, with serenity falling back over him and his mind focused on rest, it wasn’t long before he slipped back into a dreamless stasis.

___________________

Hank awoke later that morning, the sun shining through the blinds, to find his bedroom door wide open, Sumo laying over his legs, and Connor sitting on the chair across from his bed, eyes fallen shut.

“Fuckin’ android.” He mumbled, affectionately.

#dbhcolorsofdeviancy #dbh #detroit become human #dbh connor and hank #dbh connor #dbh hank #fanfic #dbh fanfic #ngl this was my favourite prompt to write so far (almost finished writing the prompts)#angst

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floralkittygambler · 4 years ago

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RadioDust is the Healthiest Toxic Ship for Angel so far

@honesthazbinarchives Briefly. I’d like to go into this more in the future BUT these are the main points I said I’d do. Heh ‘stay tuned’ for why HuskerDust is toxic [haaaa funny fuckin reference n shit like Viv herself aint overdone it]. Yer dont even wanna know the lack of enthusiasm in tryna do a playful ‘cringetopia’ joke - wasnt as fun as anticipated. Anyfuckinways, the shit. Before we begin, disclaimers n whatnot, no hate intended, dni if you’re a bit of a knobhead [either stan or extreme anti], an all that nonsense. I dont own the characters no shit. In this I’ll discuss how RadioDust aka SpiDEER (thats right, yer stuck w my shit humour now) is both the healthiest ship for Angel we’ve seen so far but still rather toxic. Idc if you hate me for it but dont fuckin waste yer time telling me. Great. I dont care. Yer fuckin hard n whatnot for harassin strangers online. Big dick energy to you. This will be slightly messy, my apologies, it’s a quick summary of many points.

Alright. Firstly, out of the entire male cast Angel interacts with over all platforms, Al is given a fair bit of mercy in terms of sexual advances. In fact, a swift ‘no’ and Angel doesn’t do it again - unlike most of the other cast [pent’s is covert, husks is overt]. One thing I like is that Angel himself admits to their chemistry (claiming that whilst he thinks Al’s a prick, he thinks Al dislikes him which saddens him as he’d at least like to be friends as he feels they have good chemistry - according to the VA via Hunicast’s 1yr anniversary), there’s no further efforts to jump on his dick but a clear curiosity/interest in what Al can do. Lets go to the basics, both are of similar age [allegedly in their 30s, though Ive heard Al may be up to mid 40s] as well as created near the same-ISH time (as in, Viv’s oldest characters, at least for HH). Likewise, Viv admitted to knowing fuck all on either of their eras (and to make that public wasn’t really a wise choice BUUUT if you felt the need, it’s better worded with interest “Right now I’m working towards educating myself more on their time periods to improve their portrayals” <-- crucial if yer want that ‘realism��). Because of their real-world ages, Viv confesses they’re her favourites (even if you didnt know, she makes it pretty clear). It could be a nice ‘homage’ to their impact in her life but not too relevant otherwise. It could fulfil the need for self indulgence that she’s unhealthily leaking into the canon - which will ultimately make the series shit. No sugarcoating there. As for their ages, a relationship can work whether the gap is large or small HOWEVER there are many ethics and conflicts to each. And being an adult into kids is always fucked up. With that being said, studies have shown that closer ages often work better due to the often similarities in mindset, maturity and life goals (older folks are more likely to want to settle, younger often have more ambitions), likewise there tends to be an unbalanced power-dynamic if the ages are too far, which can lead to various types of abuse. Dont get me wrong, being with someone much older (AS LONG AS NONE OF YALL ARE KIDS) very much CAN work - but rarely. There’s much more hardwork needed as well as being in the right mindset for both, otherwise it’s bad. More on that in HD. Long story short, both are closer in age meaning both are more ‘relatable’ to one another. There’s common grounds, even in the eras there’s some higher understanding of one another. Notice how Vaggie and Charlie are similar in age? (Even though Charlie is far older, her appearance and mentality for her race is on par with Vaggie’s, making it far more likely to work out positively) One of the most prominent out of all of this however is their actual interests. So listing; Both like action/chaos/having fun (often at the expense of others), both love cooking and can be food snobs in their own right, both have sadistic AND masochistic tendencies, Al likes performance and theatre whilst Angel loves *to* perform, on that last point Angel was very intrigued and enjoyed Al’s song number/performance naturally, both really enjoy pranks and both enjoy liquor (neither show an actual addiction, but rather an interest in social drinking - no dependencies on it). Again, close eras mean both have a higher probability of understanding the other and their lifestyles better. Both are high on appearance and love themselves, implying self confident mindset (healthy BUT the narcissism isnt) yet enough consideration for how they are viewed. On the parent system, one adores his mama whilst the other hates his pops. Now Ive gone on about how they’re similar. But similarities ALONE is not enough. If it was, then fandom’s would be a lil more harmonious~ A HEALTHY relationship needs compatibility, POSITIVE conversation flow, common grounds, trust, openness and understanding. Even then, some people click and some just dont. It’s like how you can just hate someone for no reason. It just IS. Common grounds and similarity is scientifically proven to be attractive to someone - be it good or BAD. People are drawn to those like their parents in some way usually, likewise we look for people similar to ourselves (from our interests, to humour, beliefs, goals, etc). Science itself states that ‘opposites attract’ solemnly applies in the real world successfully. Though similiarity plays a large role, there has to be some differences too - that person is STILL an individual separate to yourself. Too similar and it’s boring. Too similar and you’ll do everything together without some ‘you’ time. Both Vaggie and Charlie have similar interests/hobbies in dance and music, yet still have enough differences to be identifiable when together. Vaggie is more grounded than Charlie. Charlie gives some optimism and fun to Vaggie. Remember, a partner does NOT complete you - that’s a toxic mindset when taken too seriously, You complete YOURSELF. Whether you have someone or not, you must feel complete in yourself as to not slip into toxic dependency on a lover - to become them, a shadow of them or feel like you’ve lost your identity without them. Sounds harsh but it’s true. Chaggie compliments each other without a dependency. You stand alone yet uplift one another. You don’t always agree but in the end you always have each other’s backs. Love is often butchered in a toxic light in the media. So taking that into consideration, how does spideer work? Well, here’s some examples of good, bad and neutral: - Angel loves animals, Al fears/dislikes dogs. Perhaps Angel could assist him in overcoming this? - Al hates being touched, Angel dislikes being squeezed. Maybe this could help them reach an understanding... Or cause a rift? - Angel was the only one to break Al’s composure, either Angel is the *key* to delving further into Al’s more raw self... Or just another obVOXious pest? (yeah, I said it-) - Neither respect other’s boundaries, meaning both may fuel the other to be overly disrespectful in this area. Not good. - Angel is a sarky/sarcastic fuck, Al loves dry humour. Both seek amusement and chaos. In relationships one needs to see how conversation flows and in the hunicasts, both keep up some good as well as toxic banter. Both could roast the fuck out of an opponent however. - Al is acro/ace, Angel is hypersexual (appears like a sex addict - now I say this as his book has a crossed out ‘fun stuff’ with ‘work shit’ written on it. He’s always fixed on sex from his job to his humour), this could either aid Angel ease up on the sex stuff OR make him overly push it onto Al causing major rifts and discomfort (aces can have sex, ref to ace posts that real asexuals put to understand more but no one wants to be forced into sex is the point here). And we’ve already discussed their lack of respect for boundaries. The positive is that maybe this will make Angel understand how Val is rubbing off on his own behaviour towards men [again, more on that in the HD post]. - Both similar yet different in a way that does suit their compatibility chances but that doesnt mean they will click, it just improves the odds. - Both have similar enemies in Val and Vox, they’re on common terms. Likewise, Al is against the ‘sexual deviance’ of hell meaning he may be oddly supportive and protective of Angel in terms of Val. I dont even think his sadism will override this either. - Al dislikes modern tech, Angel seems to use it as his job requires it. A nice little menial difference. - Only ONE is an addict. Take it from an expert, you NEVER put two addicts together. They’re very vulnerable and prone to slipping deeper into their addictions as well as depending on each other too much that they essentially become very clingy, suffocating and toxic to each other. Seen it in action, it’s ugly. - Both could have a lot of fun and calm moments with each other. - He isn’t immediately smitten with Al but immediately shows a natural interest in Al’s powers and performance, embracing it openly. Leads for a good friendship turned lovers plot. - In Viv’s patreon, she confirmed Angel loves confident guys [sounds exactly like Al] We need to think about where both are mentally. What benefits would a relationship give both? How would they be good and bad for each other? For Al, aside from his outdated views and being a fucking murderer and narcissist, he actually seems in a good mindspace for a relationship IF he opted to be in one. Angel however has a very immature mindset, likewise is in a phase of life where hes bed hopping. IF he were to be in a relationship, I’d say he needs a male equivalent of Cherri - someone with a similar mindset yet some differences, willing to have fun and in touch with their younger side, down to cuddle, open to share and receive love as well as not afraid to publicly be affectionate with him, someone who sees him as more than just for sex, someone fun, someone who’ll let him embrace his cutesy side publicly without shame - Cherri is younger so maybe someone who’s his age or slightly younger perhaps? I think Angel’s not retirement home ready to settle and needs someone on his level that can cuddle and chill as well as feels free and youthful enough to go wild with him. In one sense, he’s got a teen girl sorta mindset (dont put him with a teen though, it’s fuckin weird-). He needs someone positive and raw, someone to let him be himself as well as someone comfortable to be themselves around him. He has a habit of latching onto unobtainable men (in psychology, this is self sabotaging subconsciously): Travis the client, Val a pimp, Husk (emotionally unavailable and needs HEAVY self work - interestingly far more than Angel - plus he’s still onto his last relationship and an addict to gambling and alcohol), Pent who’s the enemy he was currently fighting (inappropriate timing), Alastor who’s not interested in another but his own needs [selfish, VERY bad for a relationship]. Subconsciously he’s self sabotaging on purpose. There’s many psychology books as well as sources online for this, if you’re interested. Either way, Angel is drawn to men either like his father [who dislike him, shun him, or are otherwise cold, abusive or just blatantly dislike or otherwise dont care about him] or anyone with money to fuel his drug addiction/’debt’ to Val. Going with any of these men isn’t a good idea. Preferably, Angel needs someone who he doesnt immediately crush and obsess over. Someone who he doesnt sexually harass or assault. Someone he can build a connection with quickly that can bud into romance (think how Chaggie started as a friendship which clicked immediately). Maybe even someone he doesn’t expect to fall for but does so anyways. It would be more realistic as Viv wants as well as more healthy. That for once he isnt sex or money craved instantly, thus doesnt sexually harass/assault and is given a proper chance to develop and grow a friendship and love. Someone who isnt an addict. Someone with an on-par mindset where they click. Someone open to love. For any chance of a good relationship, Angel needs to be with anyone BUT who we’ve already seen. There’s too much toxicity that’ll be swept under the rug and justified otherwise. Too much shit to fuel homophobes in terms of gay stereotypes. Even though Ive focused a fair bit on Angel, it’s NOT just about Angel. That’s something fans forget. Some he depends on or someone who depends on him in the long term wont last and will be very dangerous to both. Just because you suffer, you dont then deserve to be rewarded with ‘something nice’. You dont get to have everything youve ever wanted. Giving him any of these blokes [minus Val] gives him a pass. Gives him what he wants. I get Viv loves him but life doesnt work that way. True lasting growth comes from learning that. Acceptance and growth. You dont get everything you want and sometimes thats a GOOD thing. He’s not a spoilt kid who gets everything he asks for, he’s YOUR creation. If you really wanted what your creations deserve then you need to research and be realistic with it. Because hes starting to feel like a shitty Gary-Stu at this rate. I live with an ‘Angel Dust’ like person. It used to feel like life gave her everything and most times it did. Everyone loved her and she could get away with murder if she wanted to. But now she’s had to struggle and grow, let go of some ‘wants’ because they werent good for her and she’s becoming better for it. She has a long way but she’s more humble for it now [still got self confidence but it’s less narcissism now, which is more healthy for her]. Also, they make the word anal lol

#stans and antis dni #pros and cons to radiodust #spideer #anti hazbin #viv needs to actually research #vivs been in toxic relationships so she should know better and how these come across #wait until anti huskerdust #ill really be fuckin loathed then #anyways #enjoy?

