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babysizedfics · 5 years ago

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Little Accidents, Big Developments

Chapter 6: Change

[This is an age regression story]

Chapter Summary: Logan secretly loves cuddles, Virgil learns some changes can be good, and Patton feels left out.

Chapter word count: 10,000

Other chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / bonus

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

Content warning: This chapter heavily features a diaper change - just as with the bath scene in chapter four, any nudity is neither graphic nor sexualised.

oOo

Admittedly, it took Logan a moment or so to acknowledge that Virgil had, in fact, agreed with their suggestion. For all of Logan’s nervousness and suspicion that the conversation would end less than pleasantly, Virgil’s courage had surpassed Logan’s expectations.

That Virgil trusted his caregivers enough to share such sensitive information with them about his insecurities and, yet more impressive, had agreed to challenge those insecurities with their help? It was nothing short of astounding.

Over the regressor’s head, Patton’s eyes glistened with pride looking at their baby. Logan was certain the very same look was reflected in his own eyes.

‘What a brave baby!’ he found himself gushing, smiling down at the boy in front of him.

Virgil’s hand came up to hide his lips behind his thumb so Logan could not catch his small smile. Though he could still see how Virgil’s eyes positively beamed with joy at the praise.

‘And a cute one at that!’ Patton tagged on and curled his hand around to poke Virgil’s nose with practised precision.

If Logan was not certain of Virgil’s fall into his regressed headspace before, he definitely was now. It never failed to amaze him how such simple gestures from Patton could cause Virgil to melt into a figurative puddle so effortlessly.

It was fair to say that Logan had been sufficiently surprised in the past few moments, though nothing could have compared to what happened next. It was subtle, not worth noting to most people, perhaps. Though, for Logan, it was groundbreaking.

Virgil scrunched his nose (which was a customary reaction to one of Patton’s nose boops), blushed (customary), giggled (customary), and fell forwards, burying his forehead against Logan’s chest. (Unprecedented.)

They had, of course, been physically affectionate in recent weeks. Logan often had an arm around Virgil’s shoulders or a hand on his back and on more than one occasion had found himself with a lapful of the boy. Though what was so remarkable about this moment, in particular, was not necessarily that Virgil was seeking comfort in Logan, but rather that he had not sought it in Patton.

It was perfectly obvious that given the choice Virgil would always gravitate towards Patton’s embrace above anyone else’s. Logan knew the reason behind it, of course; Patton was the first person who had knowingly been around Virgil while he was regressed, and so Virgil had become attached to him in a way that resembled imprinting in new-borns. That and the moral side was the professed Cuddle-Monster of the mindscape and had mastered the art of physical affection. (Logan knew first-hand how Patton’s touch could be grounding and yet spellbinding all at once.) So logic was perfectly sound whenever Virgil snuggled up to his papa, his back turned against Logan.

Despite that observation, an unpleasant feeling had awakened within Logan each and every time Virgil inevitably made his choice between the two caregivers. Logan had never even dared to expect a resolution to his confessed jealousy.

Though here they sat, where Virgil had, for the first time ever, willingly forgone Patton’s embrace in favour of Logan’s.

Watching Patton for any sign of jealousy or bitterness (which were not found), Logan brought his hand up to cup the crown of Virgil’s head protectively. ‘Very cute,’ he whispered.

His eyes fell down and noticed that Virgil’s hand was flush with his chin, the thumb completely hidden away in his lips.

Logan tutted gently. Still keeping his hold on Virgil’s head, his free hand reached into his pants pocket. He revealed one of Virgil’s pacifiers. (He had kept it on hand, anticipating that Virgil would possibly regress after the distressing conversation.) Patton’s hand hovered in midair ready to accept it, and Logan flipped off the protective casing with his thumb and passed the pacifier into Patton’s waiting fingers. It was a fluid movement, the caregivers both being so used to this routine.

‘My, my, isn’t this a pretty paci?’ Patton claimed loudly. He held the pacifier at arm’s length in front of Virgil, angling it so that the light bounced off of the glittery purple plastic.

Virgil’s head turned on Logan’s chest to see what Patton was talking about, and right on cue, he gasped around his thumb.

‘I might just have to keep it for myself,’ Patton said casually as he openly admired the soother.

As expected, a small whine escaped Virgil and he pulled his thumb out from his mouth to make grabby hands at the pacifier, which was just out of his reach.

‘Oh, did you want it, baby?’

Logan felt Virgil nod quickly against his chest.

‘Aw, all right. I can’t say no to that face,’ Patton smiled, bringing the teat to Virgil’s lips and letting it slip between them easily. ‘Do you want paci smooches, my sweet little stormcloud?’

Again, Virgil’s head nodded enthusiastically against Logan’s sternum.

Logan tried to keep the bubble of anticipation swelling inside him in check. It was always so invigorating to watch such endearing acts between Virgil and Patton. If Logan were prone to melodrama, he would be tempted to call it a serotonin overdose.

Patton slid off of the couch to kneel on the carpet directly in front of them, a wide smile plastered across his face. He so clearly adored being a caregiver. His hands gently cupped Virgil’s cheeks as he leaned forward to press several pecks onto the centrepiece of the pacifier.

Tiny squeals came from the boy in his lap while Logan’s heart swelled at the adorable display.

Patton giggled at the giddy reaction. He trailed the kisses up to the tip of Virgil’s nose, then to his brow, his forehead… and then he paused, his lips having risen enough above Virgil’s head to now be mere centimetres from Logan’s.

Traitorously, Logan’s eyes fixed instinctively upon Patton’s lips - which then pulled into a smile.

Logan felt his cheeks warm, inexplicably enjoying the sensation.

‘Later?’ he suggested with a smirk that he hoped rivalled Patton’s.

Those pink lips were pulled between white teeth and their owner nodded. ‘Later.’

As Patton pulled back to stand himself up, Logan realised that at some point Virgil’s head had dropped back onto his shoulder. The regressor had also shuffled closer, his legs now folded up and leaning against Logan’s arm.

‘Sweetie, Papa is gonna go and get some things ready for you,’ Patton said softly and stroked his fingers through Virgil’s bangs. The younger side hummed. ‘Do you think you can stay here with Mama for a little bit?’

Logan was fully prepared for the suggestion to be met with fear and hesitance. He certainly hadn’t expected the small nod of agreement that came from Virgil. As it turned out, not much that had happened that day had been very predictable.

Through a firm nod at Patton, Logan hoped he could communicate that the moral side should not stick around long enough to see if Virgil would change his mind. To his credit, Patton seemed to understand.

‘All right, you two. I’ll be back before you know it!’ Patton practically skipped to the living room door.

Logan felt a sudden shift in his arms as Virgil quickly raised his head.

‘Wuvoo!’ Virgil called out hastily.

‘Love you more, cutie pie!’ Patton yelled back from the hallway.

Logan brought a hand up to card through Virgil’s hair. The boy was clearly anxious about being apart from Patton despite his agreement to it.

With a little sigh, Virgil’s head dropped once more to Logan’s shoulder and he wriggled on the couch.

Logan guessed that Virgil was attempting to move closer to him, though the task was physically impossible in their current position given how Virgil’s body was already completely pressed against Logan’s side.

Acknowledging that Virgil likely needed more physical contact to calm his nerves, Logan carefully wrapped his arms around Virgil’s back and under his knees then lifted the boy onto his lap.

‘Is that better, Virgil?’ he asked quite hesitantly. Hopefully, he had not made an incorrect assumption. Virgil had been in his lap before, of course, though Logan had never been the one to initiate the contact.

A sleepy hum floated into the air and Virgil’s nose was pressed into his shirt. Gentle puffs of breath lightly warmed Logan’s skin.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Logan whispered, not wanting to disturb the calm that had settled over the room.

Virgil’s legs were still curled up to his chest, his body folded into a tight ball. Logan could not resist the urge to circle his arms all the way around him and cradle the bundle in his lap. He rocked them both gently to and fro.

Logan could feel that his own heart rate slowed as the moments went by and knew that it was a result of the high level of oxytocin that was most certainly circling through his veins. He also knew that the wide smile on his face would likely have been called “dopey” if Roman were present.

After a minute or so of the serene atmosphere, Virgil suddenly stiffened as if having noticed something then whimpered and gripped at Logan’s shirt.

‘Where Papa?’ he mumbled through the pacifier.

‘Do you not remember?’ Logan prompted softly.

There was no response forthcoming. Virgil must have been truly deep in his regression.

‘Papa went to get some things ready for you. I promise he will be back soon.’

‘Thoon?’ Virgil squeaked, clutching the material of Logan’s shirt tighter.

‘Yes, sweetheart,’ Logan murmured, surprised by the ease with which the term of endearment had rolled off of his tongue, ‘very soon.’

The word “soon” seemed too abstract to offer Virgil much comfort and he started to squirm slightly, though not enough to disturb the embrace at all. Being held was evidently not enough to entirely circumvent his separation anxiety.

‘I know. Let’s see how many seconds it takes for Papa to get back.’ Logan squeezed his arms gently around Virgil, hoping it offered comfort. ‘Shall we count together, Vee?’

At the energetic nod on his chest, Logan smiled. Virgil was never in an old enough headspace to actually be able to count with him, though he always opted for the inclusive phrasing nonetheless.

‘All right, are you ready? One, two, three, four, five -’

Logan continued on in a soft tone, the climbing numbers soon resembling more of a monotonous hum.

Counting aloud to Virgil was a tactic Logan had picked up to soothe the younger side’s anxiety. He himself had always found lists to be comforting, and the chronology of numbers was a truly endless list. He assumed that in Virgil’s case, the fact that Logan always counted aloud to even out Virgil’s breathing in the midst of an anxiety attack had created a sort of Pavlovian response in the boy; counting during a panic attack would amount to even breathing, which naturally soothed Virgil, and so Logan repeating the method outside of distressing circumstances tended to have a learned response of eliciting calm.

As the numbers rose higher, Virgil sunk further into Logan’s embrace and into relaxation. By the time Logan had reached the 240s and could hear Patton’s returning footsteps in the hallway, Virgil was a dead weight against him. The logical side suspected he may have fallen into a slumber, though he didn’t dare look down to check. He was worried that he would jostle the boy and risk shocking him out of his peaceful state.

When Patton shuffled back into the room quietly and looked at the pair on the couch, he instantly clapped his hands over his mouth. Logan strongly suspected the twinkles in his eyes to be unshed tears of happiness

‘Oh my goodness,’ Patton whispered into his palms. ‘I think he’s asleep, Lo.’

‘I suspected as much,’ Logan said plainly but felt the corner of his lips twitch up.

The small smile dropped from his face when he saw Patton bring out his cellphone.

‘Patton,’ Logan groaned quietly, his cheeks flushing.

He was not entirely fond of being photographed. The ordeal was fairly awkward. Was he meant to look at the camera or not? Should he pretend not to notice it and school his expression or react in some way? Logan had never had to worry much about it in the past, though recently Patton had become something of a photography enthusiast. His new hobby coincided quite directly with when they had begun to integrate the boys’ littlespaces into their family dynamic, which was unsurprising.

‘Oh, hush,’ Patton whispered with a bright smile, pulling the phone up to point at him. ‘You know you love it really.’

It was a half-truth, Logan supposed. He certainly did not like the process of being photographed. Though, the pictures Patton would send to him at the end of each day spent looking after their littles were some of Logan’s most cherished possessions, even if they were only pixels on a screen. The digital images of his family smiling together always offered Logan immense joy and motivation in rare moments of dejection.

‘You’re going to surpass your data storage limit at this rate,’ Logan mumbled, though he was sure it was obvious that his protest was insincere.

Patton frowned lightly as his finger tapped his phone screen, the camera shutter sound effect ringing out loudly. ‘I literally have no idea what you just said.’ The shutter clicked again.

Logan turned his gaze down to look at Virgil. The move was mostly since he felt uncomfortable looking at the camera, though he couldn’t deny that the sight he was met with was nearly addictive; Virgil curled up in his lap, his pacifier bobbing lightly in his mouth and his dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

With a slight pause, Logan acknowledged that Virgil was blinking awake, probably having heard Patton’s camera.

‘Hello, honey bunny,’ Patton cooed, pocketing his phone. ‘Did you and Mama have a nice cuddle?’

Virgil’s face pulled up from Logan’s chest. (A small chuckle escaped Logan at the fabric crease line that indented Virgil’s rosy cheek.) He blinked slowly for a couple of seconds then looked over at Patton and nodded.

Patton smiled and shuffled over to them on the carpet, holding his hands out to Virgil. ‘Papa’s gonna take you to get changed now. Say bye-bye to Mama.’

Logan barely had a chance to recognise the ounce of disappointment in his chest before Virgil was whining and burying his face against Logan’s neck.

With wide eyes, Logan wrapped his arms around Virgil tightly. ‘Virgil, what’s the matter?’

‘Mama,’ Virgil mumbled sadly.

‘You don’t wanna leave Mama?’ Patton asked, sounding surprised.

A verbal response was not necessary as the squeeze of Virgil’s arms around his torso was all the answer Logan needed.

His disappointment was drowned out by elation.

‘Would you like me to come with you and Papa?’

Virgil’s hair tickled his neck with a nod.

With lips that trembled with the effort not to break into a wide grin, Logan kissed Virgil’s head softly. What a big difference such a small decision on Virgil’s part had made. Logan felt his doubts about being an effective caregiver trickle away at the confirmation that Virgil truly did want him around. He allowed himself to smile openly into Virgil’s hair. God, it felt good to be wanted.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Logan murmured under his breath. He secured his arms tightly around Virgil then carefully rose from the couch, lifting him in a bridal carry.

He had hoped the term of endearment was uttered quietly enough to evade Patton’s sensitive hearing, though the high-pitched squeal of affection that assaulted his ears was hardly reassuring on that front.

Once Logan had stood (surprised by how easy it was to keep a secure hold on Virgil; the boy was lighter than Logan had anticipated), Virgil whimpered faintly and wriggled, supposedly uncomfortable with being carried.

‘Okay, Vee, one second.’ Logan cautiously lowered Virgil back to the ground, though kept a steadying arm around his shoulders. ‘There we are.’

Patton reached out to comb Virgil’s bangs back, then smiled at Logan and quickly turned to lead them out of the room.

By the time they had made it to Virgil’s bedroom, Patton was practically prancing. ‘Oh, this is gonna be so much fun!’ he gushed as he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.

Logan led Virgil in and shut the door behind him, noticing that Patton had set up quite thoroughly. As well as a selection of Virgil’s designated regression clothes laid out on the bed, there was also a large bath towel covering half of it. On top of the towel sat a bottle of baby powder, a tube of diaper cream, and a stack of four diapers, all adorning different patterns. Logan was glad that Patton had gone for a varied selection of the different styles they had purchased for Virgil. Having a certain degree of choice in the matter would hopefully give Virgil more of a sense of control over the situation.

By Virgil’s unchanged posture, Logan could tell that he had not noticed the diapers, and was unsure whether to be grateful for it or not.

‘Okay, sweetie,’ Patton said cheerily, ‘let’s show Mama how we get ready for baby time! Do you remember what we do first?’

Logan looked down to where Virgil clung to his side. The boy used his free hand to point at his eyes.

‘That’s right, we take off your makeup don’t we?’ Patton ran his thumb over Virgil’s cheek with a loving smile. ‘I’m gonna go and get your makeup wipes. It will only take a moment. Papa's not going anywhere, I promise, baby!’

It was clear Patton was making a point to reassure Virgil as he had probably been distressed in the past when Patton walked away. Though, Logan could only think it seemed superfluous as Virgil hardly reacted when Patton moved to the dresser. His only response was to lean more heavily against Logan.

‘Let’s sit down while Papa does that,’ Logan offered, feeling that Virgil was unstable on his feet as usual. He guided Virgil to the bed and sat himself down on the edge of the mattress before gently pulling the regressor into his lap.

Virgil instantly curled up against his chest and sighed in content.

With a makeup wipe in hand, Patton turned back to them. Logan caught a vague glimpse of him faltering in his steps, though it hardly lasted more than a second so he thought it was not worth mentioning.

‘You’re very brave today, aren’t you sweetheart?’ Patton murmured softly as he kneeled in front of them on the carpet. There was an incongruous lull to his tone. It almost sounded like disappointment.

Logan’s pondering on the possible source of this strange melancholy was interrupted by Patton’s loud stage-whisper:

‘Vee, I think Mama secretly loves cuddles.’

A noise of indignance left Logan’s lips. What a presumptive statement!

‘Excuse me, I most certainly -’

The look of surprised delight with which Virgil hit him halted Logan’s excuse. How could he possibly be expected to figuratively shoot him down? Plus, lying would only garner unnecessary attention from Janus.

‘I… am merely not immune to Virgil’s expertise in cuddling,’ Logan admitted finally, tightening his arms around the regressor. A happy hum came from the boy as he dropped his head back to Logan’s chest.

Patton giggled quietly. ‘Come on, baby. Look at Papa.’

Virgil’s head lifted again and Patton reached forward to swipe across Virgil’s closed eyes gently, gradually removing the dark makeup from his face.

In a way that Logan had not anticipated and did not fully understand, he felt he was being granted access to a moment that spanned beyond the surface reality of what was happening before his eyes. It was a simple task, the remnants of eye shadow and eyeliner being stripped from Virgil’s skin. Though something in the way Virgil’s body melted into Logan’s and the adoring, near-hypnotised look in Patton’s eyes told Logan that this was not merely an often-repeated chore; perhaps a better word to describe it would be ritual. There seemed to be a silent exchange of emotion between the Papa and his baby. Logan felt quite entranced by the show of love and trust between two of the three people for whom he cared most in the world.

Feeling lulled into an intensely relaxed state, Logan rested his chin delicately on Virgil’s head. He was careful not to put any weight on Virgil given how unstable his balance and strength were.

‘Such a good boy!’ Patton praised as he threw the dirtied makeup wipe into the wastebasket by Virgil’s desk. ‘Can you show Mama your lovely, clean face?’

Logan’s chinrest moved slightly and he raised his head to look down at the shyness in Virgil’s eyes looking up at him.

‘You’re a very sweet baby, behaving so well for your Papa,’ Logan whispered with a small smile. His thumb brushed over Virgil’s dewy cheek. When it pulled away, it left a light blush in its wake.

‘Alrighty, next step!’ Patton announced quite suddenly.

Virgil quickly looked over to him and pointed at his own chest quite proudly.

There was the slightest hesitation when Patton smiled softly and said, ‘Yes, normally we take off your clothes next, don’t we, baby? But this time we’re gonna do something a little bit new.’

A muffled whimper sounded in Logan’s ears and Virgil tensed up so quickly that Logan had to tighten his embrace to stop him from tumbling off of his lap.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’ Patton spoke incredibly gently and leaned down to cup Virgil’s cheeks as he explained, ‘it’s nothing scary. We just need you to choose a diaper to wear today.’ Patton pointed to the stack of folded diapers at the end of the bed.

Logan watched Virgil’s eyes follow Patton’s pointer finger and cloud over with nervousness when they settled on the diapers. He was evidently overwhelmed.

‘How about we just cuddle for a while and have a little think about it, Virgil?’ Logan suggested.

At Virgil’s fervent nod, Logan manoeuvred him to sit sideways in his lap to face the diapers. He rocked the boy gently.

‘Oh, um, yeah. Of course,’ Patton murmured, settling quietly onto the edge of the mattress a little ways away from the other two.

Once Logan felt the tension leave Virgil’s body, he spent a couple more moments simply holding him before he made a hum of intrigue.

‘Oh, I like the pattern on that one,’ he muttered, pretending to have only just noticed the diapers. With one arm keeping a firm hold on Virgil, Logan reached forward to grab the diaper on the top of the pile.

He pulled it back towards himself and turned it over in his hands, making sure it was held in Virgil’s line of sight to display the pink, yellow and blue alphabet block pattern.

‘And it feels very nice too.’ Logan ran his fingers lightly over the material and inched it closer to Virgil.

As Logan had hoped, Virgil hesitantly reached a single finger out to run over the diaper much the same as Logan’s had. It appeared his curiosity had superseded his anxiety.

‘Thof,’ Virgil whispered through his pacifier. The delicate sound almost shocked Logan as the boy had mostly been non-verbal since regressing earlier.

Logan was thankful that his triumphant smile was hidden behind Virgil’s head. ‘It is soft, isn’t it?’

‘I think I prefer the colours on this one,’ Patton announced, reaching out to take the next diaper. He had apparently caught onto Logan’s tactic with the way his lips trembled like they always did when he was trying to contain a mischievous smile. Logan’s chest practically ached with affection for him.

The second diaper - which was adorned with unicorns and rainbows - let out a loud rustling crinkle sound as Patton twisted it slightly in his hands. The moral side gasped quietly (though the sound was still clearly exaggerated for Virgil’s benefit) and looked at Virgil with an excited smile.

‘Ooh, I really like that sound!’ He squeezed the diaper again to elicit the crinkling once more.

Logan felt Virgil sit more upright in his lap.

‘Do you like it too, baby?’

The first diaper made a muted echo of the sound as Virgil tried to squeeze it himself. Then his head collapsed back onto Logan and his nose buried against his chest. A little nod told Logan that Virgil was not upset but merely shy about this admission.

Wanting to chase away Virgil’s timidity quickly, Logan reached for another diaper and dropped it directly into Virgil’s lap.

‘Oh my, look at that pretty colour!’ he exclaimed, knowing Virgil would not be able to resist his curiosity.

Supported by Logan’s steadying hands, Virgil’s body twisted away from his torso to look at the new diaper, which was a deep purple. His hands stroked over it without hesitation this time.

‘Burble?’ Virgil squeaked in surprise.

‘Yes, your favourite colour.’

The diaper was then pulled up to Virgil’s chest where the regressor hugged it protectively. Logan’s own arms squeezed and pulled Virgil closer against his chest in much the same manner.

‘Baby, look at this one!’ Patton called joyfully.

Logan felt Virgil bounce slightly in his lap as he craned his neck to better see the last diaper that Patton now held out towards him.

‘Can you tell me and Mama what animal this is?’ Patton pointed to one of the many animal characters on the diaper.

‘Biwaf!’ Virgil cried in a rare moment of excitement.

Patton positively beamed. ‘Yes, clever baby. It’s a giraffe!’

Happy that they had taken the path of a fun, educational activity, Logan eagerly pointed to another character. ‘What about this one, Vee?’

After a moment of silence, Virgil whined slightly and looked up at him for help.

Logan felt immense pride in being seen as a source of knowledge. ‘Can you remember what animal King Louie is in The Jungle Book?’ he prompted.

A tiny gasp met his ears as Virgil looked back down at the diaper and whispered, ‘Bawanganan.’

Laughter strained at Logan’s throat, but he pressed his lips into a firm line and swallowed it down. No matter how utterly endearing that was, he could not allow himself to laugh lest it upset Virgil. Logan was perfectly practised in concealing outbursts of emotion, it should have been easy enough for him.

However, he failed to take into account Patton’s quivering smile which always made it so much harder to remain stoic.

‘C-can you say that again, honey?’ Patton asked, his voice trembling with concealed giggles. It was at this point that Logan knew he would not be able to last. Patton was so close to cracking himself, and his laughter was just too contagious.

