#to feel like I don't belong in the community

[blackstar-liveblogs]

tr!Krow and tr!Scott's Parallels

(And from here I'm talking purely about characters when I don't use tr! I'll put cc! when I refer to the CCs behind the characters in question).

What I noticed and want to write down here, I would consider both a recent development and something that has very slowly been building up. The recent part would be the fact that these patterns have been more noticeable, specially after experiencing the last Realm streams from both POVs back to back as of writing this post.

Read more cuz the post it's a bit long.

-

The most clear trait that both these characters share is their strong stand against wars, conflict and themselves killing.

Scott got a war threat thrown at him and his faction, and his solutions heavily involved the idea of running away far from the danger and taking measures to live peacefully. Never ever it crossed his mind the idea to fight.

He doesn't want to fight nor to kill, he states that often. There's no point in trying to be a warrior again, he said. 'Clearly it didn't work out.'

Scott is so opposed to conflict that he has the intention to offer a peaceful solution to faction's issues with his Retreat. Which he is building right outside of factions territory.

Krow heard about the war and it's response was to hide. She doesn't want to participate in wars and even considered the possibility that he could have started one before, if it ever was strong enough to end up with those stories the Keepers mentioned and with a snail that consumed her.

It doesn't want to fight, nor to kill anyone. When the faction quests forced her hand, he hated it. It wanted to have friends and be accepted, not to have a fate similar to Pili1.

It's so opposed to conflict that she considers it pointless. He stole the Kingdom's bell to stop it and redirect it to somewhere else. In fear of the potential war, it's building a Commune to offer people affected by faction conflicts a place to live and stay, where the faction you belong to doesn't matter and you can be safe and live peacefully away from it all. Which she's building right outside of factions territory.

-

Scott struggles with forming genuine and meaningful connections. He is getting slowly attached to his factionmates, specially Aimsey and CPK. But there's an invisible barrier caused by his loss of sense of care, which is a consequence of his amnesia, that stops him from forming those friendships in ways that could help him rediscover himself. Like, so far the two people who hang out with him the most hear everytime he brings up what happened to him and they go ''sounds crazy, buddy'' and move on, as they have other matters to trouble themselves with.

Scott has been needing help to relearn how the world works and many concepts of morality since a long time ago, but he hasn't had the required patience, empathy nor appropiate exposure from anyone. By witnessing all the violence with no guidance how to process it, he has grown uncaring to it, forced to accept it as normal, to the point that he didn't understand why were people grieving one of the many deaths they caused, in his eyes, and didn't get the consequences that could happen by dying and respawning, the 'why it could be so bad' or what was the difference between the before and after death on the Realm.

All of these factors culminate in an experience that looks and feels with companionship on the outside, but deeper, these emotional walls exist, and result in what it's truly a lonely existence disguised as 'the one person who is friendly to everyone and has friends in Blue'... but without any potential help from his factionmates on his specific matter nor from any friend outside of his faction that could possibly see and understand this lack of guidance and reassurance.

You do have to consider, the one time he openly had a breakdown/crash out, he went to different people for any sense of comfort, but nobody stuck around. Busying themselves with other people who they perceived needed their presences more. This is exactly how we ended up with him venting to Therapy Dog. A full display of how his lack of meaningful connections got to the point that his only option left during a very vulnerable moment was a literal dog on the street.

Krow started in Red faction and stuck around for a good while. From the start, it always wanted to be able to be friends with people and be accepted. A place to belong.

That place was thought to be her faction, but ever since Pili1 died, the faction slowly died as well. He witnessed how less and less Red members were around, and then, it was forced to kill, something she really didn't want to do, so both him and Sausage could survive the weekly quest.

Because of being from Red, Krow kept being rejected, specially from Yellow members. Blue members treated it nice, but only found a good friendship with Aimsey, and even then, sometimes that connection faced challenges everytime Ros was involved, who costantly treated her horribly. He struggles with forming meaningful relationships still to this day.

It crashed down once Sausage betrayed Red and switched his alligeances to Yellow. Krow felt outraged, that she threw away his own morals so Sausage would live and not have to kill, and this was his way of being thankful? He exploded part of his house and felt more alone than ever, that it lost everything...

Pangi gave her a house to stay at and later Krow joined Green. Another chance to belong somewhere and have friends. Except when Green started the threat of wars, that possible connection vanished. There's a separation between Krow and it's current faction's morals and mindsets.

Constantly, Krow has tried to be included within the faction despite that, but last attempt was so sad to watch. At every turn, even surrounded by people around, it felt so incredibly lonely the entire time and that terrible feeling of not fitting in...

So she returns to the Commune, alone.

-

Yet, with all their statements and peaceful approaches to the chaos around them...

Scott wished for no death last event.