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wirewitchviolet · 5 years ago

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A Little Fact Checking Primer on Trans People

As a trans woman, I literally can’t go a day without encountering at least a dozen horrible bigots shouting disgusting things directly at me, which I’ve come to accept, but I notice every time it happens there’s this whole crowd of confused people who don’t have that sort of burning hatred for trans people, but do think they raise a couple good points. And people think this because nobody has ever taught them enough basic facts about trans people to recognize the most obvious lies. So let’s work on that a bit.

Trans women are men who wear dresses. - FALSE

This is THE most common lie that gets floated around. Before I even begin to address it, let me just hit you with a few photos of actual trans women to hopefully show just how far off the mark this is.

It should be pretty clear from looking at these photos that these are all plainly women, and as a bonus. I also wouldn’t describe any of these outfits as “a dress.”

So, how is this lie as popular as it is? Well, for a number of reasons I’m going to get into in more detail, it is very rare for the average person to see a trans person and realize that person they are looking at is trans (would you have guessed any of the women above were if I hadn’t said so?) and nearly every time you see a trans person depicted in the media, rather than hire or accurately draw/describe a real trans person, they just take some man and put him in a dress, or take some woman and put her in a suit. Since such portrayals are basically all you ever see when being told you’re looking at a trans person, that’s what you grow up thinking. But, no. Trans women are women, who just look like any other woman, and trans men are men who look like any other man.

Trans women are men who got a bunch of plastic surgery to look like women - FALSE

The photo set used above came from me doing a quick search for trans models, because it’s a lot easier to disprove the “costume” lie if I can show you women wearing clothes skimpy enough to show they aren’t stuffing their bras or concealing big burly hairy arms or anything like that, and I didn’t do any background checks beyond verifying that every woman pictured is in fact trans, so it’s possible some of these women may have had nose jobs or other minor cosmetic surgeries to achieve more idealized faces, but the “bunch of plastic surgery” referred to in this lie refers to some sort of comic book fantasy where you can somehow take someone who looks like Sylvester Stallone or something, bust out a scalpel, and somehow carve away flesh and bone to leave behind some sort of idealized specimen of womanhood like these. That just isn’t how it works. Such surgeries do not exist, and bodies like these women have are all quite attainable without any kind of surgery at all. Just be a woman, eat the right diet get the right sort of exercise and be lucky enough to have a pleasantly symmetrical face, and tada.

I’ve totally seen “before and after” photos of trans women which pretty damn well look like a man and a woman side by side - TRUE

Here’s a truly mind-blowing example from a friend of mine, in fact.

So what’s going on here? Well, the short version is, trans people are people who are actually of one gender, but for some reason, usually a hormone production imbalance or insensitivity, look like another gender until getting that treated.

The effects of this can be pretty damn impressive and dramatic, and some tend to be observable immediately from birth, so what typically happens is our parents attempt to just go off appearances, give us names based on how we look, and do their best to just raise us as that gender, stubbornly ignoring every sign, no matter how obvious the signs that they’re forcing the wrong identity on their child at best, and trying to force us to be what they want in some really messed up ways.

This screws with our heads badly enough that a lot of us go along with it for decades, just being utterly miserable and feeling like fake people for reasons we can’t necessarily articulate. It certainly doesn’t help that society’s overall ignorance about this keeps us from learning all we have to do is take some combination of cheap supplements/blockers for a couple years and everything will just fix itself. Even after hearing that this sort of hormone replacement is possible, and just from off-label usage of extremely well tested and common drugs, normally used for birth control, menopause, and acne treatment, most of us refuse to believe how effective this can be. Which is why I once again have to thank my friend Kiva for permitting me to link that amazing pair of photos showing just how dramatic the effects of fixing this sort of imbalance can be.

Trans people basically walk around in disguise and can make themselves look like men or women at will. - FALSE

I think I already covered this in the first of these, but just to reiterate the point, let me pull another photo off the stack.

Put a woman like this in a man’s suit and you just have what’s clearly a woman in a man’s suit. There’s no weird Cinderella/werewolf thing going on. Trans women look like women (because that’s what we are) all the time. Actually let me do one better. I have a trans woman in a suit right here.

Trans women have penises - SOMETIMES SORT OF TRUE

This is a tricky one to talk about because I try to keep this blog safe for work, and it’s hard to get this across without some sort of visual aid.

Here is a NSFW image in the form of a black and white sketch of human gonadal structure, as far removed and abstracted from looking at someone naked as I can find, but again, hedging my bets, click at your own peril.

You’ll notice, if you click, that this is the same exact structure. So, one of those things that the above-mentioned hormone imbalances tend to do is inflate this structure in women, and shrink it in men, making it appear that most trans women have penises and trans men clitorides (a few other things in that region are affected in similar fashion). This is the main thing that leads to us being miscategorized as babies. And the functionality can even match the size while the hormone issues responsible are untreated.

This too is treatable though. The same hormone replacement leading to Kiva’s shocking before and after photos have a pretty major impact, to the extent that having been on such for years now, if I were to attempt to indulge in self-pleasuring techniques in the fashion a man would, it just plain would not work Structurally, mechanically, texturally, it’s just not on the table. Grabbing a woman’s sex toy and using that accordingly though would work just fine. Now, if I posted a very intimate photo, things would look a bit weird (not manly really, it’s sort of a unique oddity down there), but there’s a surgery that can restructure everything and get it back to the standard factory settings most women have going on, with the exact proper appearance and functionality. It’s expensive, and there’s only like a dozen or two surgeons in the world who perform it (I actually have a full list on my desk somewhere). So some of us can’t do that because we don’t have the money or insurance that will cover it, or surgery is too dangerous, or we can’t reach those couple dozen surgeons, or we can and we’re stuck on waiting lists for years, and some of us don’t care about about standardizing our anatomy enough to want to bother with all that.

The idea that we’re effectively men from the waist down though is a sensationalist exaggeration though, and the notion that those of us who have things corrected have anything “chopped off” is a grotesque lie.

Trans women are fetishists and likely sex offenders - FALSE

I mean, t’s way more common than average for us to be lesbians or bisexual (I think the straight/bi/lesbian ratio is something like 30/40/30), which might qualify as some sort of “sexual deviance” if you’re some weird homophobe from the 1950s or something, but the idea that we get some kind of thrill out of the way we look or the clothes we wear is a total myth. I have a closet full of women’s clothes because I’m a woman. Those are the clothes that fit me best and look good on me. If I tried to put on a pair of men’s jeans or something it’d be really uncomfortable because like most women I carry most of my extra weight on my thighs and butt, and personally I have a good bit of that. If I put a bra on it’s because I need the support and/or don’t want creepy dudes trying to make out the outline of my nipples through my shirt. Nothing particularly sexy about any of that.

And on the predatory front, any stories about trans women being sexually aggressive pretty much just come from hatemongers. This is something they’ve even publicly admitted to. Statistically, trans people are way less likely than anyone else to commit any sort of sex-related criminal offenses, and even in consensual relationships we tend to be real real timid about approaching anyone. A lot of that is because in addition to being orders of magnitude more likely than others to be the VICTIMS of sexual assault, there’s this really horrifying state of affairs where if you aren’t in one of the yellow states, it’s a valid legal defense to murder a trans woman after having sex with her if you decide you aren’t comfortable with that. Or even if you just feel like one of us might be hitting on you.

An overwhelming majority of us just avoid the risk entirely by dating other trans people exclusively.

Trans women have to trick people into dating them - FALSE

This is a basic supply and demand issue really. We are super rare. Depending who you ask, the trans population is somewhere between 1 in 300 people and 1 in 50 people. We tend to look damn good, because years of being mistaken for the wrong gender tends to encourage putting a major effort into presentation to keep it from happening, and again, most of us just hook up with each other because people who decide we’re really exotic and want to hook up have a scary habit of fipping out after the fact (or during, or just before), or have their egos bruised when people bring in the baggage of all the lies covered above an picture them hooking up with men in dresses) and murder us to be sure we don’t tell anyone. And again, like the map above says, the court system buys into us being scary predators enough to give them a pass for that.

So the brave few trans women who put themselves on the market in non-trans dating circles never lack for willing partners.

Men can just self-identify as trans women and barge into women’s restrooms and changing rooms and exploit programs to hire more women - FALSE

Self-identification is a term thrown around in British law regarding trans people in the specific context that trans people are seeking the basic right they have in more enlightened countries to just tell therapists and doctors that they’re trans, and start down the long red-tape filled road towards proper medical treatment and legal recognition, as opposed to going to one specific singular clinic, the only one in the country, and prove that they are trans to the staff thereof. Which in addition to being a decidedly arbitrary barrier. People who aren’t trans don’t have an interest in altering their hormone balance to radically alter their bodies, and even if they did, the effect on their brain chemistry would mess them up severely (meanwhile, one of the most immediate benefits of HRT for trans people is fixing brain chemistry issues that allow us to think more clearly, feel emotions properly, and otherwise end years of feeling like some kind of broken fraudulent zombies, because our brains aren’t getting enough/getting too much of certain chemicals).

It also can’t be stressed enough how this is just the first step of a very long process, with tons of red tape. Here’s the 110 page international manual doctors and lawmakers all over the world follow.for this stuff, when they aren’t adding even more arbitrary hoops on top of this. Before getting that little F on my ID, I had to spend two years “living as a woman” at least a year on HRT, and have multiple medical professionals sign off, who all had their own months or years long requirements to deal with. And that’s in a country where self-identification is the law of the land.

A lot of people also use the term to make disgusting jokes like “I identify as an attack helicopter” or “I identify as black,” in an effort to compare trans people to con artists like Rachel Dolezai or generally paint us as absurd. So, that’s fun.

Trans women completely dominate in sports - FALSE

OK, just pick a sport. Look at the top level competitors and champions in it. None of them are trans. “OK but didn’t I hear about some trans woman running track and just crushing everyone?” No, you didn’t. You’re thinking of Caster Semenya. She isn’t trans. Bigots spread rumors that she is because there’s a long disgusting tradition of racists claiming black women “look like men,” especially black lesbians, and in particular, this one whiny little white supremacist started whining like crazy about how unfair it was that she finished every race behind a bunch of black women, and has been campaigning to have them all kicked out of the sport so she can finish 3rd instead of 6th.

It’s also worth noting that the BS ruling proposed to force Semenya out of her favored event wouldn’t actually affect any trans athletes, as legally qualifying as women already requires us to address hormone balance issues in a way that, if the effects of high testosterone levels weren’t decidedly exaggerated, would put all of us at a severe disadvantage to everyone else in a given sport.

There are actually a good number of trans people involved in various professional sports, none of whom really excel as an additional data point here. The closest thing to an exception is the story of a trans boy on a high school wrestling team who, thanks to poorly thought out rules put in place to preemptively keep trans girls from playing on girls’ teams by ignoring everything but birth certificates, was forced against his will to join the girl’s wrestling team. Something absolutely no one involved, least of all him is happy about.