And then Virgil spoke again, attempting to repeat what was likely a far too complex word for his headspace. ‘Amagabab?’

Surprisingly, Logan broke first. Deep, endless chuckles poured from his mouth and within a mere second, Patton’s joined in. Logan kept a firm hold around Virgil as his body shook with his laughter.

‘Wong?’ Virgil’s whimper cut through them and Logan promptly swallowed the rest of his mirth, not wanting Virgil to feel as if they were laughing at him.

‘No, sweetheart,’ Logan tried to say softly, though one final choked chuckle broke through the last word. ‘It is an orangutan, you’re right,’ he said much more calmly through an aching smile.

‘Aren’t you just the smartest little baby?’ Patton cooed, reaching out to pinch Virgil’s cheek.

Virgil giggled and scrunched his shoulders up. At a loud crinkle, Logan noted that the boy was still cuddling the purple diaper to his chest.

‘Do you have a favourite diaper you want to wear, sweetie pie?’ Patton asked, smiling knowingly.

Without responding, Virgil’s cheeks went a bit pink and he pulled the diaper further up to his chin as if wanting to hide behind it.

‘I think he does,’ Logan teased gently, poking the purple material in Virgil’s hands. He suddenly found himself with an embarrassed baby hiding against his neck.

Taking a moment to share an amused glance with Patton, Logan witnessed the smile on Patton’s face slowly fade

‘Do… you want Mama to undress you this time, honey?’ Patton asked quietly, avoiding Logan’s gaze.

It only took a slight stiffness in Virgil’s shoulders to convince Logan to make an excuse.

‘That’s all right,’ he quickly interjected. ‘I will just observe this time.’

He had not wanted Virgil to feel pressured to try too much change too fast and was glad to feel Virgil relax again in his arms.

‘Okay then!’ Patton bounced off of the mattress and took the diaper from Virgil’s hands with a bright smile, placing it on the mattress. ‘Let’s get those big clothes off, my little Stormcloud.’

A whine of protest sounded out as they both gently pried Virgil off of Logan’s lap and sat him on the bed beside him.

‘We cannot get you changed in my lap, Virgil,’ Logan murmured, feeling ridiculous for the internal ache at no longer having the child in his arms.

‘Up, up,’ Patton said as he tugged on Virgil’s wrists to get his arms above his head. He pulled Virgil’s hoodie and top off with slight wriggling defiance from the regressor. Once the clothes were flung off from Virgil’s arms and onto the floor, he crossed his arms tightly. Patton shook his head and smiled. ‘Uh oh, have we got a fussy baby?’

From the way his pacifier pushed forward slightly, Logan knew Virgil was pouting.

‘Do you know what the cure is for pouty little ones?’ Patton wriggled his fingers in midair in front of Virgil’s face and the boy’s cheeks immediately stretched in a wide smile.

Logan’s own teeth bared in a grin when Patton’s fingers pounced on Virgil and started skittering over his bare ribs. A high-pitched squeal rang around the room as Virgil curled forward, hugging his stomach.

‘Who’s a ticklish baby?’ Patton cooed, still teasing Virgil’s skin with his fingertips.

‘Well, this is just too precious,’ Logan murmured in disbelief, watching Virgil wriggle on the mattress and smile so much that he was surprised the boy’s pacifier hadn’t fallen out.

‘Oh, it’s about to get a whole lot precious-er!’ There was an impish glint in Patton’s eyes.

Virgil’s huffs of laughter were muffled and intermitted by little squeaks. He was clearly trying to hold them in.

‘Tickle, tickle, tickle,’ Patton teased in a sing-song, ‘I’m gonna find my baby’s… giggle!’

At the last word, Patton’s fingers suddenly shot down to squiggle at Virgil’s belly. As if it had triggered a switch, Virgil fell backwards onto the part of the mattress that was covered by the bath towel and his little laughing snuffles were replaced by loud, melodic giggles.

Logan could not tear his gaze away from the sheer happiness on Virgil’s face. The sound of his laughter was joyful, babyish and utterly adorable.

Without even having to think about it, his hand was softly cupping Virgil’s cheek.

‘Aha, success!’ Patton cried triumphantly. Logan noted out of the corner of his eye that he was leaning down to collect the diaper products. With a rush of pride, Logan realised Patton had planned the ticklish interlude perfectly to avoid exacerbating Virgil’s anxiety about the diaper change. How ingenious!

‘You need baby giggles before you change your baby,’ Patton said quite seriously. ‘It’s baby law.’

Logan chuckled at the way Virgil rolled his head on the bed and looked to him with wide eyes, clearly seeking his confirmation. ‘I do believe I read that somewhere, yes.’

‘Okay, I think we’re ready,’ Patton muttered.

The slight nervousness to his tone would have been undetectable to Virgil, though Logan heard it loud and clear. He could not deny there might have been some relevance to it. It was all very well Virgil agreeing to wear a diaper, though Logan doubted in his current headspace that the regressor would have considered the fact that it involved Patton actually changing him into one, which was an unavoidably invasive task. Given what Logan had heard of Virgil’s reaction when Patton first started bathing him, he was not oblivious enough to think that this would go entirely smoothly.

‘Your papa is going to change you now,’ Logan said, smiling reassuringly at the nervous look that snapped onto him. ‘Would you like me to leave?’

Virgil whimpered and quickly shuffled over on the bed to hide his face against Logan’s hip. Not for the first time that day, and what Logan was beginning to think would not be the last, he felt his heart practically burst at Virgil’s sudden attachment to him.

‘All right, little one. I don’t have to go,’ he murmured, stroking his hand once over Virgil’s hair before encouraging him to lie back down on the towel. ‘Mama will stay right here.’

‘Baby, I’m going to take off your pants and underwear now,’ Patton announced softly and promptly unfastened the button on Virgil’s jeans. He clearly thought delaying the process would not be beneficial.

Virgil’s eyes flitted anxiously between Patton’s hands and Logan’s face. With a slight ache in his chest, Logan heard a shaky whimper as Patton began tugging the clothing down Virgil’s hips.

‘Shh, it’s all right, sweetheart,’ Patton whispered.

It did not seem to placate the boy whose chest started to rise and fall more quickly, so Logan made a snap decision. He shuffled himself around on the mattress so that he was sitting right by Virgil’s hip and facing his head. Then he leaned sideways slightly over Virgil’s torso to block the regressor’s view of his lower half.

‘Why don’t you pick a toy to hold, Virgil?’ Logan suggested, being sure to keep his eyes fixed on Virgil’s face where the regressor was viciously pulling at the handle of his pacifier.

‘That’s a good idea!’ Patton said from behind him. It sounded like he was struggling a little getting Virgil’s skinny jeans off of his legs. ‘Who do you think needs a cuddle today, honey?’

Virgil’s worried eyes looked up at Logan. ‘Minpy?’

‘Minty is having a bath right now,’ Logan explained gently, thinking of the toy that was currently in the laundry due to being wet from Virgil’s accident the day previously. ‘Can you pick another friend?’

Virgil’s eyebrows pulled down slightly, and it looked like he was struggling to say something. Then Logan heard the distinctive sound of his clothes being pulled off from his legs and suddenly Virgil’s face was hidden behind his hands. A muffled whimper broke Virgil’s silence.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart, Mama can pick for you,’ Logan quickly reassured and leaned over the bed to grab a soft toy - Virgil’s pink stuffed pig. ‘Look who it is, Vee!’

Virgil peeked over his fingers to see the toy that Logan was holding out in front of him. ‘Pigwet?’

Logan smiled encouragingly and pushed the toy into Virgil’s hands. The pacifier handle was dropped in favour of squeezing the soft toy.

‘Baby,’ Patton said carefully, out of sight, ‘I know it’s scary, but I really need you to uncurl your legs so Papa can get you changed quickly.’

Virgil’s head shook quickly on the mattress and his fingers squeezed his toy fiercely.

‘You can do it, Virgil.’ Logan placed his hand on Virgil’s shoulder and ran his thumb in soothing circles over Virgil’s bare skin. ‘Shall we be brave for Papa?’

Piglet rose up to Virgil’s chin and covered the lower half of his face, but Logan could see the nervousness in his wide eyes. Eventually there was a muffled sound of movement and Virgil began trembling lightly.

‘Good boy,’ Patton praised quietly, then there was some distinctive rustling and Logan knew the diaper must have been unfolded.

‘Shall we have a little chat?’ Logan asked Virgil, smoothing his hands over the regressor’s shoulders in comfort. At a shaky nod, he started trying to distract the boy as best he could. ‘Can you tell me who Piglet’s best friend is?’

‘Wimmie?’ Virgil murmured alongside some crinkling sounds as his body was shuffled slightly. Patton must have laid the diaper beneath him.

‘That’s right,’ Logan nodded with a smile and squeezed Virgil’s shoulders. ‘Winnie the Pooh helps keep Piglet calm, doesn’t he?’

The unmistakable scent of diaper cream hit Logan’s nose followed by the sound of hands rubbing together.

‘Papa,’ Virgil whined and clenched his eyes shut, hugging his toy tightly to his chest.

‘You’re doing so well, sweetie!’ Patton’s tone was exaggerated and emotive, the words practically leaking with pride. ‘This might be a bit cold. Can you keep talking to Mama for me?’

‘Quick, Vee, I need your help,’ Logan immediately pleaded, rubbing his hands firmly up and down Virgil’s arms in an attempt to distract him from what was happening below his waist. ‘I can’t remember the name of the stripy orange character in Winnie the Pooh.’

‘B-Bipper.’ Virgil’s voice was garbled by his pacifier and choked by unshed tears.

‘Oh, of course, Tigger!’ Logan thoroughly disliked how Virgil’s face was pinched in fear. ‘Does Tigger like to… run?’

The mattress jiggled with how rapidly Virgil shook his head.

‘No?’ Logan feigned surprise. ‘If he doesn’t like to run, what does he like to do?’

‘Bounth,’ Virgil squeaked, his eyes still firmly shut.

As the smell of baby powder filled the room, Logan breathed a gentle sigh of relief, letting up in his stroking on Virgil’s arms. It seemed the most invasive part of the change was over. ‘Does he like to bounce?’

Virgil nodded and his eyes finally opened hesitantly.

‘And trounce?’ A series of crinkling sounds met his ears and informed him that Patton must have been working to fasten the diaper now.

It was a true delight, watching Virgil’s furrowed features morph into a gentle smile. He nodded again.

Logan couldn’t help but return the soft expression. ‘And flounce?’

Virgil giggled quietly, squeezing Piglet tighter. This time it was in anticipation as opposed to anxiety.

‘And pounce?!’ Logan gasped as if scandalised. It had the desired effect in eliciting laughter from Virgil and causing his body to shake as he kicked his legs lightly in excitement. It was ridiculously endearing.

‘Hey,’ Patton chuckled softly. ‘I’m trying to tape you up, baby. Try not to kick Papa.’ His voice quickly lowered to mutter to himself thoughtfully, ‘Now why didn’t that stick?’

‘Did you hear that, Vee?’ Logan cupped one of Virgil’s cheeks in his palm with a proud smile. ‘Nearly done.’

The cheek in his hand bunched up as Virgil smiled widely. ‘Mama!’

Virgil then reached up with one hand to bat playfully at Logan’s tie (much like a kitten, the caregiver thought) then simply held onto the end of it.

The grip was gentle and only tugged very slightly at the tie. Logan internally deliberated whether there was any physical explanation for the way the action seemed to tug at his heart, too.

Before he even had the chance to attempt to speak in a steady voice, the sound of various sticky rips caused Logan to turn around (he eased Virgil’s hand from his tie to allow him better movement, though kept his own fingers intertwined with his baby’s). He caught a glimpse of Patton struggling to separate two diaper tapes that had stuck together, biting his lip with a frown.

‘Do you require assistance, Patton?’ Logan asked carefully, wary that Patton’s face was pulled into quite an atypical look of frustration.

The harshness to his expression faded away in an instant and Patton’s gaze inched up to Logan with a shy smile. ‘Maybe a bit.’

Logan nodded and released Virgil’s hand (much to the regressor’s distress) to shuffle off of the mattress. Looking at the white fingerprints on the diaper tapes, it became obvious that Patton had struggled with them due to the cream and powder on his fingers. ‘Why don’t you go and wash your hands?’

There was a definite hesitance in the moral side, but after a couple of moments he acquiesced. ‘All right. I’ll be right back, my adorable little baby!’

Before leaving Patton leaned over the mattress to press a firm kiss to Virgil’s nose and the boy giggled and squished Patton’s cheeks in response.

As Patton hurried out from the room (squealing quietly all the way), Logan got to work on the diaper. Easily enough Logan managed to fasten the tapes tightly, though it did take a couple of tries.

‘All done, sweetheart!’ Logan announced cheerfully. After tugging slightly at the hips to ensure the diaper was secure enough around Virgil, Logan leaned back to take in the sight.

If he were to be honest with himself, he had not expected to feel anything other than indifferent to Virgil’s new attire. When ordering the diapers online, Patton had gushed about the various designs being cute, though Logan was unsure as to how he was meant to see incontinence products as anything more than purely functional, and therefore neutral.

Looking down at Virgil now, he was forced to abandon his initial expectations. The deep purple of the diaper was a stark contrast to Virgil’s pale, freckled skin, and the thick padding of it somehow, inexplicably, was indisputably adorable to Logan. Of course, he had known that Virgil would give off the impression of being younger due to the connotations of infancy associated with diapers. Though that did not explain how Virgil’s eyes were wider and sparkling with babyish innocence, how his face looked softer, and how his words suddenly made even less sense than they normally did when he was little.

‘Mamamaba,’ Virgil babbled and shook his soft toy in the air above his head.

Logan smiled gently and settled back beside Virgil on the mattress. ‘What was that, Vee?’

Bright eyes crinkled with happiness as they settled on him. ‘Agaga!’

Logan’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh my goodness, have you regressed even younger?’ he asked in disbelief, fully aware that Virgil would be unable to answer.

The surprise in Logan’s tone appeared to upset Virgil. He whined and dropped Piglet on the bed to make grabby hands at Logan.

As his mind reeled at the unexpected shift in Virgil’s headspace, Logan gently pulled Virgil up into a sitting position. The diaper crinkled softly against the mattress with every small movement and Logan found the sound to be quite comforting. It reminded him that this was the time to be taking care of his and Patton’s baby and so prevented his mind from thinking about anything else. He was sure the noise alone would be able to trigger his caregiver headspace in the future purely by association.

Virgil made a small hum and wriggled his hips slightly, eliciting more rustling noises. It wasn’t until Logan noted Virgil’s blush and slow blinking which accompanied the sounds that he realised what had caused this further slip.

‘Lo, is he feeling okay?’ Patton’s worried voice came from the doorway. Within seconds Patton was by the bed, pressing his (now clean) hand against Virgil’s forehead, supposedly to feel for a temperature. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

With a whine, Virgil ducked away from the touch and instead pushed his face against Logan’s chest. There were more loud crinkles as the regressor shuffled clumsily on the bed, trying to get closer to his caregiver.

A quiet chuckle escaped Logan as he wrapped his arms around Virgil and pulled him onto his lap. Virgil’s legs instantly wrapped around his hips and his arms clung to his shoulders. The image of a koala popped into Logan’s mind.

‘He is perfectly all right,’ Logan murmured, quite stunned and unable to pull his gaze away from where Virgil clung to him. ‘I believe the feeling of wearing a diaper has merely pushed him into a younger headspace.’

‘Younger?’ Patton echoed. ‘Like… an even tinier baby?’

Logan’s hand smoothed over Virgil’s hair and earned him a soft sigh. For one reason or another, tears sprung to Logan’s eyes and he rapidly blinked to be rid of them. ‘Apparently so.’

He looked up from Virgil just in time to see the worry ebb off of Patton’s face and be replaced by joyful disbelief. His gaze swept down to settle on the boy bundled in Logan’s arms and his eyes suddenly sparkled with utter adoration. It took Logan’s breath away.

‘Oh gosh, I - this -’ Patton squeaked, though he paused and took a deep breath to calm himself. It didn’t seem to work. ‘He is so frickin’ adorable!’

‘I have to agree,’ Logan smiled softly.

Patton quickly scooched closer to both of them and ducked slightly to be able to see Virgil’s face. ‘Hello there, tiny baby! Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?’

Light embarrassment was to be expected in Virgil, as he so often blushed when he sunk into his regression or when his caregivers complimented him. Though the way Virgil whimpered and hurriedly buried his face into Logan’s shoulder reflected how he reacted when he was shy around someone unfamiliar (such as when he had first voluntarily been regressed around Roman, or when Janus had walked in on family time a month previously).

The reaction was quite a shock, given the fact that the person Virgil had just hidden from was his own Papa.

From his position above the pair, Logan had the perfect view of Patton’s excited adoration being drowned out by a sudden flash of hurt in his eyes.

Logan was quick to try to rectify Virgil’s unknowing action. ‘Patton, it is just because he is -’

‘Let’s get you dressed, sweetpea!’ Patton announced, hastily jumping to his feet as if the mattress had burned him. He snatched up two items of clothing from the bed.

‘It is only because of his further slip,’ Logan pressed on, absently running his hands over Virgil’s bare back. The regressor seemed entirely unaware of what was happening, and Logan could not help but be grateful.

It was quiet as Patton froze in place, looking quite longingly down to where Virgil sat in Logan’s lap, then back to Logan with a reluctance behind his eyes.

‘He is just a bit more shy because it is a new experience,’ Logan spoke soothingly, looking Patton directly in the eyes to convey sincerity. ‘I am sure of it.’

Patton’s Adam's apple bobbed with a gulp. His watery eyes flitted between Logan and the clothes that were clenched in his hands. Then, at last, his shoulders dropped and a hesitant smile twisted his lips.

‘I’m sorry, I just… freaked out a bit.’ He flopped back down onto the mattress at Logan’s side with a long sigh.

‘It is understandable,’ Logan whispered. Without jostling Virgil too much, he shuffled closer to Patton on the bed so that their legs were touching and bumped his shoulder against Patton’s side softly. Then he looked to Virgil and squeezed him lightly as he asked, ‘Vee? Do you love your papa?’

Though he did not say anything in response, Virgil’s excessive head nodding was unmistakable.

Patton laughed quite unevenly and Logan’s gaze snapped back to see his lip wobbling through a smile.

‘See, he loves you.’ On a whim, one of Logan’s hands left Virgil’s back to gently cup Patton’s cheek and angle his head to look at him. ‘We both do.’

A shaky exhale blew from Patton’s lips and tickled at Logan’s throat. ‘I love you both too.’

Then their lips were locked in a gentle, quick kiss. Logan was unsure who had initiated it; it was almost as if they were magnets being drawn together without need for free will.

As Patton pulled back, Logan suddenly became aware of the weight of the boy on his lap. With wide eyes, as well as noticing the rising flush on Patton’s cheeks, Logan looked down to check on Virgil. He remained unchanged and seemed perfectly happy simply snuggling into Logan’s shoulder. There was no indication he had noticed the kiss at all.

With a note of relief that he was sure Patton shared, the two caregivers exchanged warm smiles for a moment. Then Patton fell back into what Logan assumed was routine.

‘Okey dokey,’ Patton practically sang as he jumped back up from the bed with a giddy spring to his step. (Logan couldn’t help the swell of pride at the knowledge that he himself caused such a dramatic turn in Patton’s mood.) ‘Loganberry, can you turn the baby around so he can choose some clothes?’

Logan wrapped his arms around Virgil tightly and whispered to him, ‘Here we go, sweetheart.’

With one arm around his shoulders and another carefully positioned beneath the diaper, he lifted Virgil slightly and shuffled him around to sit sideways in his lap. There was no protest, Virgil only hummed and suckled on his pacifier more quickly.

‘Hi there, cutie pie,’ Patton cooed with a gentle smile. ‘Do you want to wear the Sesame Street t-shirt -’ he held the named garment up, and then raised another ‘- or the Eeyore onesie?’

Without being able to see Virgil’s expression from above his head, Logan was unsure as to whether he was silently deliberating or simply did not understand the question. Though after a while, the boy’s head lifted from his chest and Virgil’s eyes pleaded silently with Logan.

‘You can pick whichever one you want, Vee,’ Logan assured with a nod.

It took a trifle more coaxing via Logan squeezing his shoulders and Patton stroking his cheek, but eventually Virgil shyly pointed to the blue onesie.

‘Of course, my little stormcloud!’ Patton beamed, starting to bunch the leg of the onesie up in his hands.

‘I see there’s a Winnie the Pooh theme going on today.’ Logan reached out for the abandoned Piglet toy on the mattress and pressed it back into Virgil’s hands.

Virgil squeaked in surprise and wrapped his fingers around the toy, holding it tightly to his chest.

‘Aw, maybe we can have a Winnie the Pooh party!’ Patton cried happily. ‘Won’t that be fun, honey?’ He bent down to ease Virgil’s feet into the legs of the onesie as the regressor nodded lightly.

‘Up we go!’ Patton pulled the onesie up Virgil’s legs swiftly, then dropped the bundle of fabric at his lap. ‘Okay, Mama, your turn.’

Knowing instinctively the task that had been handed to him, Logan very slowly slipped Virgil off of his lap and onto the mattress. The regressor instantly started whining. His upset only became more pronounced when Patton took Piglet from his hands.

At that, Virgil’s whines became loud whimpers, the sound so genuine that it broke Logan’s heart. He could absolutely relate to the sad wince on Patton’s face.

‘Aw, I know, baby,’ Patton cooed sympathetically and held the toy in his own hands in clear sight of Virgil. He likely did not want Virgil to think the toy had fallen out of existence given the boy’s reduced understanding of object permanence.

‘It’s only for a moment, sweetheart,’ Logan whispered and wasted no time in grasping the rest of the onesie. He manoeuvred it over Virgil’s diaper (the fabric sliding easily over the smooth material) then up his torso. Virgil had been rubbing at one of his eyes with a fist quite tiredly before Logan took his hand and guided it into a sleeve. ‘Are you feeling sleepy, little one?’

There was no verbal response, Virgil only sniffled lightly while Logan slipped the last onesie sleeve onto him. His body was incredibly lax and put up no complaint to being dressed. He truly must have been in an infant’s headspace to have little to no awareness or care for being moved around so much. Logan struggled to ascertain an exact age, though made a mental note to observe more behaviours as the day went on.

Patton was pulling up the front zipper of the onesie and paused halfway to scribble his finger over Virgil’s bare ribs, apparently unable to resist the temptation. The action shook Virgil from his lethargic haze as the regressor writhed and giggled. The laughter was distinctly airier than usual.

‘There he is,’ Patton smiled, pulling the zipper up the rest of the way. Piglet was back in Virgil’s grasp within seconds. ‘Are you a happy baby?’

Purple hair fell into his face as Virgil nodded firmly.

Logan carded his fingers through the bangs to reveal Virgil’s happy expression. ‘Do you like the diaper?’ (He knew the answer but thought it would benefit Virgil to admit it to himself to reinforce the positive experience.)

Virgil’s eyes swept down to his lap as if he could see the diaper through his onesie. A blush visibly overtook him and his knees pulled up to his chest tightly as he nodded.