Krow felt no sympathy for Ros' death.

Scott said he didn't want to fight. He did anyway, for the first time ever since the snail boss, as if it was instinct.

Krow kept judging the factions for their constant conflicts and reasonings.

Scott was about to give up when he perceived his efforts as useless. And still, he acted protective around the people who also stepped back, weapon out and ready.

Krow wandered the world alone once more the majority of the time. It felt lonely again.

Scott sounded disappointed that, despite all odds, Owen was still killed during the fight. He was the only one bothered to save his stuff to return it to him.

Krow sounded disappointed that people were treating Bad as the villain, when Ros literally asked for him to kill her.

Scott saw another attack and death, and decided he was done with everyone and headed out.

Krow considered yet another conflict between factions and Ros' death uninteresting, it was done with everyone and headed out.

They both referenced what happened to them regarding Project S.N.A.I.L multiple times. No one stuck around to help or kept the topic to just talk out their feelings and thoughts about that. It's perceived as if it's not a big deal.

When what happened to them it is horrible and a big deal, in my honest opinion.

Brought to a Realm out of their own will, two of the First Four, fought for a cause they didn't ask for, and as repayment for their efforts, they got snails that consumed them and made them forget entire lifetimes and themselves.

Their reactions to wars, killing and conflicts are so strong and dead set, that I genuinely believe that there is an underlying trauma there none of them had any chance to dig out of there and process.

To top it all off, Krow said that it wished to have someone to talk about all this chaos, ''but there's no one who shares the way I think about no conflicts.'' (Very paraphrased).

And I wanted to scream.

Because there is someone.

There is someone who shared a past with you.

There is someone who likely has the same traumas as you.

There is someone who needs anyone who would understand him regarding this past, as much as you also do.

There is someone who thinks the same things you do.

There is someone that could make you both less lonely with each other.

And that someone usually sleeps at the Teal Titan's roof.

[mongoosingisme]

Okay hear me out, what about Shane and the farmer having a rocky relationship, where the farmer instantly liked Shane because of his dry humor and saw past his mean act. So farmer keeps pushing Shane to open up and (very much against his will) he starts catching feelings for the farmer, and starts avoiding her (them?) out of wanting to avoid the whole feelings situation. So farmer confronts Shane and they have a huge ‘hey I’m into you idiot’ moment where Shane just gives in

(Pictured it very intense and definitely smutty but if can be sfw if you want, just dropping the idea and leaving. K bye!)

Hi Friend. Thank you so much for your patience <3 Been saving this for the right moment, and the time has finally come.

So I've been ripping my hair out the past few weeks trying to wrap this Shane series up in an emotionally satisfying way. Turns out the reason I couldn't get it to work was because we needed to hear from our farmer.

So that's what this is. Turns out our farmer has a lot to say. Sorry about that. Been tooling around with it for a bit, and have gotten to a point where I just kind of need to kick it out of the nest to keep momentum going.

To anyone who has been following this thing: thank you. I love how collaborative its been. I'm not sure if I want to wrap things up in one more fic or keep it rolling. I could probably keep it rolling if there was interest. So... let me know!

Okay. That's far too much housekeeping. Thanks for bearing with me.

Title: Einmal ist Keinmal

Series: Pepper Problems (see parts one, two, and three)

Pairing: Shane x fem!reader

Word Count: 5250 (whoops)

Rating: Explicit. 18+ only, if you would be so kind.

Tags and fic below the cut.

Tags: kissing, workplace shenanigans, vaginal fingering, dirty talk

This fic is part four of a series - start at part one here!

When the farmer was in high school she'd taken a German class. She'd forgotten almost everything she learned, but one phrase stuck in her head:

Einmal ist keinmal

Once is never.

It meant that value was found in repetition. 

If you planted a seed and only watered it once, you may as well have not planted it at all.

If you cast your line into the water and gave up the first time you pulled it back empty, could you really say you had gone fishing?

If you moved to a new town, started a new life, and only made an effort to ingratiate yourself once, have you really established yourself? Have you really earned your place?

It didn't feel that way. 

Starting over is a privilege. The farmer knew this, and she tried not to take it for granted.

It echoed in her mind, a quiet anxiety as she cleared the land, planted the seeds, built the barn, fed the dog, stretched her aching muscles. It was a privilege to be here, where it was quiet and safe. A privilege to be tucked in the valley, where words like “war” and “extremism” and “conspiracy” and “economy” carried so little weight in the day to day. It was a privilege to be here, and privileges could be taken away. 

It was hard to explain, the feeling that dogged her. The suspicion that this was all temporary. Life didn't work like this. You don't get to just pack up and leave a place that doesn't fit you, move to somewhere lush and quiet and green, build a new life that molds itself to your shape. That's not how life works. Life was rough and jagged and real, and if she wasn't very, very careful it'd swallow her back up again, and this thing she was building out here on her farm would be snatched away. 