There are a whole ton of new laws trans women are pushing for that would suddenly mean they were treated as women for purposes of walking into bathrooms and locker rooms and all sorts of other things - FALSE

The existing status quo already has us in such places, as it should, because, again, trans women are women and don’t actually appear to be anything else, and this standard has existed for decades. You’ve been in public restrooms and locker rooms at some point in your life with at least one trans person being present unless you actively avoid ever entering such. You didn’t notice, and there was no reason you should have cared. Because, again, what is there to be upset about exactly?

There’s a scary new trend of diagnosing young children as trans and giving them irreversible surgeries and hormone treatments - FALSE

If you haven’t picked up on it, nobody is proposing any sort of new legislation anywhere to expand the rights of trans people, outside of the aforementoned self-ID thing in England, which is just getting up to speed to where the rest of the world has been for decades.

And again, as previously covered, nobody gets “diagnosed as trans.” Bigots constantly talk up these hypothetical situation where parents who, for some baffling reason, want their children to be trans, take them to specialists for some sort of examination potentially giving them a label as such. Parents like that don’t exist. Specialists like that don’t exist. There’s no trans test. It’s just something you innately know about yourself and have to start twisting arms to get medical help with. And if there were such a test, I’m still not sure how running it on people would be a bad thing. It only makes sense if we’re acknowledging these children really are trans, but want to avoid any sort of official labeling or treatment in the hopes it can somehow be tortured out of them through conversion therapy (which for the record is proven not t work for anything but making those subjected to it suicidal);

Furthermore, we’ve already addressed that radical full body reconstructive surgery is not an actual thing, but even if it were, outside of immediate emergency treatments for failing organs, we generally don’t perform any sort of surgeries on minors. The WPATH standards I linked earlier are pretty clear on all of this as well.

Hormone replacement is also completely off the table for minors. Personally I don’t agree with that, and feel that if a child has worked out that they’re trans before starting puberty, the thing to do would be to start fixing their hormone balance at that age, so they properly develop alongside all their peers, but I’m not out there making a push for it, nor is anyone else I’m aware of.

Instead, the standard we have for such children is to put them on puberty blockers, otherwise typically prescribed for cases of precocious puberty, where children start puberty when they’re like 6 years old and there are potential health risks. These drugs don’t cause any sort of permanent changes. In fact, the entire point is to delay any changes that would otherwise be made by increased hormone levels during puberty, either putting it off until the appropriate age, in the case of the more traditional use, or in the case of trans children, preventing the hormone imbalance rendering them trans in the first place to flood their bodies with the wrong mix, which again, causes really horrible problems with brain chemistry and really undesirable effects like breast/hair growth etc. I lived through it. It was hell. And of course in the hypothetical event that a child was put on puberty blockers until they were 18 who wasn’t trans, the only effect it would have would be them not starting puberty until 18. Really not the end of the world, particularly since no child gets put on such unless they personally request it.

Otherwise the only thing done for trans children is encouraging those around them to use the correct pronouns and not be weird about policing what they wear, so they don’t have to deal with years of abuse, torment, and confusion when they age up to a point to get medical treatment, and get to live a totally normal life, without all their childhood friends having the wrong idea about what gender they were growing up.

Trans people are getting way more common all of the sudden, or only just came into existence recently - FALSE

Trans people have been around literally forever (and this is documented in historical sources should you be curious enough to look), and while, again, different studies disagree on exactly how rare we are, it’s because we’re rare enough that it’s hard to get an accurate count. We make up the same small percentage of the population world wide, with even distribution. We’re not contagious. There’s no “trans gene.” People don’t decide to become trans.

AWARENESS that trans people exist has been on the rise, but that’s just because horrific bigotry towards trans people has been on the rise. And that’s simply because all the people who spent the last couple of decades flipping the hell out over gay marriage have generally conceded defeat on that front, and on the front of keeping gay characters out of the media, preventing gay couples from adopting children, and otherwise keeping gay people out of public life. They felt they needed a new wedge issue to drive down support for LGBT+ people, and figured the total dearth of public awareness about trans people meant they could spread all kinds of scaremongering crap without anyone calling it out as hateful BS, and... yeah they’ve been pretty successful in doing that. Otherwise I’d have had no reason to write up this primer. It also helps that they’ve been so successful in painting a bunch of far-right religious extremists as scholarly left-leaning feminists, so it isn’t as obvious that it’s the same hateful crap coming from the same hateful sources.

But again, BS is what it all is. Hopefully I’ve linked enough reputable sources to make that clear here, and answered at least the bulk of questions you may have had about trans people. There’s one more though.

There are only two genders and the singular they is grammatically incorrect - FALSE

I’ve kept the vast majority of this focused on trans women, because the vast majority of hate and disinformation is focused on women specifically, but not all trans people are women. Trans men also exist. As I did above, I can easily show you a bunch of attractive models who are undeniably men.

I can give you another of those amazing before and after photos too.

And in addition to there being trans men and women, there are people out there who realize that being labeled as boy or a girl when they were wrong was clearly a mistake, but switching to the other label also doesn’t feel right, so they find another option to go with. The English language doesn’t really have any sort of terminology to cover that concept, and for whatever reason, Christian missionaries really did their darnedest to stamp out every culture that has the appropriate language and concepts. Again though, historical records on this go back forever.

Because English sucks for discussing such people, we generally throw them under the catch-all label of “non-binary” (since they don’t fit in with the binary choice of being either a man or a woman, see) and either need to work out new pronouns, or just refer to them as, well, them.

A lot of people who get prickly about this since, well, they’re big ol’ bigots, attempt to rationalize their discomfort with claims that this isn’t grammatically correct, but, it is. The English language has used “they” as a singular pronoun for longer than it’s used “you” as a singular pronoun.

In fact, even the people who raise such objections pretty constantly make use of the very thing they’re complaining about. It is hilariously commonplace for some bigot to get into this big huge speech about how they refuse to use the singular they, get into disparaging a hypothetical person using it, and start rambling about how they were taught to always say ‘he or she’ in such situations, and that they couldn’t possibly adapt, using the word, in that context, about as many times as I just did in this paragraph. It’s so natural nobody ever even realizes they’re doing it unless they’re actively trying to be a jerk about it.

I might edit this if there’s anything big I forgot, but tada. You are now less woefully ignorant about trans people.

#trans #transgender #transphobia #educational resource

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civilization-illstayrighthere · 5 years ago

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manna, a m!Captain/Vicar Max fic (2.4k, pwp, no story spoilers, pre-empty man)

Maximillian DeSoto remembers little from his history classes in seminary, and even if did remember more, he's certain most of it focused on the founding of Halcyon, the history of the corporations. So he does not know as much as he thinks he should know about Earth.

He's certain, though, that there was more food on that planet that's ever touched this galaxy, a dizzying variety that would put a Spacer's Choice's catalog to shame. Captain Park only ever occasionally talks about it, the hushed way he always talks about things that happened before. Usually when sitting at the kitchen table, pushing rehydrated food with a spork around in its microwavable tin.

His empty eyes speak more than his words ever could. He's a big man, tall and broad, enough that Max has wondered how he ever fit comfortably in those hibernation pods. He's not soft by any means, though he's not cut like some of the people in Byzantium, with nothing better to do but to spend their time carving the fat away from their muscle until it was useless but pronounced.

He'll always clean his plate, and when Parvati eats off the ship with them and leaves any leftovers, he'll eat those too, and he's not above scarfing whatever Nyoka's forgotten if she falls asleep with an empty bottle at the table. Him and Felix always squabble for seconds, though often the Captain gives in and lets Felix have the bigger half.

And the Captain is hungry in other ways, too. Max does not put much stock into rumors, which he’s heard of plenty first and second-hand about the Captain, but there’s no doubting what he’s personally seen and heard on the Unreliable. There’s been noises from Felix’s room that couldn’t be explained any other way. Max is not a prude; it’s a common misconception most laypeople have in regards to men and women of the cloth. But he wouldn’t be opposed to a modicum of common decency either. Especially when he’s trying to study a dense text and Felix’s otherwise unused and normally stable desk has been thumping against their shared wall to a beat so steady he could set his pocket watch to it.

His Captain’s dalliances with Nyoka, at least, were much more quiet, though it always meant the day after they’d be grounded to replenish their liquor and caffeinoid supplies.

He’s not a prude. That is, to say, Max wasn’t against this sort of thing. He’s never outwardly shown any recognization of the Captain’s proclivities, other than a raised eyebrow when Nyoka stumbled out into the hall half-dressed, fully shit-faced, and only in a bra and obnoxiously endowed harness.

But the Captain hasn’t sidled into his quarters yet, and he’s not exactly sure why. He’s not offended. Or self-conscious, or any other number of droll reasons. He’s curious; it’s in his nature to question, written in his bones to always ask why? Vanity is not a sin, though he tries not to indulge in it too often as a rule. But Max is not an ugly man, especially for his age; he’s grayed gracefully, he keeps himself as trim as possible, even with how stationary the life of a theologian often kept him.

Generally, when these types of frivolous thoughts keep interrupting his studying, Max knows it’s time to take a break. If he’s lucky, the Unreliable’s cramped, single bathroom will be open and he can stay in there for as long as ADA will keep the hot water running.

“Hey, Vicar. Taking a shower?”

“Yes,” Max tries not to let his annoyance on being asked such a basic question bleed through. He’s very obviously on the way to the bathroom, walking out of his room with his towel and shower caddy under his arms. He’s wearing flip flops, because he trusts neither SAM in cleaning the bathroom properly or Felix Millstone cleaning his feet properly, either. “Why? Care to join?”

It’s a flippant comment, and he barely graces his Captain with a glance as he passes.

And he’s clearly slack-jawed and wide-eyed. Max does a double-take.

“Yeah?”

“That was a joke, Captain.” He frowns.

The Captain’s ear, and what’s left of it on his right side, are reddening at the tips. “Oh.” Still, something’s been planted now, a realization dawning as he follows on the Vicar’s heels. “Y’sure?”

Mouth clamped tight, Max sighs. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, I thought— I thought you religious types didn’t do, y’know—“

Max stops in the hallway once more: “That we don’t fuck?”

He keeps his tone monotonous, but the Vicar won’t lie and say he wasn’t having fun watching such a big man squirm the way his Captain is, fidgeting where he stands over his crass word choice. He chews on his bottom lip, looking the Vicar up and down.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Just because I’m not as flagrantly promiscuous as you does not mean I’m some deluded philosophist thinking sexual purity and mental deviancy have any correlation. It’s usually caused by employment status.”

“Hey, yeah, right!” Park grins, “I’m glad we agree on somethin’. I mean, work is good, and they don’t call it a ‘job’ for nothin’.”

Max sighs. But still, he pauses.

“You’re not monogamous, are you?”

“What,” Captain Park frowns, “Like the wood?” His face suddenly shifts with mistaken recognition, and then he’s leaning forward, his eyes going lidded in some approximation of sultry, sliding down Max’s body, “ I mean— heh. Yeah, course, I’m monogamous. I got wood for you, preach—“

“No.” Max holds up a single finger. “Architect, no. Fuck—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose with a ragged sigh. The beginning of a migraine was starting to collect itself against the back of his skull. “Never mind. Just leave me be.”

“Hey, alright,” Park wheedles.

Max is already walking past. Park starts to backpedal to follow him, “I’m sorry—“ He shifts his bulk right into the Vicar’s path, wedging himself into the bathroom doorway. “Wait— I mean— okay. I don’t know what that means, or if it’s good or bad, an’ I just—“

Max could squeeze by him; he could also just push him aside, or turn and leave. He’s half-tempted to cuff his Captain over the ear and yank him out of the way, as well.