Seeing Virgil so affected by the diaper in an overwhelmingly positive way filled Logan with immense joy. And Virgil being curled up into a small ball of soft blue fabric supplemented by his rosy cheeks and his glittering lilac pacifier made Logan’s chest physically ache in both a pleasing and a hurtful way. The sensation was something akin to Thomas’ reaction whenever he saw a small puppy; all Logan wanted at that moment was to pick Virgil up and cradle him to his chest and rock him and never let him touch the ground, where so many things could hurt him. It was an adoration of Virgil’s sweetness, though simultaneously an awareness of his vulnerability and hence Logan’s own responsibility to keep him safe from all manner of threats.

‘You are adorable,’ Logan stated solemnly.

‘Yes, he is,’ Patton agreed and pinched softly at Virgil’s cheek with a bright grin.

Virgil promptly pulled Piglet up in front of his face - though Logan could still spy his dimple peeking from around the toy. It was cute that Virgil was so embarrassed by their attention but, even so, Logan felt robbed by not being able to see his reaction. So, naturally, he concocted a plan.

‘I suppose if I can’t kiss Virgil’s head I will have to settle for Piglet’s.’ Logan leaned forward and pressed a firm, loudly exaggerated kiss to Piglet’s head. ‘Mwah!’

The stuffed pig was slowly lowered and Virgil’s mismatched eyes peeked hesitantly over it at Logan. ‘Kith?’

‘Oh, would you like a forehead kiss too?’ Logan asked in mock-surprise.

Virgil nodded and dropped Piglet to his lap. He closed his eyes and held his head forward in preparation. Not making him wait for more than a second, Logan pressed a soft peck to Virgil’s forehead, cupping his jaw gently. He was happy to hear a hum of content leave Virgil’s lips before he pulled away.

‘Okay, you two need to stop being so sweet,’ Patton whispered brokenly. Logan’s head snapped around, surprised to see tears dripping down Patton’s cheek, which stretched with a smile. ‘I can’t take it.’

Despite the sight of Patton’s tears causing him to falter, only one word blared through Logan’s brain as he gazed upon him; love.

‘Patton, are you -’

A hand waved through the air flippantly. ‘No, no, I’m fine. Just…’ Patton’s face adorned quite a sappy smile. ‘I just love you. Both of you. All of you. Oh my gosh, let’s get Roman to come to our Pooh party as well!’

‘Wo-Wo!’ Virgil cried excitedly and bounced lightly in his seat.

‘Shall we go get your big brother?’ Patton asked and held Virgil’s hand (the one that wasn’t currently clutching Piglet as if he feared the soft toy would jump out of his grasp and run away). He tugged Virgil up gently, as gentle as they always did when he was regressed, though Logan watched on as Virgil instantly lost his balance.

He swayed precariously for half a second before tumbling back down onto the mattress. Logan quickly caught his back and ensured he did not fall backwards and hit his head on the wall.

‘Are you all right, Vee?’ Logan was certainly not panicked over such a subtle fall, though his tone of voice did not exactly say as much.

After a couple of blinks and a slight frown, Virgil looked up to Logan and held his arms out with a muffled whine.

Logan realised that being in his younger headspace meant Virgil was even less able to stand and walk than he usually was while regressed (and that really was saying something). It should not have been a shock given Virgil’s decreased awareness. Plus, the thick padding of the diaper must have had some effect on his ability to move his legs so freely.

He was wary of making assumptions where Virgil’s desires were concerned, however, so Logan did his best to keep to sheer excitement from his tone when he asked: ‘Do you need Mama to carry you?’

Virgil merely whined again and flexed the fingers of his free hand, looking almost betrayed by Logan’s lack of action.

It was difficult to conceal an idiotically large smile as he stood from the mattress and leant down to carefully lift Virgil onto his hip, though Logan somehow managed. He was not so successful in hiding his delight when he held Virgil securely in his arms and the regressor’s head dropped to his shoulder with a little sigh.

‘Oh, wow, you’re strong,’ Patton mumbled, his eyes fixed on Logan’s hold on Virgil. There was a faint pink tint to his cheeks.

Logan was quick to shrug the statement off, ‘He is surprisingly light.’

‘Still…’ Patton’s gaze crawled up to Logan’s face and he smiled quite coyly.

Logan pretended the way he readjusted his hold on Virgil was to keep him secure, though really he just had to concentrate on something that wasn’t how attractive Patton’s smirk was. It wasn’t hard. The weight of Virgil in his arms commanded his attention and, despite the physical weighing down of his body, he felt as if his heart soared when Virgil buried his nose into his shoulder and snuffled a little.

‘Why don’t I take Virgil to the living room while you get our little prince?’ he suggested.

Patton’s eyes fell to Virgil and he sighed slightly before nodding. With a brief delay, he reached out to stroke Virgil’s hair once before leading the way out of the bedroom and to the staircase.

‘See you two in a bit,’ Patton murmured at the top of the stairs then began his way down the hallway. There was a slight falter in his footsteps before he quietly called back, ‘Love you, baby.’

‘Wuvoo,’ Virgil murmured and snuggled further against Logan’s shoulder. It seemed to satisfy Patton as his footsteps started back up again, taking him away in the direction of Roman’s room.

‘Down we go,’ Logan announced, beginning their descent down the stairs.

They were not three steps down when Virgil suddenly started squirming. It was weak and Logan’s hold was firm so there was no damage done, though it did increase their chances of having a fall.

‘Sweetheart, I need you to stop moving. Can you please do that for Mama?’

After another couple of steps, Virgil’s wriggling did not cease and was joined by gentle whimpers.

‘Are you scared?’ A louder whimper. ‘Why are you scared, little one?’

‘Mama fall!’ Virgil whined with a frantic edge to his tone.

Logan’s arms squeezed around him. ‘I won’t fall, sweetheart. I promise I’ll keep you safe.’ Virgil’s anxious movements swiftly came to an end as Logan pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head. ‘I’ll always keep my baby safe.’

oOo

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pengychan · 4 years ago

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - Jeremiah 17:9

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: No vintage pornography was mistreated in the making of this chapter.

(A scene was partly based on and amazing comic by @hyunlou, because I loved it so much I could no longer picture the scene going any other way,and also @lunaescribe on my birthday with art - check the fic tag to see both!)

***

“... Is that what they asked you? If you had carnal desires? Were those their exact words?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, and shifted a little when Łukasz let out a groan, rubbing his temples.

“Why do they speak like they came out of some shitty BBC period drama?” Fabrizio asked, only for Łukasz to entirely ignore him and look back at Gabriel.

“And you said no.”

“I said I don’t think I do-- I am not sure-- and then they left before I could suggest we go out for the evening, and I have no idea why. But they did take the mugs, so--”

“Jesus Christ, mate, they were making a pass at you!”

Gabriel blinked. “... They were making a what?”

Fabrizio cleared his throat before speaking in the fakest, poshest British accent imaginable. “I think what my esteemed colleague is trying to say is that this… what’s their name again?”

“Beel-- Bill.”

“Right. This Bill was trying to politely gauge whether or not you may, perchance, be entertaining the thought of shagging.”

“Shagging?” Gabriel repeated. He was familiar with the term, of course - working in warehouse near the docks had taught him a vast array of terms all generally referring to the same things - but he had no idea why Beelzebub would be asking if he entertained the thought of--

“Shagging them, specifically.”

Gabriel stared. He opened his mouth, gaped a little more, then blinked. “They-- were?” he asked, sounding every inch as bewildered as he felt. The notion was so alien to him, it was hard to wrap his mind around it… and yet, now that it had been clearly spelled out for him, Gabriel felt a sudden desire to reach back into the space-time continuum and smack himself in the back of the head. Unable to do that due to his current limitations as a mortal, he just blinked again. “But... why?”

Forehead firmly pressed on the table, Łukasz snickered. “That’s an excellent question,” he said. “I’m starting to suspect your friend is a rabid moronsexual.”

“A what?”

That caused Fabrizio to burst laughing so suddenly and violently that Gabriel was left with little doubt that he was supposed to feel insulted by the remark. However, he was too baffled to.

“That was never-- it never came up,” he protested.

“Hah! Well, it did now. They brought it up. So, are you?”

Gabriel opened his mouth.

“... Before you go ‘am I what’, allow me to make myself clear. Are you interested in the offer?”

Ah. “I’m… not certain it was an offer, I ought not assume--”

“Let’s say it was. Are you?”

Gabriel hesitated, and this time they didn’t press him for an answer. Which was good, because he honestly did not have one yet; there had been something when he’d held the Prince of Hell in his arms, something that had made him wish he didn’t have to put them down… but the notion of carnal desires was so foreign to him, he had no idea what that would even feel like.

In the end, he sighed. “... I’ll need to do research,” he finally said.

If Łukasz and Fabrizio found it an odd response, which they probably did, they said nothing of it.

“All right. But, my friend, let me tell you something. Whether you want to shag them or not, you’re so smitten it’s not even funny,” Fabrizio said. Gabriel didn’t even try to argue he was not.

Lying is, after all, a sin.

***

Indulging in carnal pleasures was, quite obviously, not the immediate ticket to the lowest circles of Hell that many mortals seemed to believe it was.

It was in some cases, of course, whenever someone forced their own lust on somebody who was anything but a willing participant; those souls had a circle of their own, which was rather cramped as well as boasting a frankly astounding amount of Catholic priests.

A good number of them may have been tempted by demons, though Beelzebub suspected it was a minority, but even in those cases all the forces of Hell had really done was put some rather non-specific lust in their heart; how they let it grow and then acted upon it was entirely their choice.

It was not a circle of Hell Beelzebub had ever had much to do with, as lust did not precisely fall under their expertise, and therefore they did not know the minute details of what was the exact line between simple carnal pleasure and sinful lust. However, they felt reasonably certain in the assumption that carnal relations with a Prince of Hell would, at the very least, be a prominent enough sin to tilt the balance of the scale towards Hell.

And I may be more successful in doing that than I was trying to convince him to push an old lady under the bus.

Just maybe. There were demons who made seduction their weapon of choice when it came to gaining influence over mortals, but Beelzebub was not among them. Plus, when asked if he did have carnal desires, Gabriel had said he didn’t think he did.

But he hadn’t said no, either, which had been his immediate reply whenever they had tried to talk him into any kind of serious sin, and therefore Beelzebub concluded it would be foolish not to make at least an attempt. So they would - but first, they needed to do some research over what carnal relations precisely entailed other than just choosing one out of two models of genitalia and make them fit with the other’s.

They would come across as rather stupid, after all, if Gabriel accepted and they had to reveal they didn’t know the first thing about what they’d just proposed.

***

The dancers should stand facing each other, keep their feet loose and relaxed, standing so that they are facing each other with about an arm's length of space in between them...

By the time he got to the second paragraph, Gabriel had begun to suspect that guide - Learn How To Shag In One Minute - was not precisely what he was looking for. With a frown, he went back to the search results and looked around a bit further.

Ah, so apparently shag dancing was a thing. It looked rather awkward and had no relevance to his research, doubly so as angels did not dance and he certainly had not picked up the habit since becoming mortal, so in the end Gabriel sighed and just put his phone down.

All right, it seemed that the Internet was not a reliable source, regardless of the large amounts of porn that, he had been informed, could be found in it. He had absolutely no intention to come across as a fool if - when? - Beelzebub brought up the matter again, and therefore he needed better sources than dubious websites with excessive amounts of Xs in their name.

A book. Books are more reliable.

Of course Gabriel was not so gullible to think all books could be trusted - he had seen too many outlandish editions of the Bible not to know better - so he would need to be certain the book he got his hands on would be a reputable one.

And he just so happened to know an expert in the field.

***

“Lord Beelzeb--”

“Nothing!”

Dagon blinked, taken aback, when Lord Beelzebub let out a noise that was only slightly more dignified than a shriek and slammed their laptop shut. They had been sitting on their throne, staring at the screen with such keen interest they hadn’t heard her coming in - and now, for some reason, they were sitting on the laptop.

… All right. Dagon would assume that whatever they were looking at was a private matter and not ask, then. She cleared her throat and somehow managed to keep a straight face despite the utter surprise; she had never seen the Lord of the Flies caught so off-guard.

“What do you want!” Beelzebub barked, looking one step away from trying to turn her to ashes. Not that Hellfire could destroy a demon, of course, but it would hurt quite badly and Dagon liked it better when she was not hurt quite badly.

“I, uh, am here concerning the meeting to review the performance of our demons this month,” she said. “If it suits you, we can move the time--”

“You can chair that stupid meeting,” the Prince of Hell snapped. “Now leave. I’m busy.”

“Oh. Is it anything I can help wi--”

“You can help by chairing the meeting in my stead.”

“Ah. Does that mean I am authorized to choose who to punish and what bonuses to award--”

“You’re authorized to do whatever the Heaven you want, as long as you leave me now!”

The flies around Lord Beelzebub’s head buzzed furiously as though to underline the unspoken threat, and Dagon was clever enough not to argue further: a quick bow, and she was out of the throne room as fast as her legs could carry her while still maintaining some composure.

Once alone, Beelzebub let out a groan and rubbed their eyes. They stood, picked up the laptop from their throne, and opened it again. The screen was cracked, but then again the entire thing was so busted it was plainly not supposed to work in any capacity, and Beelzebub had yet to meet a piece of technology that would defy their order to work when they were supposed to.

It sure worked now, as Beelzebub turned it back on and to look at their most recent searches.

how to do courtship how to court human how to court idiot how to kiss human genitalia how penis work how vagina work how to have sex tutorial

The last one led to a rather educational video depicting a man and a woman on a large, round bed. If they squinted, the man even looked a little like Gabriel.

Beelzebub supposed it would do for now, in case they decided to acquire female genitalia for the occasion, but they were still on the fence about that and would probably need to seek more varied videos. Just to make sure they had grasped the main idea, of course.

“Unnecessarily complicated, is what all this is,” Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, declared loudly. Then they leaned back on their throne, reached for one of the mugs Gabriel had bought them, and hit play again.

For research.

***

“Gabriel! It’s good to see you.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Crowley muttered.

“Come, sit. I’ll make some tea.”

“Feel free to decline, we won’t mind.”

“Tea would be much appreciated, thank you,” Gabriel said, to Crowley’s annoyance, and sat, to his further annoyance, while entirely ignoring his remarks, to his utter annoyance. He looked around the cottage, and if he dared say anything about the decor Crowley would chew his head off, especially after seeing what kind of minimalistic nightmare Heaven was.

“This is… cozy,” Gabriel finally said after a slight hesitation, leaving Crowley just a little miffed that he didn’t, after all, get a good excuse to chew off his head. Yet.

“Oh, we’re still in the process of moving everything,” Aziraphale was saying, picking up the teapot he’d put on the stove only minutes before Gabriel had showed up at the bookstore. With the portal-door between the store and the cottage wide open, the sound of him knocking had carried over and Aziraphale had let him in before Crowley could stop it.

“We will keep the door open between here and my bookstore, it is such a convenient place to store all my books and I am not ready to give it up just yet. Crowley still needs to move some paintings out of his flat, that garish throne and the decoration he stole from a church--”

“I didn’t steal it, the church was bombed.”

“I remember. It was an eventful evening,” Aziraphale said lightly, putting the teapot on the table. “I almost got discorporated, but Crowley came to help me out. He saved us all upstairs so much paperwork.”

“Ah,” Gabriel said, clearly not sure what to say to that. “I mean-- thank you.”

Crowley gave him a long, unimpressed look, and he cleared his throat. “Anyway… where’s here, exactly?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to know,” Crowley said, crossing his arms. They both had agreed that neither Heaven nor Hell would ever know where their cottage was, and while Gabriel was technically part of neither, he still counted as a stuck-up archangel as far as Crowley was concerned. Now that he knew about the cottage, something would have to be done about the door connecting it to the bookstore. Maybe a seal, the kind that would keep out anyone who was not the two of them…

“It’s good to know you’re doing well,” Aziraphale was saying, clearly speaking for himself only, and poured tea in all three cups on the table despite the fact Crowley had elected not to sit yet, instead glaring at Gabriel in hopes he would feel uncomfortable enough to leave. “Now, what was that you mentioned about needing research books?” he asked, and brought the cup to his mouth.

“I need pornography books,” Gabriel declared, and the excellent tea Aziraphale had just sipped was sprayed right back out on the table in a fine mist. From his corner, Crowley raised both eyebrows up to almost his hairline.

Well. That was not what he’d expected to hear.

Aziraphale looked down at the mess on the table and on his own clothes before he gave Gabriel a very, very weary look. “You know, don’t you, that there really is no need for codes now?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, no, it’s not a code. I do need some pornography books.”

Aziraphale stared.

“... For research. As I sa-- Aziraphale?”

No answer: Aziraphale stood, without a further word, and was out of the room within moments, hands up in the air. Whether to find someplace to scream in peace, stare at the wall for a few minutes while scrubbing the mental image out of his brain, or try to clean the tea off his clothes, Crowley was not sure.

He would check on him in a minute. First, he had questions.

“Research, huh?” he said, leaning on the table across a rather bewildered Gabriel, who had somehow expected a different reaction to him asking to borrow pornography books. He grinned, wide enough to almost make his cheeks hurt. There was some amazing mocking material there, he could feel it. “And who is this about? A new friend? A coworker?”

Still stunned by Aziraphale’s reaction, Gabriel answered without pausing a moment to ponder whether he should answer that question. “Beelzebub,” he said, like he was answering a question on what kind of tea he preferred.

Ah.

For a few moments Crowley could only stare, the grin frozen on his lips. He was startled out of it by a sound like breaking glass that, he realized rather belatedly, came from inside his own brain.

No. No no no no. Nope. Nope. Abort, abort.

“Angel!” he called out, his voice a little strangled, and went to search for Aziraphale to make him share with him whatever bleach he was now using on his brain. Behind him, Gabriel spoke up.

“Uh, so can I borrow a book--” he tried to ask, but a slamming door was the only reply he got for a good while.

***

“Oh, this is never going to come out…”

Aziraphale sighed, looking down at his waistcoat, whose front was currently drenched with tea. Of course he could miracle it away, with Gabriel no longer in the position of writing him strongly worded letters about frivolous miracles... but he could feel a headache build up just thinking about Gabriel and looking around for a clean napkin was a rather welcomed distraction.

Until Crowley stepped in, eyes wide.

“Beelzebub,” he blurted out, causing Aziraphale to nearly jump out of his skin and frantically look around. God knew, the last thing he needed to deal with was the Lord of the Flies in his bookstore.

“What-- where??”

“No, I mean--” Crowley let out a pained noise, rubbing his eyes like he hoped to get an awful image off his retinas. “It’s about Beelzebub. Gabriel’s research. On pornography.”

Ah.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. He needed a few moments for what he’d just heard to entirely sink into his brain. When it did, he barely repressed a shudder. “That is… not… what I was expecting.”

“The Archangel Fucking Gabriel and Beelzebub. It’s in my brain now. Can you miracle it away?”

“I’m afraid that goes beyond my abilities,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to put a hand on his own head to calm the building headache. “If your head also hurts something awful, though, I can help with that. If you can get the tea out of my waistco-- oh. Thank you.” He smiled as Crowley took care of that with a snap of his fingers, the other hand still firmly on his eyes.

“You’re welcome. Now, can we throw him whatever book he wants and then throw him out?”

Aziraphale was very much opposed to throwing books, of course, but shoving a pornography book in Gabriel’s hands and firmly showing him the door seemed the best course of action.

***

“... I can explain.”

“No offence, but we’d really rather you do not.”

Gabriel shifted a little, a heavy leather-bound book in his arms. “Right. Well, er… thank you for the book. I’ll return it once I’ve--”

“Feel free to return it whenever. You’re very much welcome,” Aziraphale spoke quickly, and while he didn’t physically shove Gabriel through the door, he very much did get the message that he really wanted him to leave sooner rather than later. “Best of, er, luck. With your research,” he added quickly, and closed the door behind him.

Gabriel stood on the spot a few moments, blinking in slight confusion, but in the end he shrugged it off - maybe he had caught him in a busy moment - and opened the book to have a quick look.

… Huh. Could a mortal’s spine actually do that?

There was laughter, a couple of children running past him, and Gabriel immediately closed the book. Right, right - looking at pornography in public was frowned upon, so he ought to wait until he was back home. On the way back, he’d purchase a pen and notebook.

In case he needed to write something down.

***

Once their research was completed, Beelzebub was still not certain what it was about the act that so many humans found irresistible - but, they had to admit, their curiosity was piqued. Perhaps a carnal act with Gabriel would pave the way for his descent into Hell, perhaps it would not, but either way they would get to know what it precisely was about, so they would be getting something out of it.

The only thing for them to find out was whether Gabriel would be a willing participant, which was a rather important point because they may be the Prince of Hell but they also had standards. And, all things considered, they got the answer to that rather quickly: they couldn’t be many other reasons for Gabriel to be sitting at his desk with an open book full of pornographic images and a notebook half-filled with notes.

At least, they hoped they were not. Beelzebub found that the idea Gabriel might harbor carnal desire for someone else left them distinctly annoyed.

“I can explain,” Gabriel blurted out as soon as he recovered from the mini heart attack Beelzebub’s sudden appearance in flames and smoke had given in. Quick recovery, they had to give him that. “This is, uh-- this is-- research, for--”

“You’ve given my question some thought, I see.”

“Well--” he finally regained composure, and cleared his throat. “I have.”

“And…?”

“I’m not certain I do have those, uh, inclinations, but I’d be open to give it a try. If you’re so inclined,” he added quickly.

“I see,” Beelzebub said, their voice perfectly collected. Inwardly, however, they felt very much like a Jehovah's Witness who’d just been invited inside to talk after knocking: hadn’t really thought they would get that far and had already forgotten just about everything they had planned to do in the event. So they said nothing else, and stared.

Gabriel said nothing else. And stared.

Needless to say, that was not a promising start.

“... Which one?” Beelzebub finally asked.

“Huh?”

“Which set of genitalia.”

“Oh. I have--”

“I know what you have, I have seen you showering. I’m asking which one I should get now.”

“Ah.” Gabriel glanced at the book as though hoping to find an answer there. “Er… either? We can throw a coin,” he muttered, and dug a coin out of his pocket and handed it to them. “Head for penis and--”

Beelzebub threw the coin, caught it, and looked down at it. “Tails.”

“Right. Well--”

“Do not presume for even a moment I will allow you to be above me.”

“I’m not presuming, I just-- what are those?”

“Notes,” Beelzebub muttered, more than slightly irritated at having forgotten their own script. They shuffled through the clue cards they had pulled out of their back pockets, rather wishing their handwriting did not look like a dying fly had dragged itself across the paper after being dunked in ink.

“... Right. So we have come to the agreement we both consent. At this point, we’re supposed to--” they began, and trailed off when Gabriel did the unthinkable.

He laughed.

“What are you-- hey! Stop laughing!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, their face suddenly really, really hot. They crumpled notes in their fist and glaring up at Gabriel. “Cease this instant!” they ordered, and were a moment away from kicking him in the shin - how dare he laugh at the Lord of the Flies? - when Gabriel spoke, his laugh dying down to a snicker.