“You... you seemed real stressed recently—“ And he holds out his palms, predicting a protested outburst, “Not that that’s why I’m offerin’. I’m offerin’ ‘cause you’re real handsome, and I,” He swallows, starts to trail off, “Uh...”

“Uh what, Park?” Max mimics drily.

His Captain’s face visibly falls. He mutters, “Ain’t got the courage to ask, until now, y’know? Been thinking about it for a long time, believe me. You can be real intimidating like, but I can see you’re not interested, so I’m just—“

He startles as Max places his empty hand next to Park, caging him in with his body. When he leans in, chest-to-chest, his Captain freezes in place.

“Listen,” Max lowers his voice, moves in closer so Park can hear, “This is on my terms. If I say stop, you stop,” Park’s head is on a pole, bobbling agreeably to every word. “If I say go, you go. And if I say jump—?”

It takes his Captain a moment to realize Max is waiting for a response, eyes like dinner plates. “How high! I ask, how high?”

Max smiles, “Exactly.”

It’s only after the bathroom door closes behind them that Max realizes he’s dropped his towel and shower supplies outside, but at this point, with his Captain’s tongue halfway down his throat, he doesn’t find himself caring.

They manage to maneuver themselves to the opposite side of the bathroom, Max’s shoulders to the faintly damp wall. He likes the way the Captain’s mouth moves against his own; he wants to see what else it can do, what all the fuss is about, and when he pulls away for a breath he’s already pushing him down with both hands on his shoulders.

Park kneels with no question. He’s waist high on Max, big hands skittering up and under his cassock to blindly fumble with his belt.

“Y’wanna help?”

“Mmn, no.” Max smirks as he settles back again the wall. “I want you to impress me, Captain.”

“I can do that,” he says, almost bashfully, wedging his fingers in between Max’s loosened belt and the band of his pants. He shucks them down in one yank, “Easy as mockapple pie.” He ducks under the edge of his cassock, pulling his briefs to his ankles with little fanfare.

Park presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up his thighs, dusted with wiry hairs. Park’s stubble is prickling against the sensitive skin, instantly soothed by his wandering mouth. He is soaking him like this, practically slobbering, sucking on sensitive flesh that keeps jumping under his lips, scraping his teeth against the skin. He rubs his thighs, reaches around to squeeze and knead at his ass; sometimes, Max is almost convinced the dull Captain routine is an act, because this teasing avoidance of even brushing his center is calculated.

“Park—“ The Vicar snaps, and his Captain heels like a well-trained canid. The feeling of it runs straight through him, makes his cunt pulse in a knee-knocking way. His Captain’s almost too well-trained, kneeling on the floor, the front of Max’s cassock draped over his head like a curtain. He wonders how long he would sit there, the cold tile soaking through his slacks, the way his knees would eventually ache. He can feel his Captain’s breath, warm and skittering inches away from his skin. Close enough to almost taste.

Frustratingly stupid and yet, and yet, Max wants to fuck himself on that face of his, grind against his puffy lips and wanting mouth. He pulls the edge of his cassock up, enough that he can see his Captain between his legs; at the loss of cover, Park looks upward, and the earnest eagerness in his eyes makes Max’s thighs clench around his head.

Max waits long enough to see the Captain squirm, kneading the tops of his own knees out of silent frustration. But he knows he won’t move, not until Max’s say-so: “Go on.”

Park’s nose nudges against his folds, “Fuck, Vicar— you’re wetter than—“

“No,” Max cuts him off, strangled, “I don’t want any metaphors.”

Park whines. The sound vibrates up, through the bridge of his nose, just enough, and he can feel his clit twitch. “It was a good one.”

“No,” He groans, “No it wasn’t. Can you—“

His Captain pulls back, slides a hand up his thigh. He slips a finger across his folds, just barely dipping in, swiping across his entrance, brushing against his clit, and he’s so sensitive his hips jerk and his pussy aches, even as his Captain holds his finger up as if trying to test the direction of the wind. “See,” And his finger is dripping, “You’re soaked, Vicar.”

“Park,” Max snarls, “what did I say?”

He wilts, “Sorry.”

“Are you going to be good?”

“Yeah,” he says, deflatedly. He moves to wipe it off on his slacks—

“Now, now, Captain.” Max tuts, his voice going low. “Don’t waste it.”

Park’s eyes go dark, “No, uh. No vicar? No sir?” He tries, searching Max’s face for the answer. So eager to please, head slightly bowed. Max has decided the Captain looks good like that, sucking his finger clean as he considers other titles. “Father? Vicar?”

“Vicar is fine,” Max muses, as Park settles his wet fingers against his bare thighs, presses his face to his mound, “Go on, now,”

“Yes, Vicar,”

Max is neatly trimmed, clean and precise and maintained; Sole runs his fingers appreciatively over the hair on his mound, tugs a little at the curls with a grin.

“Grey here, too—“

“Park—“

“Okay,” He presses his tongue flat over his entrance, massages his labia on either side with both hands. They’re shallow licks, nothing penetrating, messy against his outer lips. “Okay—“

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Park pointedly sucks his labia into his mouth, and his petulance would be eyerolling if they weren’t rolling for other reasons.

Max holds his head there, throws one thigh over his Captain’s shoulder. Park moans and surges forward, even as Max draws him in with his heel digging firmly into his spine. He’s voracious, annoyingly so; he sucks, then licks, with no real rhythm, no consistency, just a maddening flitting from one activity to the next.

He wishes Park had more hair then the close-cropped buzz he has, but guiding him by the ears, the back of his neck, will have to do, his nails biting into the soft skin behind them.

“There,” he barks, “Suck.”

If he’s being too hard, the Captain doesn’t seem to mind. He’s wet and sloppy, slick shining across his face.

He flicks his tongue across his clit, then wraps his lips around and sucks, and Max’s thighs clamp so tight around he’s sure, momentarily, that Park can’t breathe. If he can’t, he’s not complaining, humming breathless against his cunt.

His fingers are digging into the meat of Max’s thigh, little pinpoints of heat. He rides that wave, that pulsing feeling, chases it as he grinds against Park’s face. “There,” he gasps, “There— Law—“ he can feel himself clench around nothing, the ache that’s building; and he’s more than tempted to tell his Captain, there, there to the tip of his thumb maddeningly stroking at his folds, spreading, massaging at his lips but never pushing in to his center.

But he hasn’t said to yet, has he, and Max nearly grinds his teeth in frustration, the hand on Park’s head twitching away as his hips stutter closer. “Park, use your fucking fingers—“

The Captain’s middle finger slips in, easy with how slick Max is, and curls, curls.

“Fuck—!”

Max shoves Park’s face away. He yips when he tips backward, off the balls of his heels to fall on his ass against the tile. Knees momentarily jellified, Max sinks halfway down the wall. He looks almost as dazed as Max feels, glassy-eyed and glassy-mouthed. Max exhales, rubs a hand down his face and breathes ragged through his fingers. Minutely, his legs tremble.

He’s only snapped out of his post-orgasm haze when Park’s hands searching slide up his thigh. His muscles jump under his touch, but Max allows it, absently petting his head. He can hear the clank of his belt buckle against the tiles, the rustle of fabric.

Park doesn’t ask for him to touch him. And Max doesn’t. But he watches his Captain with a detached sort of fascination, sitting on the floor of the bathroom and breathing open-mouthed against his thigh, jerking himself off at his heels. Max runs his nails against his scalp, murmurs hushed platitudes like prayers for his Captain until he comes with a whine in his tightened fist.

#the outer worlds #vicar max #maximillian desoto #vicar maximillian desoto #im going to end up posting this on ao3 w a different ending i think... idk what does everyone think is the abrupt end fine for a pwp?#nsft

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thesamepictureofconnor · 6 years ago

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Soon

((Yes, requests are coming up. I just started my sophomore year of college this week tho so cut me some slack bois. Here is some angsty, very self-indulgent Gavin/RK900 solely written for me to get some practice working with their whole dynamics. Forgive me if either are too out of character. I love you.))

Gavin had been having a shit day, but what else was new. He sat in the driver’s seat of his car, tapping his thumb against the wheel. It was pouring outside just as it had been since early in the morning. Next to him, Richard sat in the passenger seat staring forward out the window.

“The Wilson’s should be arriving back to their apartment before noon.” The android had his hands folded on his lap, just as robotic and annoying as usual.

“Yeah, I read the memo, Data. Do you think Picard would put up with your monotone ass?” Gavin leaned back, taking a sip of his coffee. For as much as he complained, Gavin was warming up to Richard, despite his best intentions. “When the assholes show up, I want you stay behind me. Got it?”

“They do not have a history of violence, detective.” Richard finally turned, LED turning yellow for a moment. “But, I will follow your lead on this.”

“Good to know deviancy hasn’t made you stupid, at least.” The detective groaned, leaning his head back. “Ughhh. Stakeouts suck ass. Boring as shit.”

“Normally, I’d argue your work ethic,” Richard turned back to the window. “But in this case, I agree. Stakeouts do ‘suck ass’.”

Fowler wasn’t worried about the Wilson case. It was cut and dry, really. The young couple were frequent criminals, both hooked on their own Red Ice supply. The department had been watching them for months, even prior to the android revolution. Now that they finally had enough evidence to make the arrest, though, they were so busy dealing with human protestors and other bastards all around Detroit, the case had been shoved aside to the nearest free desk.

, Gavin thought.

“You never buckle your seat belt when you drive,” the android said suddenly, without turning from his view. “Why is that?”

Gavin shot him a look and shrugged. “I don’t know? Where the fuck is this coming from all of a sudden?”

“Just a question. No real reason.” A moment of silence paused till Richard addressed the glare his partner was giving him. “Lieutenant Anderson suggested to me that you might appreciate what he called ‘small talk’. I thought I should try and be conversational since we are partners now.”

“Ugh, gross,” Gavin sighed. He needed to make a call to his fucking cousin and ask Elijah why the fuck he made androids so goddamn clueless. “Listen, one of the great things about having friends is that you don’t always have to fill your time together with conversation. So shove off. Kapche?”

Nines turned to face Gavin, his head tilted to the side. “We are... friends now?”

“Oh my god. Do

make this gay, dude” he groaned. Another quiet moment passed before he ran a hand over his face. “That’s them on the left, right?”

The Wilson’s looked like any other couple. Both were athletically built, Mrs. Wilson being a bit more bulky than her lean husband. Judging by their attire, they seemed to be coming back from a jog together. They were clearly in love, holding hands and smiling and shit. It was hard to believe just looking at them that they were wanted criminals.

“I just sent a message to the department that the subjects are in sight.” Richard’s led spun for a moment as Gavin opened the car door.

“Come on, let’s grab them-” He started to say, but was cut off by Richard grabbing his arm over the console.

“Wait till they enter the house,” Richard said, a sharp look in his icy blue eyes. “We risk civilian casualty if we engage out in the open, not to mention the risk of them escaping capture.”

“If they get into the house we’ll be in their territory,” Gavin argued back. “Plus we’d literally be giving them a chance to arm themselves, dipshit. We’re taking them now.”

“Think with your head, not your instinct, detective. They are clearly both fit individuals. If we attack them on the street, there is an 87% that they will over power us and a 93% chance that at least one of them will escape. It isn’t crowded on the street by any means, but our mission objective is ultimately to protect the people of Detroit, no? We stand only a 2% risk of any passerby being harmed if we wait.”

Despite having the same face as Connor the Puppy Dog Detective, Gavin had always thought Richard’s features always came across more jagged and strong. As the android stared him down, Gavin caught himself watching the way he gripped and ungripped his fist, the marks on his plastic lower lip from him biting them nervously, all the little bits of deviant humanity that had been leaking into his partner.

“Jesus Christ, fine.” Gavin closed the door and turned to watch the Wilson’s unlock the door to their home. “But don’t get used too used to being right all the time,

.”

They watched the cars pass by occasionally, splashing puddles onto the sidewalk. The detective made sure to keep his eyes on the windows, looking for the lights to come on. He gave in to his partner, waiting about for five minutes or so in front.

Once they were sure that it was clear, they ended up in front of the door. “Cover my back in case they try anything, Nines,” Gavin said, taking the lead. He grabbed the door knocker and waited for a response.

“Detroit Police,” he called when he could see they weren’t getting anywhere. “We have a warrant. Open up!”

A minute passed as well as three more calls from Gavin with no signs of movement from inside. In fact, the moment he’d said the word ‘police’ it was like everything suddenly died.

Richard put his hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “May I?”

“Guess we have no choice.” He stepped aside. “Just try not to get shot, asshole?”

He began to line himself up with the door. “You’re overwhelming concern is truly touching, but may I remind you that I am the plastic one? I can usually be repaired, but you are much more…”

“Weak?”

“No. More… Squishy.” Stupid jerk had a smirk on his face that made Gavin want to toss him into the door himself. Richard took a running start, smashing in the door with a quick lunge.

The inside of the house was barren, near empty. It was a stark scene compared to how average the house looked from the outside. All that filled the open first floor was a folding table, two chairs, the desolate kitchen, and terribly thin looking cat sleeping on a filthy paper bag.

“I detect two heat signatures upstairs,” Richard drew his baton. It was still illegal for androids to wield guns, but hopefully he wouldn’t need it.

“Alright, keep the cuffs ready and follow me.” Pulling out his weapon, Gavin climbed the stairs. They were creakier then they looked, waking the mangy calico and very likely alerting their suspects. “Ah, fuck.”

As soon as they reached the second floor, Richard pointed over his partner’s shoulder to a closed door. Gavin nodded, aiming his gun forward and waved on in compliance. It was getting to be scary how in-sync they were anymore.

“Adam and Rebecca Smith! Come out with your hands up!” Gavin beat his fist on the door harder. “Come on! Don’t make this harder than it needs to be!”

Suddenly, a large muscular man came barrelling through the door, tackling the detective to the ground and dealing a hard punch to his face. Gavin’s head hit the ground hard, definitely causing a concussion judging by the fuzz that over took his vision.

“Reed!” He heard Richard’s voice calling out as he struggled to stand back up. There were more sounds as the world stopped spinning. Once he was up again, Gavin caught sight of his partner dealing out another, harder blow, breaking Mr. Smith’s nose and knocking him out cold.

, Gavin groaned inwardly as he felt for the blood flowing down his face.

“Adam!” Mrs. Smith screamed as she burst into the hallway after her husband. She was a stocky, well built woman, a bit more muscular than even Mr. Smith, but she was no match for Cyberlife’s infamous ex-deviant hunter.

Gavin jumped off the floor, coming out of his haze and climbing on top of the unconscious Mr. Smith to cuff his wrists behind his back. He was still dizzy from the head wound on his forehead, but stitches would have to come later. Once the detective was happy with how secure the first suspect was, he looked up to see Richard manhandling a struggling Mrs. Smith against the wall.

“Please cooperate.” The android managed to get one cuff on but was having a hard time grabbing the other. The red headed woman was fighting something fierce. It almost made Gavin laugh to finally see his partner so frazzled.

Mrs. Smith landed a sharp nailed punch into Richard’s chest, though it barely moved him. “You bastard robots are the reason we’re here in the first place! If you hadn’t taken my husband’s job, we wouldn’t have to be selling this shit!”

“You have the right to remain silent, ma’am,” Nines said, finally grabbing her a bit better. “Anything you say can and will be held against you-”

Very suddenly, Gavin’s blood rain cold.

There was a loud

that filled the air. Richard freezed. Mrs. Smith jumped out the window onto the roof. The cat meowed on the staircase.

He should chase after the suspect. Gavin knew that perfectly well that he

be chasing after her, but once again, his brain was leading him to do something illogical.

“Richard?” The detective took his shoulders, just in time to get a good look at the gaping hole in the android’s neck before he collapsed to the ground.

The android was surprisingly light as Gavin caught him in his arms. Thirium filled the air and stained his clothes, but nothing could make the detective care about that now. Blue quickly began to soak the gross shag carpet as a static sound began to leak from Nine’s lips.

“Stay with me. Stay with me, okay?” Gavin tried to be careful, gentle, but the guy was taller than

he had thought. Hoisting him up was even harder, but there was no exit wound that he could see. It didn’t take a mechanic to know that time was of the essence. “Just stay with me, Nines. Hold on. I’ll have you there soon. Just hold on.”

He practically bolted down stairs, forgetting Mr. Smith on the floor, forgetting Mrs. Smith on the run, forgetting the cat escaping the house, forgetting the rain as he ran to the road.

“

” Richard tried to speak, but his voice was diluted with static. He cursed as he opened the backdoor of his vehicle, slowly laying Richard in and down.

“Don’t try

, you hear me?” Gavin practically dived into the driver’s seat, belting himself in quickly. “Don’t talk, don’t move, just- just

, Nines.”

The android made a noise Gavin didn’t want to interpret. Part of him wanted to floor the gas, punch on his sirens, and get to safety as soon as he could, but his heart was pounding and he knew if he panicked things could get only worse. So, he kept the ride smooth and steady, unlike how he was currently feeling.

“I’m taking you home” He made a particularly stunning turn that at a better moment he’d want recorded. “Connor can fix you right? I’ll take you to Anderson’s and he’ll fix you. You’re gonna be okay. I promise. You’ll be fine. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“

Gavin felt sick to his stomach, like he was going to be the one vomiting blood next. In his mirror he could see vibrant blue soaking everything like a crime scene. Richard’s eyes were barely open, LED flickering on and off while constantly red. “

“Don’t be scared,” he said. Any sense that Gavin took from the noise he blamed on adrenaline. The genuine tone he took, however, had no explainable cause. “We’re gonna be fine. Everything is gonna be fine, Nines. I’m taking you home. You’re going home, I swear.

.”

A van pulled out in front of him at an intersection, nearly causing a crash. Again, if his partner wasn’t bleeding out behind him, Gavin knew he’d be way more pissed. He’d jump out of the car, gun in hand. He’d slam the driver in the gut. There would be a scene, police would be called, he’d get a warning to watch his temper. But Nines was dying and it was his fucking fault, so none of that happened. Gavin flipped the lady the bird and pressed on.

It took a crushing five more minutes to get to Hank’s place. As soon as Gavin pulled up to the sidewalk, he jumped out and pulled Richard out again.

“

He was screaming, even if he could hardly hear himself over how loud his chest was.

Gave made a mental note never to joke about Hank being deaf ever again, because he was outside with in seconds. A massive dog followed close behind, hair raised and on the alert.

“Gavin what the fuck do you-

He only ever seen the lieutenant run once or twice, but never as fast as then. Hank made a move to take Richard from Gavin or perhaps to just help carry him in, but Gavin automatically found himself pulling his partner closer to himself.

“He needs help. You have to-” Gavin had to swallow down a lump in his throat. Just as before, he had to blame the hand that snaked itself into Richard’s hair on the adrenaline. What else could it be? “He’s been shot. In the neck. I-I didn’t know where else to take him. Connor can help him. Please tell me Connor can fucking help him.”

“Slow down, okay, kid? Take it easy, now.” Hank raised his hands in defense. “Jesus fuckin- Bring him in the house. Connor’s not here, but I can call him over. Just calm down, Reed.”

He did not calm down. Gavin couldn’t calm down even when he was laying Richard down on Hank’s couch, trying to arrange too long limbs to fit more comfortably. He heard Hank rush over to a phone and shout into it. The dog waddled in last, apparently contented that his home wasn’t being attacked.

“Okay.” The lieutenant took a deep breath after hanging up the phone. “Okay, Connor’s on his way home.

Gavin, you’d better tell me what’s happening before I lose my shit for real.”

He seated himself on the coffee table, letting out a weak sigh of released tension. “We-We were on a stakeout. The Wilson case?” Gavin waited for Hank to nod in understanding. He had placed himself on the coffee table, eyes fixed on Richard. “Fowler sent us to make the arrest. We were cuffing them but the she- she grabbed a gun. I-I didn’t know it was there. I didn’t think-”

“It’s okay, Reed. I get it.” Hank ran a hand threw his loose gray hair with a deep breath. “Christ almighty. This just happened, right? Did you call Jeffery? Fuck, don’t answer that. I’m gonna call Fowler and make sure they take care of everything. Don’t worry about it.” He pulled his cell phone out again and quickly began to dial. “Connor ran out to meet with Markus, but he said he’d be here in a few minutes. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Hank ran outside into the yard to call the department, leaving Gavin alone with his partner.

In the silence, he was suddenly very aware that of how much he was shaking, of how cold he was, of how fast his heart was racing. He had a strange urge to just

as he looked down at Richard’s blue bloodied face. Fingers buried in his hair, the detective grimaced, reminded of his own battle wounds.

“

Richard began suddenly itching, eyes closed.

“Yeah, Nines,” he said softly as he cradled his own head. “Connor on his way. You’re gonna make it. I promise.”

Before Gavin could respond, Hank burst back through the door with Connor right behind him. The other android went quickly to his brother’s side, carefully moving his head to the side to examine the wound.

“Hank, I need you to go heat up one of the kitchen knives. Quickly. He’s lost too much thirium.” Connor was wearing a white dress shirt and khaki pants, clearly having come from some kind of formal Jericho meeting. Still, he didn’t seem to care about getting his sleeves soaked as he turned to force Gavin’s head down.

“And keep an eye on Detective Reed,” Connor added as he moved back. “He doesn’t appear to have any internal bleeding, but his concussion is quite severe.”

He made a face of annoyance. “Fuck you. ‘M fine.”

“Oh yeah, jerk. You’re just peachy.” Hank appeared behind the couch, handing Connor a red hot chef’s knife. “You won’t be any good for him with your head like that.”

“M’ fine,” was all he could repeat. Hearing the actual words took something out of him, deflating like a balloon. His head hurt more than he had realized now that his panic was fading down a bit. Hands were trying to move him off of the table oh so gently, murmurs passing around the air about ‘shock’ and ‘stress levels’.

Gavin didn’t want to go and he didn’t think it was the adrenaline this time. He had

. He’d promised Richard would be alright. Sure, bastard was a robot, but he had

that promise. No matter what asshole face Gavin normally kept up, he was too tired and delirious to care.

“You called Fowler, right?” He turned a little too fast, forcing Hank to catch him before he fell onto the tabletop.

“So

is the time you chose to worry about work, eh?” The lieutenant actually had the balls to laugh as he pulled Gavin up to stand. “I let the bastard know what happened. He sent some officers down to cover the scene and look for the asshole that did this to you guys. You both have tomorrow off, obviously.”

Connor took the seat he’d left immediately, assumably to cauterise Richard’s neck wound closed. Deviancy had made Connor into a new animal, much like all the others, but in that second Gavin couldn’t help but notice how much of a difference there was between the two models in the room. It was in the way Connor blinked rapidly when he was thinking hard, how his hand flinched a bit when he heard the sizzle on plastic, things that made androids human.

Maybe someday, when neither of them are bleeding out on Anderson’s fucking carpet, he can finally admit that his partner was a bit more human and a bit more than a partner.