“I-- heh. My apologies. I just--” he gestured to the papers crumpled in Beelzebub’s fist, and then at his own notebook on the desk. “One way or another, we end up with paperwork. I suspect humans are more spontaneous about it.”

Beelzebub huffed. “Well, I am not human,” they muttered, but the anger died down, and they crossed their arms. “If you don’t plan by the book, how do you know if you’re getting things right?”

“Well-- sometimes you don’t know. Humans take chances all the time.”

A scoff. “What a disgustingly human thing to say. Is that how your mind operates now?”

“... I do still find it somewhat frightening,” Gabriel said, quietly, and whatever mockery Beelzebub was about to utter next died in their throat. The look he was giving them was surprisingly open, and he looked painfully vulnerable.

In the end, when they spoke, their voice was just as quiet.

“You have no reason to be frightened,” they said, and burned the note in their fist, letting the ashes fall on the floor. “I usually do punish failure, but I’m willing to make you an exception, I suppose.”

A chuckle, and Gabriel lifted a hand, holding it up almost close enough to Beelzebub’s face to touch the skin. “May I?”

“... You may,” they replied. The touch was warm, foreign and familiar at the same time - did he touch their face like that a long time ago, when they were still Ba’al? - and leaning into it, finding out where it all led, was so very tempting. Ironic, considering that they were supposed to be the one doing the tempting and… and…

No.

“Wait.” Beelzebub reached up to brace a hand against Gabriel’s chest, keeping him at a distance. He immediately stopped, and looked down at them in confusion, their faces only inches apart. “There is a chance this may count as a serious sin.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shouldn’t have told him. He’ll call it off.

Gabriel blinked, and the confused expression turned into a smile. “I figured,” he said, and tilted up their chin. “I think I’ll take the chance.”

… Well, they had given him a fair warning, so their conscience was clear. Would have been clear, if they had one. “You’re a fool,” the Prince of Hell informed him.

“I figured that too,” the fool replied.

What followed was a bit messier and significantly more complicated than expected, but given enough time and attempts, they did figure that out as well.

***

A good while after they had both caught their breath and Gabriel’s heart no longer felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest, Beelzebub had yet to say a word.

But they were still there, even if silent, accepting Gabriel’s arms around them and his quiet breathing against the nape of their neck, and he supposed that was a sure sign they had no complaints. In the end, he dared break the peaceful silence.

“Can you stay for the night?” he asked, his voice low.

“I am Prince of Hell. I can do as I wish.”

“... Do you wish to stay for the night?”

“I can’t see why not,” they conceded, causing Gabriel’s lips to curl into a smile. He said nothing, kissing the back of Beelzebub’s shoulder instead. Of course, they could tell he was smiling right away. “What are you smirking about?”

“Well, it was-- pleasant, was it not?”

Gabriel felt their light snort more than he heard it. “Bragging already, are you?” they muttered, and turned in his arms to face him. Their skin was pleasantly warm. “Do I have to remind you who was leading?”

Of course, there was no need. It wasn’t often that Gabriel found himself in the position of having to look up at the Lord of the Flies, and he hadn’t minded the change. He hadn’t minded at all.

“Oh, I never tried to take credit.” Gabriel dropped a kiss on the bridge of Beelzebub’s nose, gaining himself a frown and a buzzing noise - but no attempt at all to shove him off them. He was dimly aware of the fact that there was a folder in Hell bearing his name which perhaps had just gained a sin in red ink, but he found he couldn’t even begin to feel concern.

“Next time,” Beelzebub was saying, “I’ll try the other set of genitalia.”

“Heh. So there will be a next time?”

The Lord of the Flies did shove him at that, flat onto his back, before they rolled on top of him. They propped themselves up on their elbows, which rested on his chest. It wasn’t the most comfortable predicament, but Gabriel’s muscles still felt like cooked asparagus and he wouldn’t have bothered to protest for anything short of being raked over hot coals.

“We both have researched a great deal more than what we have put in practice, and I don’t see why the time spent on it should go to waste,” they said, tilting their head. “Don’t you agree?”

A smile, and Gabriel dared tilt up his head to try and catch their lips again. He missed, and his mouth rested briefly on their throat instead before he pulled them down against his chest.

“I do,” he murmured. “Wholeheartedly.”

***

“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” --Jeremiah 17:9

***

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gaiatheorist · 4 years ago

Text

“50% Feminine.”

I’m going mad again, I’m listing probable reasons, but going mad isn’t reasonable, it’s something that just happens to me from time to time. This is one of the slow, creepy-uppy episodes, not one of the sudden, explosive ones, possibly less dangerous, but incredibly draining. It’ll pass, it always does, it had better do, it’s bloody horrible.

Standard disclaimer, I am at increased risk of harm, but I have no intent or ideation of deliberately harming myself, apart from drinking too much cheap-and-nasty wine, which is my standard maladaptive coping mechanism.

I woke up at 1.30am, and, after a brief discussion with my wonky brain, acknowledged that I was Awake-awake, and there was no chance of going back to sleep. This will have a knock-on effect for a few days, there’s a fair chance I’ll fall asleep in my dinner, but it’s mostly containable. (The madness, as well as the dinner.) Scrolling through Twitter, to see if I’d ‘missed anything’, I found a link to ‘My Gender Coordinates’, and decided to take the quiz, no better or worse use of my time than a Fakebook quiz to tell me what sort of sandwich, or shoe I am.

There are 35 questions, I can’t remember exactly how they’re worded, but it’s along the lines of “I am...” or “I consider myself...” about various character traits, or behaviours, you ‘answer’ on a sliding scale from double-thumbs-up to double-thumbs-down. There’s a ‘middle’ option, which, when I’m going mad, is always a bit tempting, I’m indifferent, I don’t care much about much when I’m in this state.(Until I do, and get all emotionally peaky, HATING an empty shampoo bottle on the bathroom floor, but refusing to move it, because it’s not mine, or finding myself close to tears because I think I’ve offended someone, and not quite knowing how to check.)

The ‘results’ come out on a quadrant-graph thingy, Masculine/Androgynous/Undifferentiated/Feminine, I deliberately didn’t look at that first, because I would have skewed my answers, aiming for ‘undifferentiated’, I’m awkward like that. My results were that I ‘fall between quadrants’, no big surprise there, my dot was bang on the line between ‘masculine’ and ‘androgynous’, all in the top half of the square, ‘68.3% Masculine, 50% Feminine’, I don’t know how that works, it’s numbers, and maths and stuff, and my brain doesn’t work like that. (Haha, because I’m a girl, and girls are better at biology than physics. Bullshit.)

What does it mean? In all likelihood, nothing, it does look kind-of scientific, which is why I answered all of the questions, instead of giving up at the first hint of a cartoon dinosaur, or a ‘pick which colour-scheme appeals to you’. (Cartoon dinosaurs are my new pet hate, I’ve recently had to wade back through the clip-art infested worksheets from the last mental health course, and I’m fairly certain I’ve imagined a cartoon dinosaur, but that’s a tangent I’ll try to avoid.) I have strong opinions on the concept of gender, for however-many years I’ve been writing on here, I’ve identified as ‘meat no-one eats’, my biological sex is female, and my uterus is certainly reminding me of that fact this week. My gender? Human. Probably.

“Identified as”, how very modern, it’s not ‘really’ a new thing, to me, or the world, what I’m trying to do here is type out a safe-release, to vent, I suppose it all boils down to my resentment of being ‘told’. There are vague childhood memories of being told “Ladies do/don’t do...”, and I have a ridiculous rage-bubble of “Yes, and sloths poo once a week, what’s your point?”, too late one thinks of what one might have said. I’m no more a lady than I am a sloth, I’m probably leaning more towards sloth at the moment, I’m overdue a bath.

Working through the statement-ratings, I noticed I was pulling a face at some of them. All of them, to be honest, which surprised me, because, with a diagnosis of autism, there’s the preconception that my response would be binary-linear, black-or-white, always/never. It wasn’t, my response was invariably “That’s a stupid question.”, and they weren’t questions, for every single statement, I decided “Unable to answer without context.”, and had to imagine a scenario to contextualise “I am generous” or “I am decisive”, or whatever. ( I *am* decisive, given sufficient context.) I need to watch that I don’t fall into a psychopath/sociopath rabbit-hole here, my sometimes-linear approach could be viewed as psychopathic, and my bending/masking could fit a sociopathic profile. Too many personality quizzes in my teen-girl magazines, and an on-going desire to name and categorize things.

I was pulling a face at the statements that are usually associated with the concept of femininity, there really isn’t a male-brain/female-brain. (All brains smell horrible, I have smelled my own brain, wasn’t pleasant.) There are some biological differences, most notably the reproductive bits, but not really a great deal else, the ex used to say that humans were evolving to be more androgynous, but I see now that he was trying to justify the societally-imposed feelings of inadequacy that I was as tall as him, with more body-hair. He ascribed to the concept of androgyny when it suited him, lauding Bowie in public, and insisting I was ‘better’ at housework in private. A product of his upbringing, but deeply coercive-toxic. He enjoyed my androgynous-atypical nature up to a point, I was a trophy in more ways than just my long legs and pretty mouth, I confused the hell out of his ‘traditional’ family, though.

The statements that made me screw up my face could have been coloured pink, they were the ones that ‘ladies do’, some, I consciously, deliberately-don’t, and some are just a natural hard-no, nature vs nurture in evidence. I have learned behaviours, and innate, natural tendencies, there was a bit of a domestic issue the other day when I noted my son being manipulative, and destroyed-devastated myself wondering if he’d learned-observed that from me. I don’t think so, my avoidance-behaviours are quite different. I was pulling faces at the stereotypical ‘female’ traits, initially an “Ew, no, I don’t do that!” response, but, as I realised I was doing it, I wondered WHY I was repulsed. There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with being kind/sensitive/compassionate, they’re human responses, not ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’, but even the quiz itself refers to them as “Traits commonly found in people of the ... gender.” (Androgynous is referred to as high in male- and female-typical traits, undifferentiated as low in both.) Commonly, not exclusively.

Part of the issue is that I associate femininity with vulnerability and weakness. I choose not to ‘present as’ female most of the time, my sex usually isn’t obvious until people get close, and I don’t let many people get that close. (Even before the virus-distancing.) There are ‘historical and complicating factors’ behind some of that, but there’s also the gender-conditioning I grew up with, girls-should, and boys-should, I didn’t have particularly positive experiences or role-models, but, even aside from that, the general concensus was that male was stronger, better, more important, female was secondary and subservient. To do something ‘like a girl’ was an insult, but, by the same token, I was often criticised for not being ‘girly’, ever the outlier. I’m wondering how much of the non-femininity is reactive-protective, how much could be part of the autism, and how much is just ‘how I am’?

Girly-females irritate me, vacuous conversations, hair-and-make-up, dependence on others, incessant diets and fads, I don’t ‘get’ any of it, and I don’t buy into it, I don’t see why I should, just because my genitals are in the more difficult-to-kick arrangement. (True to form, my son has more make-up and hair-stuff than I do, I can’t remember how he referred to my presentation a few weeks ago, but it might have involved goblins, and a bin.) Occasionally, people tell me I could be attractive if I made an effort, my go-to response is “What for?”, I do generally look as if I live in a tree, it doesn’t bother me. That’s not wholly a girl-thing or a boy-thing, I do know some very well-presented people of both flavours, but I’ve genuinely never overheard a group of men discussing razor-blades or underpants the way I’ve heard gaggles of women banging on about make-up and such.

Women who talk in baby-voices, women who giggle and simper around men, women who don’t even try to pick things up themselves, I think what I’m saying is that I don’t like women who ‘act as’ women, and it is an act, my mother’s phone-laugh used to make me want to scream.

Before I became annoyed at myself for placing more value on the traits more commonly associated with masculinity than femininity, I’d had a mini-argument with myself that it was impossible to rate any of the statements objectively. Am I kind? It depends on the situation, last week I helped a little old lady sort out a mis-delivered parcel, but the week before that, I’d sped up my walking pace, so I could get into the corner shop before the person behind me, it might have been the same little old lady, I wasn’t paying attention. I’d viewed the thumbs-rating as a never-always continuum, so, technically, all of the responses ‘should’ have been middle-option, for ‘sometimes’. (There might have been an explanation in the site somewhere, it was daft o’clock in the morning.) For each behaviour, I was thinking of a situation, which was wrong, I think I should have been rating least-likely to most-likely. The situation has an influence on the behaviour, if I had friends, I’d behave differently with them to the way I’d behave with a doctor, or a manager, or my son, and even that behaviour would depend on multiple external factors, it wouldn’t be static-consistent, it would be dynamic. We all do it, we’re socially conditioned to behave according to audience and environment.

I didn’t go to finishing school, I didn’t even go to university, there were no elocution or deportment classes at my rough-as-arseholes comprehensive school, and most of my childhood meals at home were eaten from a plate on my knee, on the sofa, in front of the TV. There were still expectations, though. Standing up if a teacher came into the classroom, not interrupting an adult speaking, letting elderly or otherwise infirm people on the bus first. I don’t remember my brother being given as many instructions as I was, though, and I think that was more to do with me being a girl than being two and a half years older, he did pretty much as he pleased, and was a ‘rascal’, or a ‘scamp’, whereas I was told to sit down (nicely), be quiet, smile, be helpful etc long before the wear a bra, brush your hair, show a bit of leg nonsense started.

I’m fairly certain that the gender-specific conditioning is part of the reason my autism wasn’t diagnosed until I was 42. I’d had expectations drummed, and sometimes beaten into me all my life, everything was already an act, a performance, so I just assumed everyone else was ‘faking it’ all the time, over-riding gut-instinct on everything, and acting according to these confusing social scripts. The “What for?” streak in me is problematic for other people, I’m viewed as difficult, challenging, sometimes plain rude, and overly bold ‘for a woman’. I don’t speak much, but, when I do, I make it count, I’m tenacious and determined, and, most of the time, completely exhausted trying to remember and correctly apply rules and boundaries, scripts I don’t understand the reasoning behind, and constantly-consistently assess environments and audiences, to avoid ‘getting it wrong’.

I am blunt at times. I can be articulate and eloquent, but sometimes a situation demands just-enough information to convey the salient point. I don’t tend to ‘waste words’, and am frustrated when people fanny about with “Does that make sense?” and “This might sound silly, but...” Anecdotally, I hear that from women more than men, we’re discouraged from being too much to-the-point, to go the long way around things, instead of straight at them, and to check for reassurance. I speak ‘like a man’, it’s more efficient. (”Does everyone understand what they are to do?” was my preferred meeting-closing-statement, I’m brutal.)

I sometimes see the reverse-of-me in my son, he isn’t the least bit blunt or brutal most of the time. (He did shout “Stop it!” at me quite forcefully one day last week when I was having a meltdown after getting bin-juice on my face. He saves his command-voice for emergencies.) He ties himself in knots about communicating with people, and avoids most conversation, although he’ll babble incessantly to himself to process thoughts and ideas. (I have sores inside my ears that won’t heal, because I keep putting my earphones in to drown out his waffling about D&D plots and such.) He’s nervous-anxious where I’m bold, he’s scared of a million things that I’m not in the least bit concerned by, but then, I am an idiot. Biological sex is not gender, but neither of us are really binary-gendered. (I’m not going to suggest he does the quiz, he’s so incredibly indecisive it would melt his brain.) I never conditioned him ‘male’, he’s always just been another human to me, but he has had conflicting messages from his Dad’s side of the family, boys-don’t-cry, come-and-kick-this-ball, look-at-the-tits-on-that, and the girly-girl aunts and cousins. Confusing times, but he has referred to himself as a pan-sexual trans-humanist, and I don’t really know what that is. (He hasn’t asked me to use different pronouns, or a different name, so he’s still ‘him’.)

I’m rambling. I’ve been pecking away at this for hours, but I do feel a little more settled for doing it. I didn’t go off on as many ranty tangents as I thought I might, which is reassuring, this episode of going mad has been mostly-irritable, and I don’t like it. Catch-22, there, as a female, I’m ‘supposed to’ be all pink and fluffy, and nice, but the lazy stereotype of a woman can also be a nagging old harridan, I’m straddling that line as well as the line between quadrants on the quiz. I bet you 10p that if I did the quiz again, I’d be able to skew the answers to place the dot dead-centre in the grid, but I might blow up the internet if I did that, and imagine the mess that would make.

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newproletarians · 4 years ago

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new proletarians

Alright, so I’m feeling a few things. I’m angry and confused at the world and my place in it, and I don’t want to lose sight of my heart. The reason that’s even on the table is that I feel—in a very real, day-to-day sense—the urge to just let it callous over with grey boogers, or whatever callouses over the hearts of Squidwards everywhere. Regular old life can do that to a devastating degree, but so can the usual suspects—things like real trauma and tragedy. I’d like to say I’ve experienced a little of both at this point in my young life, but I’m still fighting the calcification of my heart. Let’s hope that in just throwing my brain at the proverbial wall, some things stick that are worth sticking. Maybe my clarity can also be yours, reader. Maybe we can snuggle up with ourselves tonight, content that we know what the fuck is going on in the world, and smugly abstain from that which our friends could never imagine abstaining from, and which we’ve known we’ve needed to abstain from for decades. Whatever. It’s wordy. It’s a fucking blog, future me. They’re supposed to contain words. Also, maybe, if I’m writing a blog where the over 50% of the audience is myself, writing it is supposed to feel at least a little similar to masturbating.

Where to begin? Well, let’s start with this: I am a college-educated youth who attended what’s commonly referred to as the best public university in the world. I received a rolled up piece of paper symbolizing a degree on a stage with other students and professors a year and a half ago. So it’s recent. And right off the bat, in my young adulthood, I have a chip on my shoulder, having that big qualifier of “public.” I went to the world’s fanciest college... for the proletariat. What does that mean? For me, this brings to mind a lot of issues having to do with the distribution of wealth in the United States, in addition to what the hell is going on economically here and in the world—but that’s something to get into later. The more pressing issue is what the hell the role of a college-educated young person is today. DFW pretty succinctly laid out an idea of what that could be in his famous address. His point was basically that college (specifically, a liberal arts education) gives you the critical thinking skills necessary to be able to get through life under capitalism (or whatever you want to call the current regime) without going crazy. I think we can do better than that. Also, fuck it, I’m giving myself permission to be temporarily pissed off, because fuck that, dude. I know that rage isn’t always an indicator of fruitful conversation, but I gotta let some steam out somewhere. I’m sure that it’ll only lead to me being better down the line. God—I am pissed. About how we’re deciding to go about talking through issues we’re having as a society (on Twitter, but also in comments sections and in NY Times articles). I have so much anger, I’m just now realizing, and I need to process it without stupidly burning myself out on it. It’s a subject for later, and not what we’re talking about right now. Right now, we’re talking about the role of the college-educated youth today. I think we’re getting somewhere, too. I don’t think the role of the college-educated youth in today’s scenario is to correct their friends and families, nor is it to Tweet about how embarrassing, vulgar, or otherwise horrible stupid people are—however embarrassing, vulgar, or otherwise horrible they may be. The role, to me, has to do with learning this stuff. Learning about systems of power, systems of abuse (many of which hum merrily along in universities—looking at you, Searl. [My anger, you guide me, but you also lead me astray]).Staying ON POINT. The way it has to do with these things is that today’s C.E.Y. needs to notice them, understand them, then DO something about them. There are, for instance, things that we learn about privilege and prejudice in university that we may be tempted to hurl at our elders back home as insults. Our jobs, as young students, are to be sexy, fashionable, charismatic stewards of the new age. Instead of yelling at our parents about being racist, we should, say, intervene in a subtle way that guides rather than punishes. That preserves trust and connection in relationships while simultaneously doing our best to right centuries-old wrongs. But this is about so much more than that. Our role is about how we conduct ourselves as the nations intelligentsia. But that’s a question. I’m not answering it here, try as I might. I still don’t know how I feel about it. It stretches into all corners of life, this role. For instance, into several things in my life I’m mad about.

For instance, I kind of hate my closest loved ones. Oops. That’s where I’m at. Am I supposed to ignore these feelings? They’re there, they’ve been there, and if I know anything about our brains, it’s that feelings shouldn’t be ignored. That’s what dumb ass patriarchs think. The funniest/saddest part of that is that they, said dumb asses, tell themselves that suppressing their feelings is the manly thing to do. It’s honestly just the cowardly thing to do. Men are so afraid of confronting their feelings that they would rather go their entire life wearing a life three sizes too small than mention a thing about it. Anyway. They’re conditioned to feel this way by their surroundings. This—this is a great point that I would love to be a major takeaway here. The thing about being educated is that you’re aware of systems, that systems need to be changed. Fault the people who can change the systems, if anyone, but really, even they are just products of the system. The good thing is that, as a powerless mass of atomized society, we have been created by these systems knowing SOME things that are wrong with it. Now we, the crumbs of dust living in and created by the gargantuan grandfather clock of life, have the sentience necessary to band together and make switch out some gears. Picture a big hand of made of dust, fixing the clock. That’s us. That’s what the role of college educated students is today. But that’s not so much the point of this paragraph, so much is the fact that I kind of hate my closest loved ones—which feels so good to say. My best friends, for instance, are really rough individuals. One is an obvious, obnoxiously insecure, compulsive liar. He’s not super tall and weighs almost 300 pounds. It’s not nice to say this stuff, but the purpose of life isn’t to be nice about everybody all the time in your own head, or on your own anonymous blog. He alienates everyone I bring him around with his bizarre persona. His insecurity is so deep that I shit you not, almost a majority of the interactions I’ve had with him would very reasonably get a “come on,” response from anyone. He has to create little talking points to make his life feel acceptable. He’s one of those people who constantly refers conversations back to their insecurities, and how they feel so secure about them, for this reason and that reason. It’s like, Christ, man. Come on. I feel a lot more ways about this, but I’m a little scared he’ll see this some day. I’m worried he’s going to die young, because he is extremely overweight. His doctor said he’s a few months away from a heart attack/stroke unless he takes immediate action, which it seemed like he was taking initially, but it doesn’t really seem like it anymore. I don’t know. The whole situation feels extremely choked by our inability to just communicate with our fucking words. And yes, I am sounding angry, I’m not actually this angry, but consider these the bubbles from a can of soda that’s been shaken. What will be left is the only-slightly-bubbled soda. That’ll come soon. For now, there are bubbles. New paragraph.

The point that I was trying and failing to get to in the previous paragraph is that I don’t like this guy. He has a lot of great qualities, and he’s certainly not a bad person to have in one’s life—as in, he’ll never cheat on his spouse, and he’ll always go the extra mile for his friends in a certain sense. But I don’t. I wish I could just talk to him about this weird, bizarre, fucking deal breaking shit, but I just can’t. Our communication is choked. I don’t think it’s his fault, though. I think it’s to do with overlapping systems of culture that make it difficult. Maybe. Maybe that’s not the point here, and the real point is just that I feel stuck in that situation. Moving on.

(TW: sexual assault)

Another friend is a fucking bona fide sexual assaulter. He practically got #metoo’d, on a personal level. His gf broke up with him because he sexually assaulted the female half of their best-friend-couple. He fingered her while sharing a bed with her and his gf, for some confusing reason. We talked about it and he gave me this wordy, bizarre, incongruent tale of what happened. It involved a LOT of details and qualifiers. When I talked to the dude half of the couple, the guy who was (and still is) with the woman who got assaulted, he said that my friend just straight up did a ton of nonconsensual shit. He also said that when his gf told other people, more people came forward saying this guy had been creepy to other women in their friend circle. This friend absolutely has a history of gaslighting and successfully avoiding trouble by forcing his way. I need to talk to him, but again, fucking choked. I have no ability to have any kind of “real talk” with him. We do not have a venue, and the prospect of confrontation is absolutely debilitating to the average WASP-y dude. Which brings us to our next situation.

I have a great friend I met in undergrad. She is very well-liked, and while I definitely don’t agree with everything she thinks, I really value her friendship. Her boyfriend is a fucking nightmare. Not really, honestly. There are actual nightmare boyfriends. This boyfriend is more of a waking nightmare. The kind of nightmare that becomes worse because it’s so hard to call out. It just keeps going. I’ve kept CLOSE track, and every SINGLE time I’ve hung out with them as a couple, this guy crosses the line. He says condescending, mean, weird, bizarre, shit that... there’s just no better way to say it than he crosses a line that normal people don’t cross. I haven’t counted, but we’ve probably hung out close to 30 times. Every time it happens, every time I give him another chance. I got a little counseling about this situation from a friend’s mom, just in casual conversation, and her advice was to figure out what in me upset me about this guy. At that point, I realized that what Eric Andre said is true: advice is stupid. Also, that I am not going to run my life based on what this person, who I previously looked up to in a god-like way when it came to relationships, says. I am going to figure it out on my own, because it seems like everybody’s solution to relationship issues is to never talk about them, or to have some kind of inner-peace solution that makes getting abused not suck so bad (looking at you, DFW). Ugh. Okay. Moving on, again. Because yep, there’s so, so much more. Again, asking questions here, not answering them.

Also, if you’re reading this and thinking “damn, bro, your life is boring,” that’s my point. This is just normal life. These are just normal people. This is the water we’re swimming in. It’s fucking tense, man. Living in the United States is tense.

I’m running out of steam at this point, but God damn it. My brothers are dick holes. And we’re great friends. They are guys who don’t ever cause a fuss, avoid confrontation at all costs, and are nothing but rewarded for it. Sometimes I think I have something to learn from them in that regard. But is that really the life we want to live? Just don’t communicate your issues? It’s just frustrating. They act superior to others, but are categorically unable to have an honest, undiplomatic conversation. They act superior to others, and are treated as superior. It feels a little like talking to robots, talking to them, decoding what they’re saying to ascertain how they may actually be feeling in a given moment. I have no idea how they feel about me. Or anything. I don’t even think they know or care. I think they just get by, and they’re rewarded for it.

Alright, moving right along. My dad. Damn do I want to not talk to that guy. I can’t talk about anything real with him. It’s like playing ping pong where the other person can only hit the ball if it goes where his paddle already is, and his paddle’s made out of glass.

This is a sample of some real life issues I am dealing with, spoken as honestly as possible, as is evidenced by the rampant spelling and grammatical errors. College works into this as the thing that has given me recourse for dealing with this stuff. As a college educated youth, I can approach life in an informed, good way. This is life. Etc.

What am I walking away with? Well, I now know for sure that I have a lot of shit to work through. MAYBE more than one Tumblr post. Also, I guess I am proving that people still Tumbl in 2021. I am starting to really understand what the questions I have are. I think part of my issue stems from some feeling of being “out of the loop,” or having some natural, in-set outrage about not understand what’s going on, which was founded by years of being the same height as the people around me’s knees, being the youngest person in my family. Everyone around me were skyscraper people with adult conversations happening way up there. It’s a little imposter syndrome, I think, too. It comes from being the youngest, I think, too. Mixed with a natural sensitivity that I’ve noticed people like me have.

My goal is to get better at living my life. That involves understanding how I want to live, it involves understanding what my values really are, thinking through them a little, and more. I think it’s really worth it. In the meantime, I am not a work in progress. I am a fucking careful, cool, bright, talented guy who is not perfect, but is working on it. And I am going to postpone making any big decisions about my personal life until I get some clarity.

I thought I’d get more to the subject of the new proletarians, which is something I was thinking about today when listening to Harmontown and asking myself questions about what college is for if it just makes us unemployable, debt-ridden, twitter douchers. Anyway. We’ll get to it again sometime.

This was nice. Let’s do this again sometime.

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bmoverit · 5 years ago

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Two Words (C.Z.K)

Okay I haven’t written in quite some time so I’m a bit rusty so sorry in advance if it’s not that great. I just saw @temperaryheart post her writing challenge (congrats on 700 btw!) and wanted to take part. I hope y’all enjoy!

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You could feel the bass thumping in your chest as you made your way through the crowded living room turned into a dance floor for the evening. There were bodies pressing against you no matter where you went, and were honestly debating going home. Before you could even let yourself entertain the thought of sneaking out before anyone would notice, your eyes lock onto the whole reason you came. Standing not too far away leaning against the island in the kitchen was Zion. Sure every time you saw him he looked gorgeous but tonight something was a little different. You couldn’t tell whether it was the alcohol you consumed, though it hadn’t been a lot, or the way the colorful lights they’d recently installed defined his features, either way he looked good and you wanted him.

This was nothing new though, out of the public eye the two of you had been seeing each other for a few months, keeping things between the two of you until you were sure it was actually going to go somewhere. You’d somehow managed to become friends after you were partnered with one of his best friends, Austin, for a project in one of the art electives you had to take this semester. As it happened, they lived together in a house off campus with a few of their other friends to save money while in school. After going over there for two weeks while working on the project, it felt normal to have you around the house, and Austin invited you to come over to watch movies and eat junk food after a stressful week of exams and of course you agreed. That night is when you’d really met Zion. Sure you met in passing before, but you were serious about school and whenever you came over to work on the project that’s all you did. He’d walked into the living room and sat down next to you on the couch, since it was the only open seat left, and when Austin asked what movie you should start with you both answered with your favorite. You both turned to look at each other shocked and ended up delving into a conversation about your favorite movies and TV shows. At one point you mentioned how much you loved Avatar: The Last Airbender, and he’d excitedly rolled up his shirt sleeve to show you the tattoo he had just gotten.

From there the two of you began to develop a friendship that began to rival the ones he had with his best friends. The two of you just played off of each other so well. When Z was off the walls you could match the energy when you wanted, but could also be the calm to help reign him in. You both shared similar senses of humor so the jokes between the two of you were effortless, and occasionally left those around you confused while the two of you laughed as if it were the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You were both into video games, though you preferred to watch rather than play, so you had no problem just hanging out with him and the rest of the boys whenever they wanted to. With how you got along it was almost as if the relationship you shared was fated.

The friendship between the two of you stayed just that for months despite the feelings building on both sides, until one fateful night. You had come over expecting it to be just like normal, either hanging out with Z alone, the rest of the group, or giving them cooking lessons that had began because one night they decided to cook instead of order out and it was a disaster. Instead you walked into the house with a decent sized group consisting of the boys, some people you recognized as their other friends, and a couple more people you’d never seen before. There was music playing in the background, you could smell the weed in the air, and when Z walked over to greet you, you could smell the scent of liquor clinging to him.

‘Hey mamas, I thought you’d never get here. I’ve been waiting forever!’ he said leading you further into the house with his hand gripping yours.

‘Guys, she finally decided to show up! This is the one I’ve been talking about, the one tha-’ he suddenly cut himself off remembering you were there.

‘Oh so you’ve been talking about me? What have you been saying?’ you say with a smirk lacing your voice knowing that whatever it was, was enough to get the boy who never stopped talking, to be quiet.

‘He said you’re his future wife!’ an intoxicated Edwin shouted from the couch.

It was as if a bucket of ice water was poured over Z, as his body tensed his hand gripping yours tighter before letting it go and he completely sobered up. You could tell he was slightly embarrassed, so you grabbed his hand, looked at the group that was now staring at the both of you since Edwin captured their attention, and said ‘Well he’s my future husband so I’m glad we’re on the same page.’ With that you dragged him away from the group to talk and the rest of it is history. That was about six months ago.

Tonight, he’d asked you to come to the party they were throwing to make your relationship public. You agreed, and now here you were. Once you arrived in the kitchen you gracefully slid onto the counter across from where he was, your height making it so it wasn’t a challenge, and sat there admiring him for a second before he could noticed you. Sitting there surrounded by his friends, he looked so tempting. His shirt sleeves were rolled up giving you a view of his arms that had gotten larger recently due to his new fitness routine. Your eyes trailed along them to his hands that were wrapped around a solo cup before finally resting on his face. His head was thrown back in laughter exposing his neck to your view as he did so. Sobering up from whatever joke was said he finally looked at you. He wasn’t expecting to see you sitting there on the counter with a heated look in your eyes, and it took him by surprise. He took a moment to look you over. Your hair was pulled back resting in a slicked pony tail, hoops dangling from your ears, a clear gloss coating your lips and accentuating their fullness, and that look in your eyes that only he could decipher. Trailing lower he glanced at your exposed shoulders before his eyes caught the exposed skin on your waist between the cropped shirt you were wearing and his favorite pair of your jeans. His intense gaze slinding across your skin heating you from the inside out. Your voice broke him out of the slight trance he was in.

‘Come here.’

Two words that was it. Two words was all it took for his friends to notice they no longer had his attention and quiet down. Two words to have them all looking at you to see who was speaking while trying to figure out who you were calling. Two words to have him placing his cup on the counter and taking quick strides to where you were sat and placing himself between your open thighs. His hands going to rest on them like they belonged there and your hand gripping his chains and pulling him towards you.

‘You look way too good to be standing that far away from me baby boy.’ You purred with a seductive tone in you voice while moving your hand from his chain to neck and looking him up and down.

He just nodded in response almost leaning into your hand further, loving that this side of you was out to play. Flashbacks of the last time a night between you started like this dancing behind is closed eyelids. He wanted you as much as you wanted him and couldn’t focus on anything except for you and the warmth from your palm on his neck. Not trying to come up with a verbal response, not the complete shift in the atmosphere in the room, and certainly not the fact that the two of you weren’t alone. None of it mattered.

The rest of the kitchen stood still except for the rest of the boys who lived there as they obviously knew about the two of you. Sure people may have suspected there was something going on with how close the two of you were, but to see this scene playing out in front of them, that was something they never expected. The tall, loud, confident Zion with a girls hand around his throat and him so obviously comfortable with it that it couldn’t be the first time.

At this point neither of you could focus on anything that wasn’t the other person, not like you would want to anyway. Your hand tightened on his throat coaxing him even closer, and drawing a moan from him just before your lips met in an electric embrace. There was no fight for dominance, you were in control, and he was loving it. It continued for a while before you came back to reality when you heard someone in the room go ‘oh shit’ and slowly pulled away from him. Before you could make another move he let out a soft whine at the loss of contact,that only you could hear, and as your eyes met again you could see how much he needed you. Removing your hand you turn to face the crowd that had formed, intrigued by what had stopped all the noise, and grab his hand to lead him to his bedroom.

‘Y’all might want to turn the music up, or head out, it’s up to you.’ You confidently throw over your shoulder while heading up the stairs, a needy Zion now in front of you trying to get you up there faster knowing what was in store for him.

The party below was dying down, the attendees still in slight shock from what they’d seen and deciding to take your warning seriously, but things between the two of you were just getting started.

#chan's 700 challenge #zion kuwonu

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summergimurne · 5 years ago

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De Villo Sloan recently sent me a copy of Whistle, his collaborative visual poetry book with Kristine Snodgrass. As a preface to the review, I would like to express my gratitude for DVS's generosity that he has shown me and other members of the vispo community. By "vispo community" I have in mind the intersection between three communities that I cannot imagine existing separate from one another in the early 21st century: visual poetry, mail art, and asemic writing. I am almost tempted to say that DVS is at the "center" of these communities, or movements, or whatever you might call them - but, of course, there is not, or shouldn't be, a center, and that's precisely the point of his critical and artistic activity. Thank you, DVS, for sending me this wonderful gift.

What stayed with me throughout the book, from start to finish, was a sense of motion and vertigo. There is no place in the book to get "ground under one's feet". What is responsible for this feeling, I believe, is that it is a collaboration where no voice admits itself to be subsumed by the other. The authors themselves speak of the the pieces with various metaphors (aggression, power, gender, sexuality). But present in all of this heavy artistic territory is something light and playful. I would interpret Whistle as play or sport - art done collaboratively as a sort of intimate contest, where the one responds to the moves by the other. It may also be interpreted as a creative dance between two partners, which may look elegant to outsiders, but inside the minds of each member of the dancing couple there is an intense semiotic activity occurring - signs are given, interpreted, and then given in exchange. Another metaphor the authors used is that the collaboration here is a sort of conversation. It is certainly a bright and lively one.

It seems to me that the intense energy of the sequence arises primarily because both Sloan's and Snodgrass's voices remain distinct. I could discern multiple voices, and none of these meld into one monologue, nor should they. In some pieces, they seem to be playfully echoing one another while remaining identifiable and distinct. The spread in the book where variations on the phrase "I don't do faces" are typed or written repetitively, as if one voice typed as another teased the other with handwriting. The result is obviously a book neither author could have possibly written on their own. I should clarify that I do not mean to say that there is Sloan's "voice" and there is Snodgrass's "voice" as if each is a singular strand one can easily separate from the whole and examine on its own; that is not the case at all. Sometimes the book seems like a massive chorus of expressive energy coming from all directions, giving it a feeling of endless life and possibility.

To return to this collaboration-as-conversation: the pieces themselves are in a continual unfolding dialogue with one another as the sequence moves forward. For example, a poem that occurs earlier in the the book ("Concrete Kristine") is cut up and photographed in a latter part of the book. While the book does not become settled at any point, the little bits of autobiography hinted at indicate that the artists have changed one another as all friends do. In this life, of necessity we remain individuals, but others enter our stories and histories and without them, we would not become who we are. Whether by hurt or healing, everyone ends up altered by others to such an extent that we may be tempted to swap masks by the end of the play.

One final note: Whistle seems rooted in the collaborative practices of mail art, such as add-and-pass and add-and-return. In mail art, retaining your "style" and adding to it is critical to the collaborative performance. It is the element of play, and the surprise that comes from play, that is important. And it is a democratic, open practice - no one's art is too bad (or too good?) to be part of the piece. Nothing is "ruined'; it just becomes something unexpected. By publishing such a book - a "real book" with an ISBN and everything - the spirit of mail art crosses over into the practices of the non-mail art world. It's happened before, and it will happen again, and I hope this crossover is always welcome.

(reviewer: c.r.e. wells)

#visual poetry #vispo #De Villo Sloan #Kristine Snodgrass #summergimurne

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sushigirlali · 6 years ago

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The Politics of Dancing - Part II (Reylo Fanfic)

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

Summary: Ben has known Rey most of her life, but when things change between them one tumultuous night, can he convince her that they have a future? Or will secret legacies, scheming parents, and fetching suitors get in the way?

Parings: Rey + Ben Solo|Kylo Ren, Finn + Rose Tico

Continuity: Regency AU

Rating: E

A/N: Sorry for the wait, friends, I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. The Tumblr apocalypse and subsequent drop in activity has got me down. On the bright side, this story is now going to be a three-parter. This chapter was getting really long, so I decided to split it up. Enjoy!

Master list –> AO3 | ff.net | Tumblr

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The Politics of Dancing - Part II

By: sushigirlali

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London, December 1818

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Peering over the rim of her crystal wine glass, Rey slowly sipped the sweet red liquid in lieu of answering Lady Shara Bey’s probing questions. Poe’s mother could be a little pushy, but Rey was too used to Leia’s brand of brazen self-confidence to be excessively offended by her lack of tact.

“Really, my dear, you must come visit Yavin after the new year,” Shara simpered. “We have the most picturesque landscapes and historical homes, not to mention a great number of fashionable neighbors to dine with.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but my father and I have plans to stay in town through Easter,” Rey said noncommittally, finishing her glass and signaling Artoo for another. I wonder if anyone would notice if I just kept the bottle. “Maybe another time, though,” she added, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

Appearing disappointed but not discouraged, Shara tried a new approach. “Did you know my son was recently titled Viscount of Yavin? His father will retain the title of Earl until his death, at which point the name will be bestowed upon Poe.”

Rey slanted her friend a look, trying not to laugh at his pained expression. “Congratulations, my lord.”

“He’s also incredible marksman, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his equal. In these dangerous times, it would certainly be reassuring to have someone as capable as him by your—”

“Rey can shoot just as well as any man,” Poe interrupted brusquely. “So, I don’t think she’s in need of a protector.”

“And what would you know about the needs of women?” Shara snapped, putting Poe on the defensive.

“Mother, can we not—”

Covering her friend’s hand where it rested on the table, Rey stepped in to head off a confrontation. “Poe understands me quite well, and I him, so there’s no need to be insulting, madam. He’s a credit to your house, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

Lady Bey rounded on Rey, but their hostess cut her off before she could make a retort.

“Shara, would you mind switching seats with my husband?” Leia requested, seeming to materialize out of thin air. “I would so love to catch up with you.”

Leia’s tone was friendly, but her steely gaze made it clear that she wasn’t asking.

“I—yes, Leia, that would be lovely,” Shara said stiffly, dropping her napkin as she stood. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Niima.” She gave her son a small nod. “Poe, I’m…I’ll see you later.”

He inclined his head, but didn’t speak again until she was out of earshot. “Thanks, Rey,” he said under his breath.

“No problem,” she returned, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.

Following Leia and Shara’s progress toward the head of the table, Rey was unsurprised to find Ben staring in her direction. What did surprise her, however, was the automatic rush of heat that raced up her spine just from making eye contact with the man.

Tilting her head, Rey studied his unique features, admiring the way his inky black hair fell wild around his pale face, the silky strands sticking out at odd angles were her searching fingers had sifted through them earlier. He wasn’t classically handsome, not in the way Poe was, but Rey found his too large ears and deep-set eyes and slightly crooked nose ridiculously tempting.

Not to mention that scar, she hummed, tracing the faded mark with appreciative hazel orbs.

He’d been a hellraiser in his youth, and she’d idolized him because of it. So many society men were afraid to be themselves, to be real, but not Ben Solo. He was outspoken and honest, even when he probably shouldn’t be. If she’d been a man, Rey liked to think that she would have followed in Ben’s footsteps.

Well, maybe not literally, she allowed, sizing him up. His height and build were so far out of the norm that he stood out in any room. Especially tonight.

Ben looked dashing in his neatly tailored black coat and trousers, the custom-made vestments showing off his long legs and broad shoulders to perfection. Still, Rey couldn’t help but picture his powerful body stripped of all finery on black sheets, just the way she’d seen him last night.

So manly, so beautiful…

The longer she surveyed him, the more she wanted to crawl across the table and slide into his lap; to feel his thickly muscled arms wrapped around her again as she devoured those sinfully full lips…

Get ahold of yourself, Rey! she chided, feeling her nipples stiffen behind the thin fabric of her chemise. Now is not the time to be letting your imagination run wild!

But it was too late. As if sensing her wicked thoughts, Ben’s dark gaze fell to her breasts, scraping across her taut peaks like he owned them. Why did I decide to forego a corset again? Cursing her lack of appropriate undergarments, Rey crossed her arms and prayed that he was the only one who’d noticed her wanton behavior.

Stop looking at me like that, she mouthed, fighting down the heat rising in her cheeks.

No, he replied with a smug smile, obviously amused by her blatant response.

Why, you—

“Hey, kid!”

Rey jumped as Han dropped into Lady Bey’s empty seat. “Uncle!”

“Sorry about that,” Han chortled, patting her on the shoulder, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s quite alright, sir,” she said, playfully wrinkling her nose at him. Maybe I should tie a bell around your neck just in case, though. That’s twice now you’ve snuck up on me tonight, a third time could be disastrous.

“And you, Lord Dameron, how is your evening going?” Han courteously inquired.

“Whatever the opposite of festive is,” Poe deadpanned, lifting his glass in salute.

“Yes, the atmosphere is rather tense for a yuletide celebration,” Han said jovially, reaching past Rey to click his glass against the Viscount’s. “I apologize for any consternation you might have felt due to my wife’s meddling. She can be a bit overzealous when it comes to the art of matchmaking.” He threw a wink at Rey. “Especially where my darling niece is concerned.”

“Uncle,” she groaned, “not you too!”

“Now, now, Rey, I just think—” Han stopped short as See-Threepio dragged a serving cart laden with at least five different cuts of meat and several sauces into the room. “I just think we should talk about this after dinner. Heaven forbid we let all this incredible food go to waste!”

Saved by the second course!

Rey thought irreverently.

Good thing Han prefers food to lectures…

——————

Gripping his goblet tightly enough to shatter it, Ben glared at the perfect picture his lover made sitting next to Lord Dameron: her pretty white dress and sun-kissed complexion playing nicely off his black hair and formal attire. Rey and the newly appointed Viscount looked good together and he hated it.

Since when are they more than mere acquaintances, anyway? he sulked, annoyed by how well they seemed to be getting on. What could they possibly have in common? Ben’s brow furrowed as Rey slid her hand over Dameron’s. And why the hell is she touching him?!

While they weren’t enemies per se, the older man had been a thorn in his side since university. Popular more for his personality than his wealth, something Ben had always been sensitive about, Poe had been his rival in everything from fencing to making friends, but up until tonight, they’d never pursued the same woman.

First Johnson, now Dameron, Ben frowned. Is Rey friendly with every eligible bachelor in the county? How many other men do I have to compete with?

Unused to feeling anything but supreme confidence, Ben tried to reign in his riotous emotions. It wasn’t Rey’s fault that he’d been supplanted as her dinner date, after all, that honor belonged to his interfering mother. Having long given up trying to arrange the love life of her only son, it appeared that Leia had moved onto her niece. Unfortunately for the Skywalker matriarch, Rey had a mind of her own.

Good luck, mother. That little spitfire has an independent streak a mile wide and I very much doubt you’ll be able to exert influence over any facet of her life. Ben took a thoughtful swig of ale. Besides, Rey would never allow herself to be bullied into anyone’s bed. She’s always been adamant that only the deepest love would induce her into…into…oh!

All at once, Ben realized that sneaking into his room had been a declaration of sorts, an admittance of Rey’s feelings and intentions toward him. At the time, he’d been too eager to possess her to pick up on the significance of her actions, but now, recalling the way Rey’s beautiful body had tangled with his, practically shouting how much she loved him, Ben felt like a fool for not being more perceptive.

We made love from one side of the room to the other, locked together for endless hours in our own little world and yet, somehow, I failed to see the sentiment behind her surrender. Ben marveled at his own stupidity. But what does she want long-term? To become my mistress? My wife? Or was last night just a passing fancy?

He supposed he should be wary of getting in too deep too fast, but he wasn’t. Beyond her boldness in the bedroom, Rey’s jealousy on the dance floor and subsequent ardor on the veranda gave credence to the notion that she felt more than simple desire for him.