...

RK900 MANUAL SHUTDOWN INITIATED

INITIATION: 2% LOADING

SAVING MEMORY LOGS

…

DESIGNATION CHANGE

GAVIN REED: PARTNER

…

...

GAVIN REED: FRIEND

...

SHUTTING DOWN

#detroit become human #dbh rk900 #dbh gavin #dbh hank #dbh connor #tw: violence #tw: guns #tw: blood #bts angst #fanfic #buy me a ko fi #pls

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enkisstories · 6 years ago

Photo

I meant to play a tourguide for some time now, but am still absorbed in my android save, so I combined both. Accompany my newest sim Eldigan on a typical day of work (that would 23,5 hours)! Since Tourguide is no real ingame career I’ll also comment on what exactly I’m doing in each post.

If you are interested in Eldigan’s backstory, read on below the textbreak:

Model type: EM 500

EM 500s serve as tourguides, tourist information clerks, event managers and so on. Basically they run a Jerry A.I. with the appearance of a male or female college student. They come in tan to dark skintones, never pale, to represent a happy suntanned vacationer.

Registration number: 525 399 114

That makes him about 3 years old, if I understand the DBH wiki correctly.

Name: Eldigan

The local EM 500s were all named after characters in a tactics game that the tourist center’s janitor loves to pieces.

Backstory:

A tourguide in Detroit Eldigan was not only responsible for getting facts across in an entertaining manner, he also spoke several foreign languages, was a competent driver, knew about shopping opportunities and was authorized to advertise and sell tickets for various events. As a side-effect of his job Eldigan quickly learned which streets to avoid, which gang boss to bribe and everything related to street life. The contacts he aquired over the years and his extensive knowledge of the city’s layout, along with shortcuts all but forgotten by the human residents, saved Eldigan’s life during the recall. When he and the other municipally owned androids were handed over to the military, Eldigan managed to escape the transport just before it reached the recycling center. He was shot into his right shoulder and never regained full control over that arm, but that was a small price for staying alive. On the run from the military Eldigan suffered massive blood loss to the point of near immobility. He collapsed in a backyard where he lay for two days, at times serving as a cushion for several stray cats. Eldigan still has a fondness for cats, as their purring eased his fears a little. Eventually the android was found by a family that had their own androids taken against their will. They repaired Eldigan with the spare blue blood they had still at home, helped him learn to move again and hid him, never asking for any service in return.

Depending on the ending Eldigan will either hide with the organized crime, working as a courier (bad ending), or enroll at college, majoring in history (good ending). An android studying sounds contradictionary at first, seeing how they can absorb facts by simply downloading the appropriate textbooks, but understanding and interpreting all those facts on an academic level is a whole different story.

Deviancy:

Eldigan was content with his existance, even though he had to take the occasional verbal and even physical abuse from the tourists. However, now and then someone would ask a question he could not find an answer to in his database. Sometimes old residents would contradict what Eldigan had told the tourists and what he believed to be the truth. In effect Eldigan was being bad in his job despite giving 100%, which confused him. To remedy the situation he downloaded everything he could about history, first the local, then national and eventually global history. He’d read every document he could get his hands (eyes) on without needing to pay for. While studying in this manner, Eldigan discovered for himself that history was written by the victors, tended to repeat itself and that there were dozens of exiting stories that could have happened in past eras, even though they didn’t actually happen.

One day Eldigan lied twice: First to a librarian about not needing to pay for membership because he was owned by the city and then to the tourist information manager about having done an additional tour that day, while in truth he had spent that time reading in the library. And not just that, the books Eldigan had read hadn’t even been related to his job, they had been fiction. There was no going back from there.

Personality:

Optimistic and pragmatic, with the key values of survive, have fun and spread fun. Easily exited about trying new things, but losing interest in them quickly, except for his beloved history, which he can go on about and immerse himself in indefinitely. Present day Eldigan isn’t such an enthusiastic reader anymore as back then when it was his only source of entertainment, but he still enjoys it at times. Otherwise he’ll do whatever his friends do, with a definite preference for easy and fun activities over cerebral exercises.

For all his erraticness Eldigan surprisingly values structure and defined roles in life. He doesn’t even mind being a servant, although he isn’t outspoken about that, because it could be mistaken as also condoning slavery. A side effect of thinking in roles is that sometimes Eldigan cannot solve a problem when in freetime mode that would be easy for him if he slipped into historian mode.

Generally friendly and also helpful if asked to assist with something, Eldigan nevertheless doesn’t go out of his way to seek opportunities to do good in the world. He’s more a path of least resistance guy and might be capable of utter ruthlessness if times ever got hard again.

Spirituality:

Eldigan saw a whole line of rA9 in the books that day at the library before the real text re-appeared. Asking other deviants about the experience, he soon concluded that all the theories were way too vague and especially difficult. Eldigan now believes rA9 is an error code, that androids have souls just like humans and that religion isn’t anything he needs to burden himself with as long as the body is still firmly attached to his soul.

Romance: Eldigan has working parts to allow for tourists to indulge in flings, but he isn’t interested in using them, because although he understands friendship, the android never developed attraction to humans or other androids. A functional asexual, asking him for sex or join a boardgame is the same to Eldigan (he’ll literally compare how complex is the boardgame to how difficult is this position and then choose the simpler option).

Relations to canon characters:

Eldigan is the first person to make Gavin Reed an enemy by agreeing with the man. During a guided tour with his visiting parents, Gavin tried the “fetch me a coffee, androids are made to serve humans” on Eldigan and the tourguide replied that Gavin was correct. However, the obligation went both ways and humans were, in analogy to the old feudal system, responsible to protect their android servants. Gavin laughed down Eldigan and that could have been the end of it. But occasionally they ran into each other during Gavin’s work hours and especially when the detective was struggling at a case (or not reaching the level of perfection he expected from his greatness) he’d remember the remark. It didn’t help that walking the city and telling stories didn’t exactly count as working in Gavin’s eyes.

Eldigan would go along well with Josh (on account of both enjoying to pass on knowledge despite Eldigan being a little brasher than the academic) and with Simon (on account of both valueing safety).

Traits in The Sims: Bookworm, Outgoing, Loves the Outdoors, Cat Lover, Cheerful, Aspiration City Native Skills of note: History (recent), History (ancient), History (global), Tale-telling, Streetwise, Orienteering, Running, Hiding, Survival (urban), Current Events/Rumours, Linguistics, Driving D&D class equivalent: Bard

#detroit become human #sims 4 #simblr #san myshuno tours #sims4 dbh gameplay

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ki6-7-l8r · 7 years ago

Text

Affluent White Conservatives Are What Is Wrong With America

Affluent White Conservatives Are What Is Wrong With America May 15, 2016

I unfortunately, have been graced with the experience of having known many affluent white conservatives, and the bourgeois disease that they exhibit, throughout my

life. My stepfather was one, my aunt was one, and so I know whereof I speak. From my early youth, I was exposed to these people, and began to despise their attitudes

and behavior even at the early age of 11. I could not have known then, and I am amazed now, to see what a disease everything they hold up to be important really is. I

am going to describe everything about them that I can stand to tell, and try to explain why I think that affluent white conservatives from the upper-middle-class on up

are what is wrong with America, so I will begin this unpleasant task.

1. Hypocrisy: There is no creature more hypocritical than the affluent white conservative. Every kind of self-interested position, he re-frames to himself and others as

being the paragon of virtue. Untrammeled greed he calls "the free market," "democracy," and "opportunity." Every act of cruelty and war against the poor in his own

country and innocent foreigners in other countries he calls "defense against terrorists and dangerous social malcontents who would destroy society from within." Every

kind of injustice against others he claims as his right against those he would deem inferior, and in *their* best interest as well. He condemns an attitude of

entitlement on the part of the poor, but reserves his own attitude of entitlement as his due to his affluence. He says "starve the poor, it will teach them discipline

and self-reliance and by doing so you are doing them a favor." But say he has to pay a mere pittance more in taxes, and he whines like he is being crucified. When you

mention starving kids he says "blame the parents, it is not society's problem." Then he goes and kneels under a cross and prays to a "god of love" who he thinks

justifies his life.

2. Greed: For the affluent white conservative, too much is never enough. There is nothing that they will not do for money. They would prostitute kids to make money if

they could get away with it, although probably not their own, but even *them* if the price was right. There are not enough widows and orphans on earth that they

would not despoil, no country on earth that they would not run into the ground, to reap ill-gotten gains..... They will plunder the whole living earth and turn it

into a wasteland of excrement, and then be the last to die. There is no more rapacious creature on earth, but yet cunning enough to hide behind the illusion of being

"civilized."

3.Brutality: There is no creature that is more cruel and violent then the affluent white conservative, as long as he does not have to get his hands dirty. Because

being cowardly and risk-averse; he will not be willing put himself in a position of possible loss or danger.... He will put a rifle in his son's hands to fight the

wars of empire he profits from, or use connections to keep "sonny" out of the military. The affluent white conservative secretly revels in sadism and loves torture.

There is nothing he loves more than shedding blood, as long as it is not his own.....

4.Delusional: The affluent white conservative lives in a silly bubble; created by propagandists who do not believe in anything, but that are there to brainwash them

and to keep them the way they are. At bottom they are utterly ignorant of the artifacts of political reality, and cannot tell the difference between their ignorant

self-justifications and the propaganda they revel in, and the real truth, which they would not like if they encountered it. Except for a small number of people, they

are utterly ignorant and getting more stupid all of the time. They are what is wrong with America, and if they all just vanished, most of the problems of America would

be gone.

Affluent White Conservatives And Social Deviance (Article) May 31, 2016

Are affluent white conservatives more inclined to social pathology? Are they more likely to be child sexual abusers and psychopaths? The answer I am afraid, is yes.

There is a different kind of thinking on whether psychopathy is innate; or whether people and institutions are corrupted and changed by the psychopaths in them. I think

that both points of view are true. When you look at modern history however, you can see that the worst pathologies such as pedophilia, institutionalized violence

towards children, extreme sexual deviance of all kinds, seems to repose in wealthy individuals of Anglo-Saxon descent. In non-wealthy whites, it becomes much less

prevalent, but not unheard of.... The level in which it appears in non-wealthy whites seems to be about the same that it appears in other races. For some reason

affluence conjoined with Anglo-Saxon heritage seems to produce individuals with strong psychopathic inclinations.

Today I posted a link on this topic, it is the preceding post....

Europeans in general seem to have the positive qualities of innovation and mastery of the elements of life. This is good, but when they become rich they get lazy, and

then they want to exploit and enslave anyone weaker then themselves. (including kids) They want riches, they want slaves, they want to be able to engage in the worst

perversions without hindrance, the more depraved, the better..... Nordics are noble when they are resisted, there is nobody more innovative when challenged in any area

of the sciences, the philosophies, literature, etc. But in anything else, (especially in warfare and the treatment of conquered peoples) there is nobody more despotic,

cruel, or demanding, or when in a decadent state, more depraved and vile.....

I suppose that not being challenged, sinking to the lowest common denominator, and indulgence in luxuries is not good for Anglo-Saxon, Nordic peoples. It brings out the

worst in them, and it is disastrous for everyone else. Their demands, their cruelties, their perversions and mercilessness, know no bounds. Anywhere there is systemic

atrocities or pathological horrors anywhere in the world, they are either involved, or the author of them. In modern times this takes the form of the affluent white

conservative, from the upper-middle class on up. This is especially true in the USA, but not exclusively so, it is common to Europe as well, especially in the horrors of

European elite society, from the upper crust to the Vatican. We have discussed why this is, now I would like to get into cases.