Is this love then? he mused. It could be. We’re good together. Ben paused. No, better than good. We’re fantastic together. Amazing, even. Hell, we barely took time to breath let alone consider the consequences, and I…I…oh, shite! Ben cursed as realization struck. I completely neglected to take precautions with her!

Regardless of who bewitched whom, Rey had come to his bed untouched, putting the onus on him to protect her from potential repercussions. But he hadn’t; he’d put her at risk. She could be carrying my child even now. I want her, but am I ready for that kind of responsibility? he wondered.

Only vaguely aware of his mother standing up beside him and moving around the table to speak with Lady Bey, Ben allowed himself to envision what life would be like with Rey by his side. They could ride together, like when they were younger, read to each other in the library, have hours long discussions over dinner…and make love every night. There was so much he could teach her, so much she could teach him…and if she was pregnant, well…

The more he mulled over the idea, the less terrifying the prospect of fatherhood became. We might have twins, a boy to going shooting with Rey and a girl to practice calligraphy with me. They’d have freckled cheeks and dark hair and big hazel eyes…

As the appealing image formed in his mind, Ben decided that irrespective of what his mother or Luke had in mind, the only way Rey was getting engaged to someone other than him this holiday season was over his dead body.

——————

For as long as she’d known Ben Solo, he’d never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. But in the past few hours, he’d admitted to being jealous of Finn, nearly seduced her on the dance floor and then on the patio, and now he was giving Poe dark looks as well.

What is going on? Rey stared down at her plate, pushing her venison around without really seeing it. It’s not like we’re engaged or anything, and he hasn’t once mentioned love, so why is he acting so territorial? I need to get him alone again and—

“I wonder what’s wrong with Lord Ren this evening,” Poe said, voicing her concerns.

Rey schooled her features, hoping no one else had noticed Ben’s strange behavior. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Ren looks like he’s contemplating murder every time he glances in my direction. Have I done something wrong or is the wild mushroom soup not to his liking?” he inquired.

“Well, he does hate mushrooms,” she said drolly. I’m not sure how he feels about you, though.

“I’ll just assume the soup is the most likely culprit, then,” Poe chuckled. “What a relief! I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of my old schoolmate; he’s a real fire-eater.”

“You have no idea,” Rey mumbled, knowing full well how it felt to burn up in Ben’s arms.

Something in her tone must have given her away because Poe looked suddenly suspicious. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and Lord Ren?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she denied, glad that Han appeared to be lost in conversation with Baroness Kanata. Please, keep him busy for me, Maz, because I don’t think Poe is going to let this go.

“No? Judging by your behavior, and Ren’s, there seems to have been a development in your relationship since the last time we spoke,” he said speculatively.

“You’re just imagining things,” Rey gulped, reaching for her wine. He’s definitely not going to let this go.

“Careful, love,” Poe cautioned, gently steadying her hand to keep her from knocking over the nearly full glass of claret.

“Thanks,” she said sheepishly, setting it down again without taking a sip.

“You’re welcome.” Then, more seriously, “Even if you don’t want to tell me now, just know that you can always confide in me, Rey. I’m no gossip.”

“I know,” she replied solemnly. “You’ve trusted me with so much about your own life, but I—I’m scared. I did something brash last night, something that could have lasting consequences...”

“Rey, I’m sure whatever you did is—”

“I seduced Ben,” Rey confessed in a rush. “I don’t know what came over me, but I went into his room and took my nightgown off and I—we—and it was wonderful—but now he’s acting strange and possessive and I don’t know what to do!”

Poe hid it well, but she could tell that she’d shocked him. “You went to him?”

Rey squared her shoulders, determined to take responsibility for her actions. “I did.”

“And he didn’t turn you away?” he said in surprise.

She shook her head, puzzled. “Should he have?”

“Not necessarily,” Poe said without judgement. “Ren must want you very much to risk being ostracized by his own family, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can’t imagine Lord Skywalker will be pleased that his nephew deflowered his adoptive daughter,” he said bluntly.

“But it wasn’t Ben’s fault!” she protested. “I seduced him, remember?!”

“Rey, Ren is a man. An experienced man, at that. I can assure you that it will matter very little to your father whether you initiated the situation or not,” Poe said plainly. “Skywalker may not be very traditional, but he’s still your guardian.”

“Oh, I…hadn’t thought about it that way,” Rey grimaced. “What should I do then? I can’t imagine not seeing Ben anymore, but I don’t want to hurt Luke either.”

“As long as you’re discreet, I wouldn’t worry about it too much about it for now,” he offered. “Your father doesn’t strike me as particularly perceptive when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“No, he’s not,” she agreed. “There’s always been something between Ben and I, a special connection as it were, but I don’t think Luke has ever noticed.” Rey relaxed a little. “Thanks, Poe.”

He waved away her gratitude, looking mischievous. “So…” he muttered, leaning close, “did you enjoy yourself?”

“That’s none of your business!” she blushed, surveying the table to make sure no one was listening, least of all her wayward relatives.

“Of course it’s not,” Poe conceded, lowering his voice. “But did you?”

Rey bit her lip, vacillating on whether or not she should answer.

“Oh, come on, it’s not like I’m going to repeat anything you say, no matter how raunchy.”

“I know you won’t,” she sighed, playing along. “Alright, yes. I enjoyed myself. Immensely.”

“And he didn’t hurt you?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No, the experience was…umm…satisfying.”

“Good.”

“Is that all?” Rey said sarcastically. “Any other personal details you’d like to know?”

“Just one,” he said dryly. “Do you want to sleep with him again?”

“Poe!”

“In for a penny, in for a pound?” he grinned.

“Well, I—I wouldn’t say no,” she stammered.

“And what about him? Do you think he still wants you too?”

“I don’t know,” she said evasively.

“Rey.”

“Maybe?”

“You don’t know?” he teased. “I could always go ask Ren directly, I suppose.”

“Don’t you dare!” she yelped. “Yes, okay?! Happy now?”

“Are you?” Poe asked rather pointedly.

Rey was quite for a moment, caught off-guard. “You know, I think I am,” she said in amazement. “I think Ben’s wanted me for a long time; maybe even as long as I’ve wanted him. He was careful to never let on, you see, but by the way he performed last night…”

“Then you know what you have to do,” he said with a playful wink.

“I do?” she said bemusedly.

“Really, Rey?” Poe rolled his eyes. “If you’d like to continue your…relationship, I suggest you ask Lord Ren to make an honest woman out of you first.”

“Marriage?” she gasped.

“Is there another word for satisfying your natural urges without societal contempt?”

“But I’m nobody,” Rey asserted. “Why would Ben want to marry me?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said sternly. “Earl Johnson said you’ve been made Luke’s legal heir. If that doesn’t make you more attractive on the marital market, I don’t know what will.”

“But I don’t want him—or anyone—to fancy me simply because I may or may not be inheriting a fortune,” she frowned. “And I really do wish Finn would stop spreading that rumor around. I haven’t even discussed it with—”

Rey stopped speaking as Artoo came around to remove their dinner plates and set the table for dessert.

“Buck up, darling.” Poe pushed back his chair. “You’ve always felt a special connection with Ren, right? I’m sure he feels it too.”

“Perhaps, but where are you going,” she said sharply.

“The loo,” he laughed. “Sorry, love, but nature calls.”

Rey worried her lip. “But what if Ben approaches me while you’re gone?”

“I’m sure you can handle him, Rey. You’re no shrinking violet.”

“I know,” she snorted. “It’s just…he makes me so crazy sometimes that I want to—”

“Kiss him? Marry him? Bear his children?”

“Now that would be telling.”

——————

A/N: I’m actually kind of hoping that the title to EPIX is such a spoiler that they’re not even going to tell us what it is! I don’t know, I just think it would be super exciting to go into the movie with a little surprise dropped into the title scrawl XD Thanks for reading! Please review!

#reylo #reylo fanfic #reylo fic #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #regency au #happy Christmas in feburary #lolz #my fanfiction #my art #sushigirlali #the politics of dancing #pregnancy #reylo baby #maybe #we'll see #just tagging to be safe

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wbbing · 6 years ago

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hi everyone ! it’s ya ( new ) girl bee and i’m here to give you a little rundown of my on-fire trashcan of a son ! feel free to hit me up with any questions or ideas you might have on discord, i’m really excited to bring him up to speed in this world ! ! !

LINKS.

AESTHETIC SIDEBLOG ∕ PLAYLIST ∕ ETC.

BASICS.

Given / Birth Name : Peter Benjamin Parker Nickname / Preferred Name : Pete , Petey , Tiger , Web-head, Wall-crawler Alias(es) : Spider-man Birthdate / Age : October 12, 1990 / Twenty-eight Place of Birth : Queens, New York City, New York Current Location : Lower Manhattan, New York City, New York ( Chinatown ) Gender Identity : CIS Male Sexual / Romantic Orientation : Bisexual / Biromantic Ethnicity / Race / Cultural Heritage: Ashkenazi Jewish Marital Status : Single Occupation : Unemployed ( currently ) , inventor; research assistant, ( formerly ) photographer at the Daily Bugle, (formerly) teaching assistant, (formerly) pizza delivery boy, (formerly) wrestler Religious Beliefs : Jewish

CHARACTERISTICS.

Height : 5′11″ Weight : 167 lbs Body Type / Build : Mesomorph / long limbs and lean Eye Color : Blue Hair Color / Texture : Brown / very thick with a ( very slight ) wave Recognizable Features / Scars : Scars as a result of his work as Spider-man can be measured in the hundreds ( an accelerated healing process makes most of them barely noticeable ). Mole at the corner of his mouth. Speech Patterns / Accent : Born and raised in Queens, that much is evident in the way he speaks. Though not as harsh as some of the other neighborhoods in terms of the approach, Peter still characterizes it with his own ( relentless ) rhythm. Identified in childhood, he occasionally will stutter though has more or less aged out of it ( less... he’s aware of it and tries to avoid it as much he can ). Languages Spoken : English / Yiddish / Hebrew ( kind of... maybe... don’t quiz him ) Powers / Skills / Abilities : Spider physiology ( wall-crawling, superhuman strength / speed / agility / equilibrium / reflexes ), spider-sense. Genius-level intellect ( inventor / engineer ). Skilled photographer. Also dabbles in design / sewing / costume construction. Overall Health : Regenerative Healing and an enhanced immune system puts him in excellent health. That being said, his diet and sleep habits leave a lot to desired.

RELATIONSHIPS.

Order of Birth : Only child. Number of Siblings : 0. Father’s Status + Relationship : Richard Parker ( biological father / deceased ) ; Benjamin Parker ( surrogate father / deceased ). Peter’s father died while he was an infant though he carries the memory of his parents with him in everything he does. He is aware that they worked for the CIA ( though the actual capacity of their work has never been revealed ) but chooses to focus instead on the character that was described to him from his remaining relatives. Ben Parker, Peter’s uncle and guardian after the death of his parents, effectively raised him and remains one of the single most influential people in his life. It is his lesson in responsibility which drives Peter forward. Mother’s Status + Relationship : Mary Parker ( biological mother / deceased ); May Parker ( surrogate mother / alive ). Again, Mary is someone that Peter can not quite remember but carries with him as best he can and attempts to honor her memory as much as he is able. May on the other hand, is not only Peter’s best friend but his mentor though he has not yet made her aware of his double life. Sibling Status + Relationship : N/A Loyalty / Affiliation : No known affiliations at the moment.

PERSONALITY.

MBTI : ENFP Hobbies : Photography... and that’s about all he has time for. ( And he barely has time for that as it is ). He has been known to also be constantly upgrading / fiddling with any kind of tech he can get his hands on. Bad Habits : Never on time to anything, ( somewhat ) impulsive, self-sacrificing, chewing on his cuticles, stubborn, going days without sleep, too long without eating ( a disaster with his metabolism as it is ), fidgeting, walking away in the middle of a conversation because he gets an Idea. Three Positive Traits : Earnest - Despite spending twelve years in a mask, Peter still operates with a level of conviction and sincerity that can not be tarnished even as he frequently is stuck acting a drain stop to the increasingly growing cynicism of the world around him. His commitment to doing good is unwavering, though his approach sometimes falters. Quick-witted - Gifted with genius-level intellect, this is also evident ( much to the chagrin of foe… and sometimes friend alike ) in his quips. Peter has a quick tongue, though his humor does typically stem from his good-nature. Mostly self-deprecating, he is able to find the humor in almost every situation ( really… even when it probably doesn’t want to / shouldn’t be found ) Resourceful - A necessity ( on his budget ), Peter is inventive in both his solutions to problems as well as brainstorming the engineering of his tech. Gifted not only intellectually but physically, it is still his perseverance which sets him apart in most battles. Three Negative Traits : Guilt-ridden - A martyr complex that could rival the best of them, Peter has a habit ( from birth, according to Aunt May ) of taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. Duty-bound by what he has the potential to accomplish, this means every misstep is often taken as a personal failure. And, given his conflicting worlds, his often is faced with this reality. Consistently striving to be the best version of himself sometimes means sacrificing parts which could offer him real happiness, and ultimately work against him. Socially awkward - Though dripping with the gift of gab, this is one ability that he doesn’t always mind as carefully as, say, his strength. Not always knowing when to pull the reigns back, his motor-mouth can get ahead of him. ( Probably due to the amount of time he spends talking to himself while swinging around ). Chronic-outsider - Though Peter does have plenty of ( bordering on too much ) empathy, there is a part of him which also is prone to isolating himself. Self-sacrificing to the disadvantage of his own personal health, he is known to try and offer cover for all others whiles some impending danger presses on. He isn’t lonely, exactly. Isn’t lacking in friends or connections by a long shot, and there is certainly an amount of hubris that comes into play every time his dons the mask but Peter keeps his lives separate for a reason, and it isn’t always Moral Alignment : Neutral Good

ASSOCIATIONS.

One Song : High Hopes - P!ATD One Quote / Piece of Art : / THIS WHOLE ACCOUNT. One Fear : Failure. One Strength : Indomitable will. One Object : Web-shooters. One Place : New York. One Food : Pizza. One Scent : Aunt May’s kitchen. One Lucky Charm : Hilarious.

NOTES.

Primarily 616-based but I will incorporate all elements brought over into the plot as they were related to MCU.

Also taking inspiration from Marvel’s Spider-man on PS4 because I’m a garbage person and 2018 is the year I am finally gifted good Spider-man content.

He has been Spider-man for about 12 years now. His status has been mostly regulated to that of a street-level fighter though there have been moments where he’s been tempted to come forward towards a larger entity of enhanced heroes like himself.

He sat out of the events of CW, and rather took on the mantel of resistance when it came to revealing his identity. Peter has several reasons why he feels he can not reveal himself to the public at large and has tried to take good care of this. It hasn’t always worked.

He does still occasionally freelance for the Daily Bugle. Mostly for their online works.

Currently ( mostly ) unemployed, recently achieved his PhD.

#united task 001 #united intro

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deehollowaywrites · 6 years ago

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Every now and then, a meme in the vein of “what was the first video game you played?” travels around social media. I have a reasonably cool answer for this: GoldenEye. That is also the last video game I played, because I sucked at it, wasn’t old enough to care about James Bond, and my mother thinks to this day that video games are trash.

I note this only to provide context for my brief obsession with Twine, a free online platform for creating text-based computer games and interactive stories. You can probably guess what sorts of games I wrote in a 24-hour fugue state of thinking about nothing but the fragile web of possibilities that comprises a horse race. Frankly, when I wrapped my little math-deficient noggin around what Twine actually is, my first thought was racing. It seemed like a match made at Lane’s End. Why would anyone write an adventure game on Twine that wasn’t about the two minutes of time between gate and post? The incredible volume of minutiae undergirding Thoroughbred sport is perfect for the sorts of games Twine enthusiasts create. Every last bedeviled detail of a day at the races is up to chance, a toss of the dice, a click of the mouse. A jock switch, or a gate scratch. A horse that looks super live, but is also named after your ex. Something as minor as a rider three pounds over, or as major as a horse breaking down in the stretch. This is what makes playing horses so fascinating, such a tease; what drives people to comb over the PPs and scrape for tips and place another bet, one more, so sure that this time they’ve outwitted fortune, that the wind is theirs to kiss. It’s all very butterfly effect.

There’s no glory in a simple, silly story game. It doesn’t make me a dime, and it isn’t high art. It is not, as the saying goes, actionable.

The only beneficial remnant of my Mormonism is the belief that every member is a missionary. It’s no longer necessary to answer questions about CTR rings or gracefully decline a Coke with scripture quotations, but the method itself gets ingrained. In progressive circles you hear a lot about making the space you’re in progressive. Influencing the biome of a sport seems like small potatoes in comparison to affecting civic change, but these are differences of scale, not type--and recently, in response to major upset and tidal change, certain voices are charging participants directly to carry the sport’s water. It’s not clear to me what exactly that entails--do I wear a button that says “I love horse racing! Ask me how”? do I add NYRA to my list of concerns when I call to nag Cuomo’s office?--but I also don’t mind either way. On the one hand, no one is paying me to be racing’s hype machine, or an officer of its apologia. On the other, it gives me joy to think, talk, and most of all write about racing, and to shove it into the long-suffering eyeballs of people who became my friend because once upon a time I talked about other things. In this mode, occasionally one of them will text me and say, Hey Diana! I got a pub trivia question right because you never shut the fuck up! You’re welcome.

Small potatoes! The tiniest and humblest potatoes. At a conservative estimate, 560,500 written words’ worth of diminutive spuds. One thing that can never be overestimated is joy.

A book I adore, Station Eleven, uses as a motif the Star Trek Voyager line “survival is insufficient.” In cases of basic survival, the ends don’t justify the means: they’re the same thing. In times of famine, the body consumes muscle before burning fat. It’s tempting to look at racing’s probable future and scramble, reach for anything concrete, any proof of results, any actionable course at the expense of all else. Thoroughbreds are a marginal sport; I don’t think anyone is arguing that point (marginal is not the same as dying). Romance, one of my preferred literary vehicles, isn’t a marginal genre but neither is it overly respected. Trying to convince the average romance reader to pick up a racing title or the average horseplayer to pick up a romance is somewhere up there on the eternal hillside with Sisyphus. Pure, refined congrats-you-played-yourself bravado and pipe dreams. The Venn diagram of “nope” is a circle. But now and then, someone outside the sport does read a story. And they say something like, I don’t know anything about racing and this made me interested.

Now, I’ve never done coke but I assume the rush is similar.

The thing is, if some reader does trip further down the rabbit hole, they’re already forewarned--because those stories, they have warts. Sometimes I think people hear “racing” and “romance” and think, Well, she just wants to talk about pretty ponies and fancy hats and rich men. Would I be forgiven for this bent, if it existed, considering that the face of racing marketed to women consists of just that? Will I be forgiven for observing a wave of attractive, wholesome defense couched in lifestyle and passion and love? In our time of instant information, this type of promotion is useless, even if I understand the knee-jerk impulse behind it (beauty is the most immediate of compulsions; a thing is unlovable if it’s not above critique). But romance is political, as sport is. The public face of any field is a political choice. Whose stories are privileged and given weight, who is tasked with defending their own existence at one turn and an entire industry’s at another, it’s political.

Meanwhile, I like to think of the sport as a Google Trends display: the line on the graph marked “And Believe It Or Not, There Are Actually People Who Ride The Horses” moseying along, at a constant low ebb until 2016, where a sudden spike pops up and keeps climbing. I am here to love the things you hate. No one would have bet on me being here, and in reality the needle-shift is infinitesimal, certainly not actionable. But there’s something to be said for coming to racing not by family birthright, or particular raising, but through as solitary and collaborative a channel as research. I didn’t fall in love with a horse; I fell in love with a sport.

Too bad love is not the question at hand.

Oddly, a majority of the stories populating #IAmHorseRacing are women’s, where “women” stand in for bloodlines, families, continuance. If you’ve been paying attention, this isn’t odd at all.

#diana's writing #Urban Hayseed

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beanplague-moved · 7 years ago

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flesh and skin, chapter two.

you didn’t think it would happen,, you lacked faith. cws for: a small anxiety attack regarding phantom pains on the part of genji. it’s not super detailed, but i think it’s best to warn.

chapter one | ao3 | writing commissions | art commissions | donations.

Genji and Jesse practice an exercise in discretion. Their relationship remains quite the secret to their coworkers, and quite the mystery to themselves.

In the days since the kiss there has been a lot of sneaking around, a lot of kissing, and a lot of nights spent in each other’s rooms. Usually Jesse’s. It’s nice, being there, enjoying time with him. Such a connection is something that Genji has been poignantly lacking in recent history. This closeness is something he has grown unfamiliar with, and so the effect it has on him is fairly noticeable, at least to himself.

Genji wonders if Jesse can see it.

He falls asleep in Jesse’s room, but the daylight barely shines through the window when Jesse wakes him up with a gentle shake.

He presses a quick kiss to Genji’s lips before he explains the abrupt awakening, “Practice today, sugar,” he says. He uses pet names, and Genji is quick to find it endearing when he is certain that his past self would find it embarrassing. Sugar, darling, honey, such words are easy on Jesse’s tongue and natural in his vocabulary.

Genji is so unused to this. To this closeness, to this gentleness, to these words of affirmation. He shouldn’t get too swept up in it—such things are fleeting in nature—but they do get to him, and he has no intention of rejecting these emotions, not when they are so uncommon these days.

“You should get back to your room,” says Jesse, “We don’t want anyone to think something’s going on.”

No, they don’t want that at all. Genji can hardly picture the reaction they’d get, but there is no itch to figure it out. Still, he falters. “Maybe I could stay just a little longer,” he says.

Jesse’s eyebrow arches, “Now, Genji, you know that’s testing a limit.” He’s sitting up, his shoulder leaning against the wall the bed is pushed up against. It’s hardly more than a mattress. Blackwatch members aren’t exactly outfitted in luxury.

“How so?” There is a grin waiting on Genji’s lips. The corners of his mouth twitch, “I only want to sleep in a little bit.”

“Just sleeping in?” Jesse asks.

Genji shifts, lifting his arms to pull Jesse towards him. He kisses his lips, and then the corner of his mouth, and then his jaw.

He says, “Just sleeping in.”

Jesse says, “For one, you have terrible morning breath,” and he laughs, and Genji really does enjoy hearing that laughter. That joy. “And secondly, you sure know how to tempt a guy, huh?”

“I specialize in it,” says Genji, and he kisses Jesse’s neck, “Besides, don’t you like testing limits, sharpshooter?” He feels Jesse’s hand on his hip.

“You’ve got me there,” Jesse says, and he kisses Genji’s lips again.

Jesse and Gabriel spend the afternoon in the practice range. Genji watches. They’re mainly focusing on Jesse’s shooting.

Gabriel says, “I have never known someone whose aim gets progressively worse as time goes on, you know that?” Genji can tell that he doesn’t mean it.

Jesse hits the center of the target twice. He hits the outer ring twice. Gabriel extends an olive branch. “If you manage to break the tie I’ll let you off early today.”

Jesse looks over at Genji, who raises his eyebrows and allows a smirk to cross his face. “I wish you luck, cowboy,” says Genji. Jesse’s expression is hard to read, but something flashes over him. He smiles at Genji and turns to the target.