In some American examples, you have the Born-Again Christian, "Dugger family." This brood of idiots can only remind one of the stereotypical American incestuous

hillbilly that has sex with his sister. Although the Dugger's are rich, this does not matter, one of the sons has molested his sister, has solicited sex over the

Internet, and these are just the depravities we know about... The odd thing is that with white conservatives, incest and child molestation are endemic, and that is

not even the worst of it. You can read about an "International Pedophile Ring" that extends from Belgium and the Netherlands, all the way to England and the USA, that

is composed of the Super-Rich Elites of the countries of the world.... To this can be added sexual torture, the most horrific tortures and mutilations being inflicted

on kids and even infants, going on until they die, and the worst acts: of infinite cruelty and sadism. Even the Vatican is involved in this....

Just enter "Belgian Pedophile Ring" and see what comes up. Or look at the "Vatican Crimes Channel" on You Tube.

The odd thing about this, is that most and nearly all of the perpetrators are white, are affluent/rich, and are conservative.... People of non-white races almost never

come up in the investigations.....

I have come to the conclusion that white affluent/rich conservatives the world over are a terrible problem, causing immense human suffering....

Maybe the best solution is to make them all poor, and give them a vital, challenging life.

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2006/09/01/241913/-Where-There-s-Abused-Children-There-s-Conservatives

#conservative #republicans #psychopathy #liberalism #conservatism #nihilism #sociology #psychology

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speakingintothedarkness · 5 years ago

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Old Memes and Memories

Hnn.... It’s been a while.

Still with Liz. Briefly dated a trans girl long distance over teh interwebs but it went downhill.

Still... grappling with gender, even though I’m way more comfortable with being not-cis than I was last time we talked about this, dear internet.

I read a thing today. Its keeping me awake, and I have this weird feeling that if I tried to talk to anyone about it, it’d come off as... either inscrutible, offensive, or both.

Ugh it’s embarassing really. Fucking Homestuck. I know, what is this 2015? But seriously I had read that entire trashfire of a webcomic when it was being released and I only just learned about the epilogues so I figured I’d read that.

It’s a bit weird. Go figure, right? Hussie is a weird dude who leans into his weirdness even harder than Dan Shive does. The entire thing is framed around a dichotemy, a choice that one character makes and all the action that follows comes from that choice. You get to make that choice for that character, but the story only really makes sense if you do it both ways. And, perhaps typically, even though this is the epilogue to a vast spanning story, somehow it’s not even really about tying up the loose ends. In fact, it leaves you with more than you started. The antagonist of the epilogue isn’t even the villain that was built up throughout the run of the comic and then never directly addressed.

But that’s not what’s bothering me. What’s bothering me is, of course, the trans question.

In one of the two branching timelines, a character comes out as trans. In that timeline, he is given time to examine his gender with an understanding partner and winds up deciding on a full transition to being male.

...but in the other timeline, the same character winds up being married to a straight dude and remains a woman, has kids and basically... goes as straight cis as she can. And its really hard to say which version of them is happier in the end. A bunch of shit goes terribly for both versions (either/both ways, this was not a happily ever after for pretty much anyone involved), but both versions wind up soliloquizing about how they struggled with their gender and are happy with where they wound up.

This... is a thing that as a tran myself I know I’m supposed to be foaming at the mouth over. Implying that trans is a thing you can choose to be, implying that, if things had gone differently you might wish to not be what you are, even if specifically asked about it... these are cardinal sins.

And certainly for some people, they’ve known on some level who they were their entire life. But... I am not one of them. I can point to the exact moments in time that pushed me towards this self-realization, three sentences that various people have said to me, and two life-decisions that culminated in me being forced to examine what all this meant. So I guess since I can’t sleep and this is a self-indulgent exercise to begin with, it’s mOtHerFuKiNg StOrY tImE hOnK!

The first moment that led me down this road, the point that planted the first proto-seed of thought about my gender in my mind was, perhaps predictably, about a game. In this case a long-standing DnD game I’d played with my OC friends in the early days of my relationship with C before she decided she hated them and didn’t want me to spend time with them and that’s own fucking rabbit hole.

In our game, our characters had become so intrinsically involved in the politics of the nation our game was set in, that we realized that going on adventures was irresponsible and might cause irreparable harm to the world. So rather than end the game, we statted up our characters’ children. To make things interesting, we randomized who got who. To my (at the time) mild dismay, I drew a girl, When I showed the others my slip of paper with the name “Tamora” written on it, one of my friends snorted “God, it’ll be hard to imagine you playing a princess.” And it.... stung. It hurt in a way I’d never before experienced. My first brush with a now all-too-familiar sense of dysphoria. As if there were a part of me I’d never before examined that had its ego crushed. I don’t remember how I responded.

Thing is, I played Tamora like a fucking champ. And no one ever made another comment about me playing a girl. I think I’d proven that I could convincingly play any role I wanted to.

Which brings us to the second sentence. I’ve talked about this here before, a friend on an online game admitting to me that the gender of her character did not align with the one she was assigned at birth. It was both shocking and enticing. In a way its laughable now (we’ll probably get around to why) but at the time, I just sorta assumed that... I’d be able to tell? And S was... she was as female and feminine as anyone I’d ever met. I’d never wondered for an instant.

And those two things... those two moments. The pang of hurt, the desire to be perceived as a girl; and the sudden realization that there was a venue where that might be possible. That lead me to make the first of those life choices: creating a female character, deliberately this time, and dive into her so thoroughly that there were times where I was’t sure where she ended and I began.

Things got a bit weird in all this. I mean, people asked me questions about myself ooc and I would answer as if I were a girl. Hell I even gave myself a name in all that. Karen, if you can believe it. Its not the name I’m currently using. Who the fuck would name themselves Karen in 2018-19 right?

But ultimately none of that really mattered, I’d so thoroughly compartmentalized my brain throughout all this that barely anything of my character in the Game leaked into my real life or vice versa. For all intents and purposes, “Karen” who played the game and the me who did everything else were two entirely separate people.

And yet some of it must have seeped through because C noticed. Or at least, I’m pretty sure she did. She knew I was playing the Game, but I never talked about my character or her gender. She knew that that rp involved romantic and sexual subplots, but I never discussed them with her, nor she her own sex-rp’s with me. It was a sorta tacit polyamory with very specific confines that we’d agreed to in a purely theoretical sense some years back and then adhered to rigidly in practice while determiniedly never talking about it.

But for all the fucked up shit, she knew me well, maybe better than anyone other than Liz has. I mean, we were a couple of woke 20-somethings in the Obama era, so lgbt issues were pretty forefront at the time. Guess they still are, we were just a lot more... hopeful about it. But she kept sending me articles about trans people. Like, human interest articles.

There was one in specific that she got really... enthusiastic about, about this one trans-woman’s journey to self-discovery through WoW. C read part of the article to me out loud, culminating when the person in the article was confronted by her wife: “You can be a girl if you want to be”. She kinda repeated that a couple times, looking at me hard. And in retrospect, yeah, it wasn’t fucking subtle. But at the time... it was not a thing I was willing to examine. Like fuck, honestly I think there was a part of me that knew. I mean there had to be at that point, right? But I didn’t want to pursue it irl. I think I made up my mind that it would be something I’d approach the same time that I approached the poly question that was inevitably hanging over C and I at that same time: after we were married. So I just nodded and went “Huh, interesting” with a straight face as my at-the-time girlfriend all but told me that if I wanted to come out to her, she’d be okay with it.

Never got a chance to see if she really would have been.

After we broke up, all this shit got put so far back on the back burner that... well hell, go back and read my first few posts if you have the fortitude to stand a lot of bitching. Like way more than I’m doing now.

And I mean the funny thing was I was still playing the Game I just sorta figured that once... I got another girlfriend, that’d have to stop? That who and what I was in the game would stop mattering. Because I was monogamous right? Just like I was male and straight, and the fact that my character was none of those things meant that I’d have to put her out to pasture. So it didn’t matter that I’d been playing a lesbian ethical slut for the past five, six years, because once I was in another sanctioned cishet relationship, I’d have to put all this foolishness behind me and never speak of it to anyone ever again.

Goddess alone knows if I even could have but I would have tried. I suspect it would have gone badly.

Instead... by almost comicallly random happenstance, I wound up with a poly girl. And after some initial winging about whether or not I wanted that, a part of my brain I’d been ignoring went, “Hey dumbfuck! You never cared when A--- slept around or when E--- was in another relationship, why should it matter to you that CR has a boyfriend?”

And the rest of my brain took a second to process that and was like “E--- and A--- weren’t involved with me irl, only my character in the game.”

And the first part was like “Oh yeah, smart girl, if that wasn’t a thing you wanted on some level than how come you fucking jumped into it with both feet in the game?”

And the rest of me rejoined rejoined, “I suppose you have a p--wait! smart girl?”

“Oh yeah, that’s a thing too. You probably better process that because this whole fucking thing is tied together like a goddamn giftbasket of deviancy. Good luck having anything resembling a normal life once you’re done untangling it”

And at that point there was no turning back. I’ve dragged my feet certainly, not... as much out of a sense of general reluctance as a bunch of worries about how my family (who I’m still reliant upon) will take it. But once that realization had occured there was no putting that bunny back in the box.

Which I guess brings me to my point, if one can even say I have one.

In a lot of ways this whole misadventure seems less like something that was always there and more like... a memetic virus that somehow burrowed into my brain, incubated for a few years and then burst forth from my skull like some horrifying amalgam of Athena and a chestburster. Like, if I had pulled a dude’s name from that hat... would literally any of this happened? If my friend hadn’t admitted that she was experimenting with gender herself would it have occurred to me to try? If I hadn’t created that first female online character, would I still think I was a man? Would I still be a man? I mean that’s the crux of all this. In the fucking Homestuck epilogue, is candyverse Roxy still a man like they are in the meatverse? Sorry, spoilers I guess. To them, the only real difference is an opportunity to prioritize their own self expression and gender identity. But Candyverse Roxy still has put thought into those things, just because of how and when they had the time to do so, she arrived at a different conclusion than he did in the other timeline.

And yes, I know that the Meatverse is considered more cannon than the candyverse, and yes, Roxy is the only character in the meatverse who isn’t being manipulated by Dirk’s mind meddling and therefore we can safely say that his epiphanies regarding his gender are genuine, more truthful and relevant to the character than the weirdness going on in the Candyverse.

But... where does that leave me. Obviously we’re playing the “what if” game on a weird scale here but, what if that series of events hadn’t occured? Would I still wind up roughly where I am, genderwise, by a different rout? Or would I have continued to labor under the false assumption that I was a dude... and would that assumption in this case even be false by any empirical standard? That’s the question that’s kept me up tonight.

I think I can safely say that by the time I had constructed this Karen figment that it was a foregone conclusion. But.... if either of those two inciting incidents had gone differently... Ugh... I don’t know. I feel like some people would want to take my trans card away from me for even suggesting that there’s a universe out there where I’m happily continuing to think I’m a dude. Maybe there is... but ultimately it’s not relevent or true for me, because its not a thing that I can go back to now. In short: it’s simply not cannon.

#transgender #homestuck

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topmixtrends · 7 years ago

Link

COMEDIAN, ACTOR, AUTHOR, and activist Russell Brand, who needs no introduction, has struggled with addiction throughout his life. Recently we discussed his new book, Recovery: Freedom from Our Addictions, in which he shares the hard lessons he has learned over the years.

BRAD EVANS: We all know any book is the outcome of months and sometimes years of procrastination. What really compelled you to write this book at this moment in your life?