“I’ll take that bet, Gabe,” he says, and he twirls the gun in his hand.

“Quit playing around,” says Gabriel. Jesse quits playing around. “Showing off will get you killed on the battlefield, McCree.”

Jesse shrugs good-naturedly. He shows his teeth when he smiles. “Watch and learn, Gabe.” He glances at Genji and meets his eyes.

Genji smiles. Jesse misses the target.

Moira holds up a clipboard with a set of checkboxes and statements from Genji. He spent about ten minutes filling it out earlier.

She says, “Your report of the last few weeks indicates an increase in phantom pain. Is this accurate?” She truly does fit the part of a doctor, careful and scrutinizing.

“I wouldn’t put it down if it wasn’t,” says Genji, and Moira raises a thin eyebrow at him. He usually doesn’t say much during their sessions.

“An affirmative grunt would have worked fine,” says Moira, “There is little I can do about it aside from arrange a meeting with Dr. Ziegler, if you’d like her to talk very softly at you.”

Dr. Ziegler is kind, or she is at least of a gentler ilk than O’Deorain. Moira is familiar, but she is jagged, harsh. She has a low opinion of Ziegler.

“Or, I suppose you’d call her Angela,” says Moira, “She’s very busy with the official Overwatch business, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind making a business visit to her favorite pet project.”

Genji winces. Moira says, “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m not being rude, I’m telling the truth. She’s very fond of you,” she pauses, “I’m not. You shouldn’t prioritize any patient over another, you know. At the end of the day, they’re a responsibility.”

They are deadweight on Moira’s shoulders. They are a burden on her, and a price for the research she is allowed with Blackwatch. Genji looks at her with narrowed eyes.

“But you weren’t here to listen to me rant about the good doctor, were you?” she says, “We should get your vitals, and a blood test. We haven’t done one of those in a criminally long time.”

Genji is mostly quiet when she takes his vitals. He sucks in air through his teeth when she gives him the shot needed for his blood test.

Jesse’s room, on the bed. They listen to music and enjoy each other’s company. Jesse has an arm wrapped around Genji’s shoulders.

He asks, “What’s it like?” looking at Genji’s robotics—the space where his chest transitions from skin to metal. Genji knew this was coming.

“Painful,” he says, “I have yet to get used to it.”

Jesse nods. “You know, you aren’t different,” and he only seems to realize the curiousness of this statement—and the vagueness—after Genji gives him a look. He elaborates, “From anyone. You aren’t different from, y’know, me. Or Gabe. Or anyone.”

Genji doesn’t believe that. Genji will spend a lifetime not believing that. Still, he says, “Thank you.”

Jesse presses his lips to Genji’s temple.

Genji talks to Overwatch agents from the main division, sometimes. Today, particularly, as he has been sent to main headquarters for an appointment with Angela. Moira wasn’t lying when she said she’d set it up for him, at least.

He is unused to Overwatch, really. They’re different from Blackwatch. Less bleak, with a certain optimism that Genji has kept a certain distance from since his incident.

(Snakes. Sparrow. Song.)

Still, they are kind. They are unifying forces for good, and if Genji were not so knowledgeable of the actions behind it all—the black behind Overwatch’s white—and if he were living a different life, if he were allowed such menial pleasures, he might idolize their heroics. As it stands, he merely acknowledges them. He is fond of a few of them.

Lena is energetic and kind. Her brown eyes shine when she speaks of the latest Overwatch achievements or of her own personal life. She’s happy-go-lucky and there is this sense of hopefulness overflowing in her.

Genji appreciates that. She reflects the better parts of him, though they have faded in himself.

Reinhardt and Torbjorn are older, and they regard the world with different attitudes. Reinhardt views it with the same lens of optimism as any Overwatch operative. Heroism and glory are important to him, but they take a backseat to the safety of his team. They’re like a family to him.

(Genji is not sure if Blackwatch could ever be such a family. There is certainly a sense of camaraderie between them, but it is outlined with a knowledge of their purpose as an organisation. They are not the ones who are meant for heroism.

Still, some of them might be remembered.)

Torbjorn is objective. He takes great pride in his own creations—be they his mechanical work or his actual children—and he treats his teammates with a strict sense of friendliness. He cares for them, but he understands that this is a job. A job that they must be prepared for, should any danger come to them.

Angela is, safe to say, Genji’s favorite of the Overwatch operatives. She reminds him of better times and worse ones alike, but she is always a symbol of stability. She is kinder than his usual medic, and she regards him with such a sense of warmth that he can think of something other than the pain of his condition. He can feel like he matters for a moment.

She takes a look at his chart. She says, “Phantom pains, huh?” and there is certainly pity in her smile, which Genji doesn’t appreciate, but he understands. “We could work on exercises regarding them, if you like.”

They do.

Nearing the end of their session, Angela says, “I have to ask,” and she pauses, glancing at the chart again, “Despite this, you’ve stated that your overall mood has improved in daily life.”

Genji nods, “I’ve been getting to know my colleagues a bit more. It helps to have friends.”

Angela raises an eyebrow, and there is an inkling of suspicion on her face, but she lets a smile come to it. “It certainly does, Genji.”

Genji returns to Blackwatch HQ to discover little in the way of change. He meets Jesse in the mess hall, sitting with Gabriel.

Jesse says, “If you ever get another one of those doctor’s appointments, you have to set me up for one,” when Genji gets home. “No offense intended to O’Deorain, but she ain’t exactly the gentlest.”

Gabriel gives Jesse a warning look, much like an older brother would chastise his little sibling. Genji bristles at the familiarity.

(Bad comparison.)

“She doesn’t have to be. She’s a medic,” says Gabriel.

“All I’m saying is I’d be much more willing to get surgery from the angel than, you know,” Jesse says, “The opposite.”

“I’m not sure insinuating that one of our teammates is the devil is the best course of action,” Genji says, his tone playful. Gabriel chuckles, but he soon realizes the origin of the comment, turning to Genji curiously.

“Was that a joke?” he asks. Genji often forgets that people don’t know him for his humor here—or, well, people who aren’t Jesse.

“Oh yeah, Genji tells them all the time,” says Jesse, “A dry sense of humor, this one.”

“Huh,” says Gabriel, “I didn’t realize.”

Genji says, “That’s why the joke works. It’s unexpected.”

Jesse gives him a knowing look. Genji smiles at him.

Gabriel is changing. Gabriel is changing drastically. Gabriel is changing in a way no man ever should. Moira is orchestrating this change.

They demonstrate it during a small skirmish—a little squabble with a Talon-like company that should be easily wiped out. Gabriel becomes a shadow of a person. Gabriel steals the health of enemies. Gabriel changes.

Moira reaps some unknown benefit.

Genji sleeps in his own bed tonight—no Jesse to fool around with, unfortunately. He wakes in the middle of the night to the stinging in his arms and legs, and the pain like a heavy object on his chest.

The actual phantom pain feels bad—it feels like his whole body is on fire for a moment. It tenses and itches and eventually it trickles down, like rain filtering through the leaves of a tree—but it is followed by something worse.

The trigger for Genji’s anxiety is yet to be figured out. Angela and Moira alike are at a loss regarding it, and instead they have asked Genji to try and take notes. His surroundings during the incidents, the events preceding them. He never does. Genji cannot begin to make sense of his triggers, nor his pains.

He just feels so useless. So trapped in his own body, in his own flesh and skin. So alone in his own personal qualms, wallowing in this miserable affair he has made of himself. In this miserable affair that Overwatch has made of him. In this miserable affair that Hanzo has put upon him.

(Hanzo—Genji’s brother, a former protector, has now ascended to a point where he is neither. He is simply Hanzo Shimada, the newest heir to the empire.

And Genji is the dead sparrow on the ground beneath the nest, his body left to the soil. Genji has had his song kicked out of him, and the world has attested that it was the right decision.)

He is thinking too much.

So, like that first night, he stops thinking and he knocks on Jesse’s door. Jesse answers. He always does, he’s reliable that way.

Jesse is a shining light in bleak times such as these. He is messy and Genji’s affection for him is almost inexplicable, but it isn’t. It’s explained by every little thing—every little joke they share, every little smile Jesse brings to Genji’s face, every little bit of support he offers—it’s all very explicable. Genji almost wishes it wasn’t so, because he wouldn’t be so afraid if it weren’t.

Jesse answers, “You okay?” in his own tired voice. Genji blinks.

“I think,” he pauses, “I’d like to be near you, tonight.”

Genji rests his head on Jesse’s chest. He runs a hand over Jesse’s tattoo. A skull and chains and wings. Deadlock certainly had an aesthetic in mind.

“Tell me about you,” he says, “before Blackwatch. Before everything.”

Jesse threads his fingers through Genji’s black hair. He says, “Before everything? That’s a long time, honey,” he pauses, and there’s a certain fondness when he looks at Genji. He says, “You’re lucky I’m soft on you, you know that?”

Genji knows.

Jesse starts with, “Grew up in New Mexico, got involved in a couple of bad stunts,” and Genji can only imagine what those bad stunts consisted of. He tries to imagine a young Jesse getting caught with the wrong crowd. “I was, uh, seventeen, I think, when Gabe caught us.”

“That’s young,” says Genji.

“You know it,” says Jesse, “I was a rebel. Hopefully that’s your type.”

“It certainly is,” says Genji, “How could you ever think otherwise? Do you even know me?”

Jesse smiles, and there’s that fondness again. It seeps into his expression without warning. He returns to his story, “I guess Blackwatch made me a better kid, certainly better than I would have been with Deadlock, or on my own,” he stops, then, and he asks, “What about you?”

“Me? We were just talking about you, Jesse,” Genji says, “You aren’t the type to deflect. I am. It’s literally one of my best tactics.”

“I’m just curious,” he says. Genji indulges his curiosity.

He tries to find the best place to start. He says, “I was what you would call a playboy.”

“No,” says Jesse, with mock astonishment, “You’re telling me that Genji Shimada, heir to a million dollar crime empire, was a bit of a playboy? I can’t believe it.”

“It’s true,” Genji nods, “When I wasn’t combat training I was flirting with supermodels across the globe. It’s truly a lifestyle I had nailed down. I’m jealous of past me.” He really is, but he tries to say it in jest. Tries not to let that honesty reveal itself. Jesse mulls it over.

“I dunno,” he says, “I think I like this Genji a bit more.”

Genji raises an eyebrow, “And why is that?”

“Well,” says Jesse, “playboy Genji sounds interesting and all, but I’m not sure he’d ever give me the time of day, not with all those supermodels he’s flirting with.”

Genji laughs, “Of course he would,” he looks up at Jesse, lifting himself up and moving to be closer to his face. He presses a kiss to Jesse’s lips, “After all, rebels are his type.”

They’re tired in the morning, and they walk into practice together. They stand a convenient distance apart and act like strangers to ward away suspicion.

Gabriel says, “McCree, I need to speak to you outside,” and he leads Jesse into the hallway. Genji focuses on his practice. He manages to evade several attacks from an omnic practice bot. He has to up the simulation difficulty for it to provide any real challenge.

Practice passes without much interference. Occasionally, Genji thinks of Jesse.

While they are alone—in the dark of the hallway between their rooms, keeping cautious watch on the doors to make sure they aren’t interrupted—Jesse says, “Gabe’s picking a fight with Talon again.”

“Again?” asks Genji.

“Again,” Jesse answers, “I’m going with him to Roman facility to consult their team. Mainly Gérard.”

Gérard is an Overwatch member who remains quite the mystery to Genji. He seems nice—welcoming, even—but Genji has never had the opportunity to talk to the man for longer than a few minutes.

“Be safe,” he says.

Jesse says, “Of course I’ll be,” and he adds, “You don’t get yourself into any trouble here, okay?”

“Without you? I wouldn’t dare.”

#mcgenji #overwatch #jesse mccree #genji shimada #my writes

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100dad · 4 years ago

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HOW TO DO VEGAS KID-FRIENDLY??

HOW TO DO VEGAS KID-FRIENDLY?? 8 tips for Dads with Kids in Vegas

My first experience in Vegas was a shock to the system. I flew in around 5pm Vegas time from Florida with my wife a few days ahead of our trade convention. We wanted to get settled in and have a little fun before the trade show began. I had big hopes for Vegas and I had seen National Lampoons Vegas Vacation featuring Chevy Chase so I was ready. I went ahead and decided to book a nice dinner at Joel Robuchon the night of our arrival. At 3 hours difference, I smartly booked a 9 o’clock slot because we normally eat around 6. It was Vegas’ only 3 Michelin star restaurant and I’m a sucker for nice restaurants. There’s something about low lighting, white tablecloths, and at least 2 lips per glute cheek that I find very stately, sophisticated…. overall just an immensely enjoyable experience. Day of-- we fly in. We hail an uber and check into the Bellagio. Beautiful architecture and an oversized entry with amazing art, stores, and eye grabbing décor. Our room was normal, nice, no weird smells, nothing gross by any means. Nice view of the pool area. I assume it’s the standard room. We wander thru the main floors taking in the sights and sounds while getting our bearings on how to navigate this huge and complex network of walkways with flashing lights and the right amount of happy yelps and frustrated groans… I was tempted to play a couple hands of blackjack….if only I could find a table that had minimums under $50 a hand. I mean it is Thursday….. I would learn that the tables would never be less than $50 a hand and I just don’t care enough about gambling all that much so I abstained from those tables. It’s getting later and I’m exhausted. “I’m ready to sleep”, I tell my wife. But our reservation is in an hour we should get dressed and head over to the MGM where the restaurant is. “I don’t know why I’m so tired, its only 5 at home.” I’m going to paraphrase her response here.

“Oh wise and all-knowing amazing husband with a great body and even better mind you seem to have made an incredibly rare miscalculation. Don’t worry, I still find you smart-- you just had a lot on your mind. But the time difference goes the other way. You didn’t book us for a dinner at 6pm our time. You booked it for midnight our time. I forgive you and love you regardless!” We arrive. It's small. Very nice. Very French. We sit. We open our menus. I turn Ghost white. $500 a person was not what I was expecting. I instantly looked for a way to escape without being noticed. $1000 for food before taxes, tips, drinks….I’m not ready for that…who would be?? That seems like a poor use of funds. Besides I had only budgeted $1000 for restaurants for the week. I was expecting $2.99 all you eat buffets! I saw no such thing…. I saw $100 brunch buffets. Chevy Chase lied to me. We found a more modest $250 a plate option. It truly was an amazing culinary experience. While gut-wrenching financially it really was world-class…..I hesitate to even call it a meal because it really was more of an experience. Eventually after a few remarks about the incredibly high price of almost everything…I was directed to Fremont part of Vegas where I was told I would find the $5 a hand tables and some cheap buffets. That’s a bit more my style.

We spent a week in Vegas. Enjoyed a trade show. Met up with friends. Tried all the Gordon Ramsey restaurants. Walked all around the strip and inside all the amazing hotels with their crazy designs and world-class architecture, stores, art, and décor. The one thing I was firmly resolved in by the end of my trip was that Vegas was NOT a place to take kids. Too many naked bodies, suggestive posters, blatant advertisements, drugs, foul language, and just plain crazy people wandering around. Fast forward a couple years. We are on the 100% Dad tour. My wife lets me know family is flying in and the best location is going to be Vegas. We are going to Vegas with a 10, 8, and 5 year old. I was pretty firm in my approach that Vegas is not a place for kids. But I was willing to open my mind and figure out how to do Vegas in a way that minimizes exposure to kids and allows everyone to have a good time. We stayed in 3 places. We had a stay at Thousand Trails RV resort off the strip for a week. Nothing special about the park. That area of Vegas is on the rough side. I learned Vegas is bigger than just the strip. They have other massive casinos, not on the strip. They were promoting the cheap buffets and seemed to be the local spots. We then moved over to Circus Circus RV park on the strip. They have the only RV park on the strip. Again, nothing amazing about the RV park besides the location. We were staying in early June during a heatwave so inside an RV on black asphalt with high around 110 we were not going to stay cool in an RV. RVs can only knock the temperature down about 20 degrees off the outside temp. We had a room next door at the Hilton Grand Vacations. Here is what I liked about it for families…it was clean, the air was not smoke-filled, the layout was simple, and there were no advertisements on the walls. In a very real sense that made it a nice place for a family to stay. Nice, clean, and free from obscenities. Because it was a nicer hotel without a casino or direct access to the fun the strip hold there were fewer crazies there. They had a nice pool and a little eatery and shopping mart, which is really all a family like ours needs. Circus Circus was heavily favored by the kids. They thought it was amazing and loved the adventuredome and the midway carnival. It was built in the 1960s and shows that age in some places but they have remodeled some areas and are in the process of remodeling others. I am not a fan of smelling cigarette smoke and that was bugging me (as it did in any resort that was similar), however, the kids didn’t seem to notice, and the place was packed with families so clearly, I am in the minority. Certainly, even if you are not staying at circus circus that is a place to take your kids while in Vegas. We did a lot of exploring while in Vegas. Since the Hilton and Circus Circus are toward the end of the strip we opted to get tram passes so we didn’t have to order 2 Ubers every time we wanted to go somewhere. Especially because finding the uber pickup spot was always a less than fun adventure. We would walk from the Hilton to the Sahara Resort to pick up the Monorail and take it where we wanted to go. That gave us minimal time outside in the heatwave and a decent way to travel up and down the strip with a big group. We walked all the big nice hotels. Constantly engaging the kids in the different sites, architecture, art, and aesthetics. If we were walking by something that we felt was less than appropriate for our kids we would simply point out something else cool nearby for them to focus on. That seemed to be the good thing. We were always able to distract them because there is always something bright, big, or cool to look at. Aside from the occasional yelling crazy person, we were able to distract our way around the strip for the most part. The Bellagio fountains were really cool for kids to see. The garden immediately inside the Bellagio they liked, the worlds largest chocolate fountain was a hit, the canals inside The Venetian were impressive, the Olympic Gods inside Caesars Palace tied in

well with their recent learning of Greek Mythology, The painted ceiling that looked like outside were amazing in kids and grown-up eyes, and being inside the Wynn where Paul Blart 2 was filmed was their favorite moment. The kids liked walking the Fashion square mall and looking around. We went and visited the Pawn Stars Pawnshop. There was a fun children’s Museum. Really there are endless options off the strip of stores, museums, water parks, playgrounds, and sites. The Hoover Dam is a must. It’s a bit of a drive but worth it. Red Rock Canyon we heard great things about. We opted out of going because of the heat and the fact that we had seen many red rock canyons over the past few months so the drive time plus heat wave was not worth it for us. A lot of the shows were starting to come back. Unfortunately, cirque de solei was still closed. In our podcast with Mac from Circus Circus it was advised to see with kids specifically the mystique show because it is the iconic Vegas show. The midway in Circus Circus has a circus show every hour that is family-friendly. We wanted to see the Jabbawockeez, but they were closed too. We were able to see David Copperfield and that experience blew the kid's minds. We saw Penn and Teller in 2019 without the kids they would also be a good family show. Both acts had a little bit of cursing but other than that were clean programing. We heard the Gregory Popovich's Comedy Pet Theater was good for families as well, but we were unable to see that show either. Covid absolutely held us back in some of our options but at the same time, it was helpful because there were fewer people, some of the vulgar acts and shows were still closed so the ads were not up, and overall Vegas seemed a bit tamer compared to our previous visit. To wrap up---can you do Vegas with Kids? Yes, you can. I would stand by the reasoning that there is no real need to. There are so many places to vacation with kids I wouldn’t make Vegas one of my top destinations. For a more prudish and protective Dad like me, there are some things I like to try and shelter my kids from. Sex Shows, Sex workers, nudity, drugs, and crazy people yelling weird things on the sidewalk being among the list of things I try and shield my kids from. Although to be fair most of the big cities we have visited have had those crazy people on the sidewalks.

Here would be my tips for a Dad with Kids in Vegas. 1.) Vegas has a lot of people in it. Lots of Families. Get away from the strip and there are many many options for clean family fun.

2.) Stay off the strip after Dark. That’s when the crazies come out in full force and the booze and drugs seem to be kicking in on everyone else. We did catch the fountains at dusk. They are amazing. The lights around the city are really cool at night. Do your best to get off the strip by dark.

3.) Preplan the shows you want to see. Get tickets lined up ahead of time with showtimes that fit a kid's schedule. We choose the Copperfield 4m Saturday show because we didn’t think the kids (specifically the 5 yr old) would make it through the 7 pm show without falling asleep or getting cranky. 4.) Have family there with you. Numbers help. More eyes on your kids. Plus Mom and Dad can get away on their own while the family watches the kiddos sleep at night!

5.) Distract. Point out all the amazing things to see. Especially when you are coming up on something you don’t want them to see. Point out something else and talk about how amazing it is. There is never a shortage of other things to focus on.

6.) Pick your hotel with kids in mind. There are clean quiet simple boring options available. Pools are always a huge plus. I like big pools but I like pools I can watch my kids without losing them all the time so I can relax a bit. Some hotels will have the party pools. Some have the water parks. Some are simple nice hotel pools. Pick what will fit your family best. 7.) For Big families that plan on wandering I would get monorail passes. Uber and Lyft was a struggle to find pickup spots on the strip until we really got our bearings. Monorail requires some solid walking but getting from one side to the other was faster and easier than rideshare. Especially for big families.

8.) We talked with our kids about the city before going. It is the city of sin. It is a city that can have a lot of fun. It’s a city with amazing sites, art, and buildings. It's also a city where lives get destroyed. Gambling has ruined a lot of families. We talked about how some people will dress in almost no clothing. We talked about how some people will be using drugs because it is legal there. And how we will come across drunk people. We talked about our family values and how we felt about those things. We also talked about practicality. Stay close to mom and dad. When we call your name do not argue with us. Come right over. Stay away from people that are acting weird. Walk past those people without engaging with them. Feel free to ask any questions if you have them. We did Vegas. We had a good time. The magic shows are always amazing there. The kids were impressed by the city. I don’t think we will be back anytime soon! But it's not ruled out entirely. Big thanks to Circus Circus for putting us in touch with Mac for the podcast. He was a local Dad with a solid amount of information. While we didn’t stay inside the Circus Circus hotel we did check out the Adventuredome and Midway areas and both received high praises from all 3 of our kids. PS. More like a fun fact. In our April 2019 trip we did meet a couple while eating at a Mexican restaurant inside New York New York. We were sitting at the bar and they had recently sold their business and traveled with their kids. It ended up being the very conversation that convinced me it was in fact time to sell our businesses and pursue 100% Dad and Tour with the family. We had the thoughts before, but I was on the fence. I wish I could have remembered their names, but I remember the rest of the conversation very well and I can distinctly say the bar at Gonzalez Y Gonzalez plays an important role as facilitator to one of the biggest decisions in our lives.

#las vegas #vegasvacation #family #parenting

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a-k-a-ruenis · 7 years ago

Text

Present

Rating; General

Fandom; Aldnoah.Zero

Relationship; Slaine Troyard / Kaizuka Inaho

Series; Inaweek 2017

Story under the cut!

Alternatively, please click here to read it on my Ao3!

“You aren't very popular, are you?”

Inaho raises his head at the familiar voice, noting that it is just as teasing as it usually is, though for some reason, it feels a bit much today.

Calm pulls out a small handful of Valentine's cards and bags of assorted candies and chocolates from his pocket, gently placing them down on Inaho's desk. The candies are all brightly coloured, save the chocolates of course, and are decorated somewhat with neat, white adornments: hearts, a few childish smiley faces.. “What'd you say to the girls in class this time, Inaho?” he asks curiously, and this time he does sound genuine, though Inaho knows full well the blond is still going to tease him relentlessly.

Inaho picks up one of the smaller packages, and starts to open it slowly. “Nothing..” he says, tone even, and he pulls out the smallest piece of candy, something that resembles a cookie with a heart-shaped strawberry centre, “You do know most of these aren't homemade?”

“And that, Inaho, is exactly why you didn't get anything for Valentine's Day..” Calm points out, sighing quietly as he takes the small box from Inaho's hands, inspecting it himself. It does look to be store bought, though he is not one to actually care about that kind of thing; the girl who had given it to him, after all, is kind and sweet. “You know, in Canada, we don't make a huge deal about that kind of stuff. Most of us are just happy to get something,” he says, shaking his head a bit and gesturing for Inaho to return the cookie; he knows the other will not eat it.

Inaho does return it, placing it gently back inside its assigned compartment. He shifts his attention back to the other packages, and sets two of them aside; these two are clear bags with colourful hearts and Japanese characters pasted onto it, and the contents inside are all seemingly chocolate of varying degrees. “These two are homemade,” he says, ignoring what Calm had said before.

“Those two are from Inko and Nina,” Calm says, sighing again. “They didn't give you yours yet, because they figured it'd melt in your bag, and you don't eat sweets that often, anyway. If you come to the party tonight, they'll give it to you before you leave,” he explains, and he starts gathering up the cards and packages again, shoving them into his pocket; how they all seem to fit rather nicely comes as little surprise, given the blond is prone to wearing things with ample amounts of air to breathe and space.

“What party?”

Calm lifts his head a bit at the question, narrowing his eyes a bit. “Are you.. serious?”

“Yes. What party?”

“The.. party that the girls have been talking about all week. That party.”

Inaho pauses for a few moments, thinking, trying to recall when they had discussed such a thing. They had certainly discussed getting together and perhaps going out, to a restaurant or some other place, but.. “It was implied that we'd be having a get-together, but whether or not it was a party is debata–..”

“It's a party, now,” Calm interrupts, and he is not annoyed or bothered, just merely stating a fact before Inaho can go off explaining, which may take several minutes for him to finish. Smiling somewhat, playful again, he asks, “So? Are you coming? Yes or no?”

“.. I was planning on studying tonight for a test..–”

“Slaine's coming.”

Inaho tenses up a bit, hesitant, now.

“Wouldn't you like to see him again? Outside of university, I mean. Since he graduated, he doesn't come by the high school as often..”

“.. I'll come,” Inaho says, completely disregarding Calm's comment.

“Great. I'll tell Inko to mark you down as 'present', then.”

“You have to change.”

Glancing down at his outfit, Inaho does not see anything wrong with the way he is currently dressed. It is, after all, just his high school uniform; because he wears it often, it leads to him being mistaken for a cosplayer.. people think he is much younger than he looks. Despite his birthday having been recently, people still have trouble believing he is an eighteen year-old high school student. “Why?” he asks Inko, who is frowning somewhat as she gazes at him.

“You can't wear that to a restaurant. You have to wear something nice,” she insists.

“This is nice,” Inaho says simply, and he means it.

“It's Valentine's Day,” Inko points out, “We're taking a nice picture after dinner, please wear something suitable. Everyone's going to be wearing pink, white, and red. Match with us.”

Pink. White. Red. The standard, normal colours for Valentine's Day.

Of course.

Inaho is tempted to point out that there is white and red in his uniform, but thinks better of it when Inko crosses her arms against her chest, clearly about to shoot down whatever comment or rebuttal he attempts to make. So, instead, he says, “Look through my closet and choose something suitable, then.”

That seems to work perfectly, because the brunette grins as she strives past him, humming, “Gladly.”

The restaurant is noisy.

Well, at least, slightly noisier than Inaho is usually used to. They usually dine at the school's cafeteria, or the nearby café that serves particularly good coffee, as well as a nice spread of breakfast; they enjoy dining there whenever they have free time in the morning, before classes, though Nina sometimes insists they get dessert after dinner.

Gently pulling at his red sweater, Inaho remains quiet as he tries to get comfortable in an unfamiliar setting.

Inko kicks him from under the table, not hard, just enough to get him to look up, and she is frowning again. “You look fine,” she insists, and her violet eyes flicker between Inaho's rose red woollen sweater and the blush coloured vest under it, “Your clothes are better than Calm's, at least, which you would've had to wear if you didn't keep those ones.”

Inaho glances over at the blond, who has a sheepish grin on his lips. “Wearing bright pink would have been distracting, yes,” he mumbles, looking away from Calm after a few moments; Calm's shirt is bright enough that is casts bright, bright pink shadows, even in the dimmed lighting. He is not sure he would have even fit into Calm's clothing, much less have looked decent in it; this outfit, at least, Yuki had bought for him a few years ago for some other Valentine's event, and he does not hate it.

The girls, at least, decided to wear red and white in moderation; Inaho thanked them earlier for not wearing something painful to look at, for not wearing something unnecessarily bright.

“Inaho, you could eat the chocolate while we wait,” Nina suggests, and she looks kind of excited, green eyes aflame, “Calm liked it, even the dark chocolate ones.” They had spent many hours trying to get all the pieces correctly sized, trying to make sure they had gotten the taste exactly right, and the orange jam inside had taken a bit to perfect; they had burnt a few batches.

In other words, “Please try the chocolate we handmade for you”.

Pulling out one of the plastic bags from his sweater's pocket, he sets it on the table between them, listening to the chocolate pieces clunk quietly against the wood, and he gazes at the bag in silence for a few moments.

“It's not poisonous, Inaho. Just eat it,” Inko insists, and she has that knowing frown on her features, the one she unconsciously puts on when Inaho starts to overthink things. She has been working part time at her parent's restaurant after school whenever she is free, and intends on majoring in something Inaho recalls related to the culinary arts.. Food science, it might have been.

“What's not poisonous?”

Inaho turns his head immediately at the familiar voice, and finds himself gazing up at a familiar, stunning mixture of blue-green and white. “Slaine,” he breathes, the name caught in his throat.

Slaine smiles warmly upon meeting Inaho's eyes, holding up a hand to politely wave, “Good evening, Inaho.” The blond gently pushes on Inaho's chair, forcing him to adjust the chair, “You know, you might fall out of your chair if you keep doing that. Please face forward.”

Calm beams, leaning forward a bit in his own chair, “As expected of the future kindergarten teacher! Always worried about children's safety!”

“I'm not a child,” Inaho retorts, though he does as Slaine says, facing forward so that he does not end up tipping the chair over; such a thing, in a public place – in front of Slaine – may have consequences.

“So? What's not poisoned?” Slaine asks curiously, slowly pulling out the chair beside Inaho's own so that he can sit himself down. His gaze flickers to the small plastic bag full of chocolates and Inaho's face, a curious look in his eyes, “Oh, the chocolates? They're not poisoned. Inko and Nina outdid themselves; mine were white chocolate with blueberries inside. I'm going to have to return the favour when White Day comes.” At that, he shifts his attention to the two girls, and he has that warm smile on again, the one that makes Inaho's heart catch.

“I didn't know you could cook,” Inaho finds himself saying, the words coming out before he can properly formulate a response to the new information.

Slaine looks at him again, a pleasantly surprised look on his features, “Of course I can cook. I have to make meals on my own, since papa's out often doing scientific research.”

Ah. That makes sense.

“Slaine, didn't you say you had something for Inaho's birthday, since you've been busy with university this week?” Calm asks, but from his tone, it seems as if he already knows the answer.

“I do, but it's for after dinner. And I don't think it'd be kind to present Inaho with a gift when Yuki isn't here.”

Inaho finds himself intrigued.

Slaine only became a student at their school two years ago, and he graduated last year, is now attending a university that is close enough for them all to still be together, but his classes and extracurricular activities leave almost no room for free time. He helps a preschool teacher with classes, most days after his own.

The blond only offers Inaho a smile when they catch each other's gaze, and Inaho swears his face feels hot all of a sudden.

“Here, Nao! Say 'ahh'!”

Inaho feels the tips of his ears burning, lit aflame by some kind of voice in his head telling him that this is not how to properly behave in a rather nice restaurant; no doubt, if his friends had any shame, they would notice people shooting them odd looks from how energetic and rowdy they currently are.

“Please stop taking odd pictures, Inko,” Inaho mumbles, frowning slightly at his sister, who is leaning a bit over the table to try and give him some kind of mushroom soup.. it has a rather odd look to it, the soup itself a greyish colour, and it seems to be full of chopped mushrooms and bits of potato and nothing else. Still, he indulges his sister, allowing her to spoon feed him the morsel without any complaint.

Slaine laughs beside him, laughs for what seems to be the hundredth time tonight, and he is again hiding that smile of his with one of his hands; he has always seemed rather reluctant to laugh around people. Last year, Calm had accidentally made him cry from one joke too much, though he had been laughing at first – Inaho later learnt that that particular occasion was the first time Slaine had been able to laugh like that in a very, very long time.

“.. you shouldn't hide your smile,” Inaho says after a moment, and Slaine looks shocked for a moment, eyes wide –

A soft snap cuts him off, the sound of the shutter on Inko's camera.

Inaho blinks a few times, trying to get the bright white out of his eyes, and when he opens them again, he finds Slaine doing the same, looking a bit owlish as he struggles to clear his vision. He remains quiet for a few moments before shifting his gaze to Inko, who is beaming at him, as if she had done the most wonderful thing. “Are these many pictures necessary?” he questions, wondering just what she intends to do with all of the photos; it is almost certain that she will get each and every one of them developed, but what happens to them afterward is anyone's guess.

“Of course,” Inko says simply, leaving it at that.

“I think she said earlier, she wanted lots of pictures of you being 'in the moment', or something,” Calm offers, and that is a slightly better explanation and reason than Inko's simple response. Another of those sheepish grins rests on his lips, and Inaho cannot figure out why tonight seems to have everyone acting a bit differently than normal.

Valentine's has never really been a sort of special event for them, it was just a slightly busier day than normal, with everyone giving gifts to everyone else, giving out cards and candies and chocolates. Sometimes, they do go out, though it is usually to just get ice cream or crepes at some nearby café, whatever they feel like doing, that day.

But today, they are acting odd. Even Slaine, who is not talkative, but talks, has yet to bring up a topic of interest or anything about what he is doing in his classes.

Nina is first to break the awkward silence, with the gentle, low tapping of her chopsticks against her plate. “Well.. it's.. always nice to have pictures when the photo is in real-time,” she says quietly, managing a tiny, secretive smile, “You know, when the subjects in the photo look as if they're living 'in the present'.. And we don't have many photos of you.. so Inko said she wanted to take a lot today, so that we could all look at them together in the future..” Her explanation ends with her trailing off, voice going lower and lower until she finally shifts her gaze toward Slaine, who ducks his head.

Inaho's gaze flickers between the two, and her explanation warrants a question: “Is today special?”

She had made it sound as if something was going to happen today, that there would be a reason for them to look back on today.

The sudden, blunt question causes Inko to lower her phone, and Nina tightens her grip on the chopsticks – if they were not made of metal, she may have snapped them in surprise. Calm swallows quietly, swallows what sounds to be a hard ball of nerves, and Yuki only shifts in her seat.

Slaine remains silent beside him, extending the awkward tension before he finally moves, pulling something out of the pocket on his pink sweater. “Here,” he mumbles, and he places the something on the table in the space between them, “I.. told you we should have waited until after dinner. Sweets ruin the appetite, and this was.. supposed to be.. more romantic..”

He sounds annoyed, almost, and it seems that Inaho's question had ruined whatever plans they had all made in an attempt to surprise him. He sounds annoyed, but he is also speaking the way he used to; softly, so, so softly, in that slow, careful manner that had Inaho wondering if perhaps Slaine just did not know what words to pick.

Inaho shifts his gaze to whatever it was Slaine had hidden in his pocket, and blinks upon seeing that it is merely a small, cardboard box with pink construction paper glued on its sides. “What is this?” he questions, picking it up and inspecting it – he almost flips it over when Slaine gently grabs his hand, stopping him, and he notices the pink blush dusting his cheeks. “Oh,” he breathes, “You..”

“I.. know I didn't get you a birthday present, and I couldn't attend the party, so.. Inko said she would plan out tonight, so that I could..” Slaine releases Inaho's hand after righting him, and he starts to pull at his hair, gaze slipping, “And.. and I didn't have very much time to make you something proper, so I stuck with dark chocolate and custard filling..” The annoyance is gone, now, replaced with his old shyness, and he seems to be having trouble meeting Inaho's eyes, again.

“This is my present?”

“It's – it's part of it,” Slaine admits, and Calm snickers quietly behind his hand. Ignoring the outburst, he continues, and the tips of his pale fingers start to turn red as he applies a bit more pressure to the small tuft of hair in his grasp, “The other part.. is, erm.. it's a question.”

“Go ahead.”

Going quiet, Slaine chews on his bottom lip, seeming hesitant to ask whatever it is he intends on asking. A quiet thud causes him to tense up, and he looks to Inko afterward, startled.

“Ask him!” Inko whispers, holding up her phone. The lens is still off, shutter ready to snap another photo at any given moment, and her violet eyes have that excited look in them.

“Ask him, Slaine. Nao's not going to bite,” Yuki prompts, and she, too, has that excited look in her eyes, excited and bright and expectant.

Slaine manages a tiny nod, cheeks still dusted pink, and asks in the softest voice Inaho has heard him use, “Will you go out with me?”

“You'd.. like to be my lover?” Inaho questions, “That's your present?” Setting the cardboard box back down on the table, he starts to open it as he waits for Slaine's response, wanting things to be perfectly clear before he gives him a proper answer; just one date will not suffice, if that is what Slaine intends.

Slaine nods again, and he still looks kind of shy, “I've.. been trying to figure out.. how to ask you, since last year..”

Since last year. Inaho allows the comment to repeat in his head, and his heart skips a few beats, body and mind trying to figure out how he had not picked up on that sooner; perhaps he was too busy wondering himself, how to properly ask out the boy he had only known for two years. “Yes,” he says after a moment, and Slaine looks relieved, finally allowing his hand to slip to his lap, “I'll accept your present. Thank you, Slaine.”

They hear a quiet snap again, and Inaho turns his head a bit to meet Inko's gaze, her eyes practically aflame with joy. “I'll print all these out and Nina and I will put them in a scrapbook,” she says, and the excitement is clear in her voice, still clear in her eyes, “That way, you can have chocolate and a reminder of this day as your present, Inaho.”

“Happy Valentine's Day, Nao,” Yuki hums, elated with how things had turned out, even if they had not gone exactly to plan, “You look happy.”

“You're smiling, Inaho,” Calm points out, and Inaho brings his fingers to his mouth, feeling the slight curve that affirms the blond's statement.

“.. happy birthday, Inaho,” Slaine murmurs, and he is smiling, too, happy as he gazes at the brunet at his side, “And happy Valentine's. I'm.. glad you accepted your present.”

“Of course,” Inaho says, nodding somewhat, “I'll be sure to treasure them both.”

#aldnoah.zero #orangebat #inasure #slaine troyard #kaizuka inaho #fanfiction #ruenis' work

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lalka-laski · 4 years ago

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Do you or have you ever owned a cup with your name on it? I’m sure I did at some point as a kid

What’s the most expensive crafts tool that you own? All of my craft supplies are relatively cheap. The biggest waste of money though was the laminator I bought on a whim. I’ve had NO use for it since lol. Oh well.

Have you ever woven baskets of any kind (wicker, paper, cardboard etc.)? I think I did some kind of basket making class at the library when I was little? I did all kinds of arts and crafts classes.

How do you like Great Balls of Fire by Jerry Lee Lewis? It’s fine I guess?

Speaking of Jerry Lee Lewis, have you seen the biopic about him? Nope

How about the biopic about Tina Turner? Also no

Do you like the TV-show Frasier? I don’t think I’ve seen a single episode

What’s something you know by heart? Every Killers song known to man

What is something you’re greedy about? I’m great at sharing.... actually to the point that I could stand to be a little more possessive and protective of myself and my belongings. I think it stems from being the middle child in a house full of girls. NOTHING was solely mine, and everything had to be shared between us. How valuable does a coin have to be for you to bother to pick it up? I always pick up dimes ‘cause they’re messages from Heaven

What would be something you would wait in line to get for free? Pizza

Has there ever been a leak anywhere in your house? Uh yeah I guess?

Have you ever slipped in the shower? Surprisingly no!

Have you ever made any decorative crafts? If so, are they displayed? Mhm, quite a lot of stuff! I wish I crafted more often though.

Is it very humid where you are right now? Lol no, although it is unseasonably warm for February in Rochester. And by that I mean it’s like 35 degrees. HEATWAVE!

Do you have friends who you playfully flirt with? Nah

Doesn’t the Z in the Bzoink logo look like an L to you, too? What in the world?

Did you ever take that 5000 question survey that was circulating Tumblr? No, although I’ve seen it here and there.

Have you ever had to change a zipper in your favorite article of clothing? Oh no, that’s way too tricky!

Do you prefer buttons or zippers in general? Zippers I guess

Did your grandma have a box full of pretty buttons? Oh yes!

What’s the most exotic spice in your spice rack? Ha, I’m as white as it gets so none of my spices could really be considered ~exotic. That’s kind of a troublesome term anyways, is it not?

Do buttons tempt you to press them? Ha, sometimes.

Do you have a favorite television host? Anderson Cooper

What’s your opinion on celebrity chefs? I love me some Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay. Oh, and my girl Ina Garten!

Back when it first started, did you watch ANTM? Oh bitch I LIVED FOR THAT SHOW.

Did you know, that there was even a Finnish version of ANTM? I’m sure there were several international spinoffs.

Are you accident prone? It’s my middle name.

Have you ever broken something really valuable? Oh yes, quite often growing up.

What is something that you own, that has sentimental value? I’m a huge sap so almost everything I own has some kind of sentimental significance to me.

Have you ever had your own website? Oh yes What’s something that you finished recently? A whole freakin pot of coffee. And then I wonder why I don’t feel good...

What’s the smallest town you recall visiting? The town my grandparents grew up in

What’s the longest distance you’ve had to go to work or school? My first college was roughly an hour away, but I lived on campus so I wasn’t commuting.

Would you learn a new language, if you didn’t share one with your lover? Well that’s a moot point now

Do you have friends who are constantly tagging you in challenges on FB? Nah not really

When it comes to chocolate, do you prefer nougat, jelly or caramel filling? Caramel! Although solid chocolate is my preference.

Are you more concerned about winning than just participating? Nah, I’m not competitive and I don’t have much of a drive to win.

Has somebody you know taken their own life? Yes

Do you prefer onions, leeks or chives? Chives!

What’s the most adult thing you have to do every day? Go to work, I suppose. But I half-ass all my responsibilities and that’s not very “adult” of me.

What’s the most immature thing you like to do every day? Everything?

Have you seen the movie, Clue? If so, isn’t it fab? I actually don’t think so

Do your cheeks get flushed easily? Oh lord YES!

Are there any social cues you miss entirely? I like to think I understand social cues and norms pretty well. Certainly a lot better than some people I know... *cough cough* MY FIANCE

When someone doesn’t smile back at you, what’s your first thought? THEY HATE ME AND I’M THE WORST PERSON ON THE PLANET

Is there a person who melts your heart just by looking at you? Glenn

Have you ever had tom kha kai? No clue what that is

Have you, or anyone you know ever been rude to a server? I have not, and I absolutely don’t associate with people who are. Eat shit.

What’s something you’re opinionated and very vocal about? Plenty of social justice issues. Oh, and the very hill I will die on: MOE’S > CHIPOTLE. DO NOT @ ME ^When’s the last time you had to verbally defend your stance? Ha, thankfully I don’t associate with such low-lifes :P

Have you ever played BitLife? Nope

What’s something you regularly order online? Books, and all sorts of random odds & ends that I don’t need but can’t resist

Do you often make friends online? I did back in my teenage years, although they all remained exclusively online friends. We never met in person.

Do people ever try to get something from somebody through you? Wait what?

What do you think when you see a couple holding hands? Generally I think it’s cute. And I’m in no place to judge or comment on another couple’s PDA because me & Glenn are obnoxious lol

Is there anything you’re forced to share with someone else? Well as I said earlier in the survey, I grew up forced to share everything with my siblings.

What’s something stripy that you own? I think I have a striped shirt, and that’s about it. Oh, maybe some socks?

How about something polka dotted? Again, socks.

What is something you find absolutely appalling? Saliva

Do you like elevators? I don’t dislike them

What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I say “midnight madness”? I’m blanking

When you’re angry, does it ever get physical? No never. Well, maybe I’ll punch a pillow or something just to relieve my aggression but that’s it.

What do you do, when you’re immensely happy? Squeal!

What made you scream out loud the last time you screamed? Who knows, I’m always getting scared and startled by shit, so it could’ve been anything!

Can you hear your neighbors through the wall? Yes, our downstairs neighbor and his lady friend have very entertaining arguments. Glenn & I literally lay on the floor to listen because we’re just that immature and bored. (To be clear: the fights are never actually serious!)

What is something that frustrates you to no end? My own anxiety, my lack of drive, my clumsiness and absent-mindedness...

Do you wear shoes indoors? I hardly even wear shoes OUTDOORS.

Who is your favorite stand-up comedian? Jim Gaffigan is one of my faves. Though I give almost any stand-up special a shot. What’s the weirdest video YouTube has suggested to you? Oh I don’t even know where to begin

Is there a drink that just goes right through you? Coffee!

Is there a food item you can’t eat because it doesn’t agree with you? It’s not so much the types of foods I eat but the AMOUNT I eat of them. Restraint just isn’t in my vocab.

Do you playfully compete with someone about something? Nah, not really.

Would you rather swim or run? Swim

Do you like the smell of tar? Actually yeah. It’s one of those distinct summer scents!

Have you ever been to a sauna? Yes, although I can only handle a minute or two. They are not for me!

Does your doorbell ring unexpectedly often? Never

Is your favorite fictional character a human, an animal or something else? Humans

Have you ever helped a stranger? If so, what did you do? Of course, in many ways. Random acts of kindness make the world go ‘round, people!!

Do you share hobbies with any of your friends? What do you do together? Reading, writing, listening to music, crafting, etc etc.

Do you have any flags on display? If so, what flag(s)? Nope

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easyfoodnetwork · 5 years ago

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The Exhausting Work of Staycationing

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March.

Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk.

We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it.

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper.

You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian.

This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic.

We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible.

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off?

Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg.

Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it.

I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday.

And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break.

But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully.

It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting.

Watching Twister in the backyard

When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house.

I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded.

We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise.

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair.

I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water.

And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets.

We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end.

Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that?

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When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Watching Twister in the backyard

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

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