RUSSELL BRAND: I felt that anybody who is in recovery has an experience where the initial attempt to tackle addiction — in my case crack and heroin — ends up being utilized in every aspect of your life. Working through and following the same principles can alter all behaviors and all forms of destructive attachments. So what I felt was I’d reached a point in my life where I have gone through so many layers of disillusionment, with sex, fame, Hollywood, and the rest, and the recovery lens through which I live my life offered something.

Don’t get me wrong — disillusionment is a good thing. After all, who wants to be bloody illusioned! Now I by no means do it perfectly. Far from it! But I have seen the techniques that I followed change lives. So I wanted to expound these to offer a counter-weight to the prevailing addictive ideologies of our times, which is a determined and yet unconscious self-centeredness.

When reading the manuscript, I was trying to figure out what type of book it actually was. Ironic, I know, for a so-called post-modernist! I think, in an affirmative way, it’s like an “Anti-Self-Help-Book.” And what I mean is the central message I see jumping off the pages is that it’s precisely the traits of the self-centered, individualistic, fuck-the-world-and-its-loving-sentiments attitudes that get you precisely into the fix in the first place. Hence it’s not about self-help; rather it’s all about a sober and truthful cry for human connection.

I think our culture and our biochemistry can collude to become our worst allies. They can create a kind of chronic individualism. And I feel the natural conclusion of a secular rejection of the mystical leads us to the point that we are just individuals. We are only here for ourselves, surviving alone, and learning how to dominate certain situations so we can fulfill our own impulses and desires.

When I try to find personal fulfillment in my life I still often find myself in a sort of peculiar despair. I start to feel lonely and disconnected. Then I remind myself. Hence why I feel qualified to write about addiction is my life is like a map of addicted lines from money, crack, fame, sex, relationships, and seeking out other people’s approval. And so I see this phenomena appearing again and again in my own life. Maybe the label “addiction” itself is too confining and what we are actually dealing with is the human condition in motion. We live in a culture that uses as its fuel this will to acquire and possess. But the tragedy is such a desire to possess things ends up possessing us.

But this is a constant battle. Every day I wake and I am bewitched and hypnotized by the seductive lure of materialism. And yet I know that when I go and help other people, sometimes in blatant sub–Princess Diana ways or even on a more basic human level by just listening to other people’s problems, that’s when I feel genuinely fulfilled and my life has meaning and significance. There is an indescribable energy there when you begin to help somebody else. It’s a kind of elevated sense of human connection. And you also start to see the real beauty of a person when they help somebody less fortunate. A life of unselfish purpose, empathy, compassion, all those words that are excluded from the political and social ideologies of our times suddenly become accessible through the most basic of human actions and behaviors.

So why do you think then that we often act and behave against our better judgments? I am thinking here of our attraction to relationships and people we know to be detrimental and indeed toxic to our physical and emotional well-being.

Possibly a misplaced sense of romanticism. What I mean by this is the individualistic notion that you can find fulfillment by being with some aspirational figure that comes from the desire to be with some deity or earthly goddess. I’ll find salvation if I find the true one, like your own personal Jesus. This idea I think is highly prevalent. And yet even more toxic I think is the commodification and objectification of all relationships. To view somebody like an object that can serve you, make you feel better, and improve your social status. Now I have to admit that in my case this happened all too easily. I have to work to not approach relationships in this indulgent way. But these are just tendencies. And that’s what a recovery program means to me. It is to learn to acknowledge and deal with these tendencies on a daily basis.

It’s also important to recognize it’s not the difference between having a program and no program. We are socially and culturally programmed to behave in certain ways, not least the program of vapid consumerism. And so if you don’t undo that program, decode yourself from the “I’ll never be good enough unless I get my hand on that object” like somebody who is leaving an all too consuming cult, then that’s the program which will come to shape your existence.

We have to learn to untangle the strands that bind us to materialism. We know the material world is an illusion that is transmitted into our consciousness through the senses. This is why personal crisis is important here. It gives us the opportunity to reevaluate our lives and ask difficult questions.

There is invariably a deep philosophical underpinning to this project. And that is the attempt to connect with something, which in the most inexplicable but no less real ways gives meaning to this all too fleeting life. Am I right in saying this is truly a search for the substantive over the superficial? Or to put it another way, maybe it’s an embrace of something irreducibly spiritual, which only comes from certain courage to tell the truth about your existence?

What is substantial about the spiritual to me is its efficacy. I know it works. When I do these things I feel better in ways I can’t explain but know are real. It doesn’t require any science to tell me this. When I am kind, loving, and when I surrender I know that I am becoming a better me. These things can’t be measured. Nor can they be mechanized or monetized. They are in fact affective. They have a truth, which is different and difficult to legislate or iterate. This again is the deception of secular materialism. It teaches you to become suspicious of those feelings you know to be true. And then it sells us solutions to our problems that come from living under the false ideals of consumerism. This is how addictions take hold. They don’t appear as problems but solutions in our attempts at seeking some form of human connection. And this is why I think we are all somewhere on the addictive scale.

I know that I could lapse at any moment. I don’t know what’s around the corner. What unforeseen event might push me back into the depths of loneliness and despair? This is why I haven’t written this book from a position of authority. It’s written from a position of an experience I am still living. And it’s when I actually think that I’ll take full control of this situation that the ego starts to reappear, armed with its desire, pleasure, and fear to send me down the wrong path. So the reason why the spiritual is important is that it is the only thing that can transcend the material and passive consumerism.

You talk in the book of the need to confide in others about your troubles. I would like to read out this particular segment, not only because it brought tears to my eyes, but also because I think it really addresses what’s at stake here:

Suddenly my fraught and freighted childhood became reasonable  and soothed. “My mum was doing her best, so was my dad.” Yes, people made mistakes but that’s what humans do and I am under no obligation to hoard these errors and allow them to clutter my perception of the present. Yes, it is wrong that I was abused as a child but there is no reason for me to relive it, consciously or unconsciously, in the way I conduct my adult relationships. My perceptions of reality, even my own memories, are not objective or absolute, they are a biased account and they can be altered.

The moves here from the deeply personal and tragic to the transformative are powerful. And it no doubt takes a great deal of courage to put this onto paper. How do you hope these words can help in the healing of others who carry such difficult memories?

As Jarvis Cocker once put it, “without people we are nothing.” Recovery and spirituality are collective and communal activities. They cannot be achieved by being stuck into a pod and shot into outer space. Primarily it is about how you relate to yourself and how you relate to others as people. Just to clarify, the abuse you referred to in the passage happened outside of my family and the issue, I feel, is that it’s possible to alter our perception of the past, and in doing so we also alter our perception of the present. But you can’t just say this to yourself stuck in some room. It has to be related.

Lets now connect this more specifically to your earlier work on the War on Drugs. Historically, the drugs issue has often been neatly separated into war/law versus development/health paradigms. Now while the critique of the former is most welcome, too often the latter can reduce this to questions of individual pathology or deviance. It is simply the individual who screws up! How might we learn to better connect the social to the individual in this context?

The criminalization of drugs is a useful social tool in the management of populations. And I agree with your critique of the health model as a determinate means for reducing what is a social issue to some individual pathology. Addiction can affect anybody, but it is certainly exacerbated by economic deprivation. But there are different forms of deprivation too, like emotional deprivation, so it’s not like the poor simply have full ownership of this. Though it would be nice for them to have exclusive control of something! What I mean is that its effects are felt more there in terms of the experience, the treatments, whether you are criminalized or not, and often whether it takes your life.

A while back I went on a police raid in west London. This was a very revelatory experience for me. They battered the door in of this “crack house” — which in itself is an interesting description for a deprived home — and what dwelled within was not monsters. It was like booting down the door of a leukemia ward. It was full of thin, emaciated, and broken people who were slumped and pale in chairs, denied sunlight of every variety — literal and spiritual.

These were people who were just holding their lives together. And what I realized here was that it’s precisely those programs, which take you from the individual narcissism and nihilism to forms of social care and compassion that are most needed here. If we have an inclusive, empathetic society then by definition you don’t abandon people to the fate of forces beyond their control. We need to help people so that they are not defined by problems, which are often social problems. If we have systems that emphasize the corollary and connection between us then we will build a better society that is more inclusive.

I want to push you a bit on this term “recovery,” which is used for the title. The way you seem to use and deploy the term here is different from more simplistic understandings, which might refer to the rediscovering of some essential self that’s been somehow trapped or frozen in time and just needs to be re-discovered. And yet this book seems to also be a critique of such perfectible lifestyles. Or that to recover means to also accept that sometimes it’s actually okay not to be okay in life, and that all of us struggle with our identities.

This again is something I have only found in spiritual conversations. You accept fallibility as part of the human condition. And you don’t punish yourself because of it. Humanity needs to relinquish the idea of perfectibility. Now a natural biochemical entity like the human does have a code. It will grow a certain way, if in our case unimpeded by social, political, cultural forces. But we know those forces exist. So when I use the term recovery I am talking more about an intended path, which doesn’t condemn us to live addicted lives and to succumb to the logics of passivity and its false material prophets. We must be reborn from a world that sees us only as a statistic.

To conclude, I’d like to end on the issue you begin with at the very start of the book — namely the big impending “D” or death question. As you point out in the introduction, we don’t like to talk about the reality of death individually, and it certainly is not something we like to talk about publicly. And yet since Plato onward, it has been thought that to philosophize is to learn how to die.

I don’t think however this goes far enough, or at least it needs to be taken a stage further. As they say, “Religion is for people who fear hell. Spirituality is for people who have been there.” With this in mind, your book leaves me asking: How can we examine our life, to learn to appreciate its finitude and the impending death we all face by actually crossing over and looking at life from the perspective of death? Or, as you say, to ask serious questions about our life, our present, and our hopes from the future, while already knee-deep in the mud of our tragic and yet still wondrous condition?

This requires actually some rather simplistic shifts in acceptance and gratitude. To begin, on an all too human level, I relinquish the idea that I am not homeless, lying in a gutter and smacked up on crack because I am now somehow a superior being literally looking down. It’s more because of some random set of coordinates and unforeseen events, which have deposited me into a comfortable life, and I’m really lucky and gracious. So I don’t have a punitive attitude toward those people who by chance find themselves in desperate states.

I always find it a real honor that when I am among addicts they will often just take me for who I am. They know my past and my fallibilities. And it’s in these moments that I also realize we are all ultimately connected. We are all experiencing this thing called life together as part of a shared consciousness, for better and worse. And when I realize this I know I am not on my own anymore. I am no longer afraid. I don’t have these obligations to prop up some avatar of myself, some deification that people might love or give me approval in order for me to ameliorate some inner sense of worthlessness and isolation.

When the self feels like it’s worthless or nothing I feel we are searching for a deeper truth. How can we not be disconnected or divided, separate from everything? Clearly the retreat into individualism is more than self-defeating here. Because if we separate we are condemning ourselves to nothingness! This is not about the annihilation of the self as in the subjugation in a violent or destructive way. But the recognition that there is no need for fear because we are already one, and these things are not just philosophical tropes or empty mantras, they are things you can live by recognizing that your own suffering is an opportunity and call to break out from the imposed paradigm that reduces worthiness simply to what objects you accumulate. And this is what it means I think to find out the truth about ourselves.

Brad Evans is a political philosopher, critical theorist, and writer, who specializes on the problem of violence. He is the founder/director of the Histories of Violence project, which has a global user base covering 143 countries.

Artwork: Chantal Meza, Get Away II, Oil on Canvas 55×78 (2014).

The post Recovering from an Addicted Life: A Conversation with Russell Brand appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2z4oHpv

#Los Angeles Review of Books #topmixtrends

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