The farmer wanted to be where she was, so she tried.

Tried to farm well.

Tried to be capable.

Tried to be a member of her new community, to be someone worth knowing. If she could root herself here, she felt, then eventually she'd belong, and what was a privilege would become her right. 

At least, that's how it felt.

So she started going into town more in the summer. Crops planted, watered by sprinklers. Cows and chickens big enough. The dog all comfortable and lazy under a tree. She could fill her bag with gifts, try to find a stabilizing presence in the other people in the valley.

She met her neighbors slowly at first, committing names to memory. Lewis. Robin. Pierre. Willy. Clint. Emily. They were all different in interests and attitudes, yet they all bore a sameness too. Getting to know them was easy. She listened and she spoke. She learned what people liked. She gave gifts. She smiled, big and wild and unrestrained. She tried to be exactly what they needed.

Talking to her neighbors made the farmer feel like she was running her hand over a well worn banister. Wood lustrous and smooth, beautiful to look at but offering no resistance, no way to find a steadying grip. Interactions felt like taking a huge step up, leaving the plane she usually walked on to join them at a higher point. It was nice up there where they were, sunny and warm and simple. Conversations about the weather, about wood and ore and the sea. There was a settledness about them she envied.

She never felt like she fully connected with that, though Yoba knows she tried. Tried to keep it light and sunny, just like all of them. Tried to be giving. It never felt like it was enough, though, for her to feel like she could stay. Like her roots had sunk deep enough to steady her. Instead, she felt shaky and uncertain, like all it would take was one good push and everything in her new life would fall away.

And that sensation, that moving up to where they were, left an ache in her. A strain in her legs, a stretch in her thigh, a burning under her hips. It was work, to get to know them. It was giving. But it needed to be done. This was their town, and even if it made her feel strange and fuzzy and off-kilter she needed to pay her dues. It was a privilege to start over, she knew, and such privileges needed to be paid for.

—————

The first time the man in the bar made eye contact with her she felt as though she’d miscounted the steps while climbing the stairs. Stepping up, expecting something solid to catch you, but instead stumbling forward with a lurch and a swoop in your stomach.

His eyes were green, bracketed by dark circles and heavy brows. He stared at her directly, like he existed on the same plane that she did. Like she didn’t need to step up to be seen by him. Like she didn’t need to earn her place.

It made her stumble over her conversation with Elliott, but she recovered quickly. Later she asked Emily what the man’s name was, if there was anything he liked. “Peppers” was the answer, though Emily had a strange look on her face when she said it.

Peppers. The farmer could do peppers. Had them planted already. It was easy to pack them in a clear plastic bag and present them to the man the next night. It was freeing, how little strain was involved with the approach. Walking across flat ground instead of climbing a mountain. There was more air in her lungs than usual as she presented her gift.

He rejected it rudely, coarsely, with a level of venom that nearly sent her reeling.

In that one short interaction he’d thrown back the curtains on her life in the valley.

It was a privilege to be here. It was safe to be here. It was warm and it was supportive and the people were nice and would love to get to know her. She could live her life here in quiet contentment, soft and blurry and sheltered from the sharp edges of the world. Sheltered, yes, but always unrooted. Always a breath away from losing it all.

Or, if she wanted, she could feel something that was sharp and true. She could run her hand over raw wood, draw it back to find it filled with cuts and splinters. Feel pain, yes, but also feel real, like she had wandered into a place that was actually her life, not a dream that would someday be taken away.

It was a privilege to choose. And if it was a choice between rough and smooth, reality and illusion, ephemeral or permanent, the farmer wanted something real.

And the man at the bar? He was as real as it got.

————

All that being said, his rejection still galled her. There were rules here, she thought. You gave your attention and your gifts, and you were welcomed into the fold in return.

The man - Shane - broke the rules. 

She wanted to do that too. Wondered if there might be a release in it.

And he kept doing it, kept rebuffing her. 

But here's the thing: Einmal ist keinmal.

Once is never.

If you only approached the person who fascinated you once, how could you say you met him? How could you shake the feeling that you needed to know him? 

She had to keep trying. 

Each time she approached he’d reject her, looking away, jaw twisting, clenching at his drink. 

But each time she approached he’d hold her gaze a little longer.

Each time she approached it all felt real for a little more time.

Until finally she bought him a beer.

She pressed.

What did he need? Nothing from her.

It felt like a weight lifted, and her body responded in relief. Drooping over the bar, mind emptying, relaxing into the understanding that there was nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to earn. Nothing to give and nothing that could be taken away. Since the first time she moved to the valley that nameless anxiety lifted. She was okay. She was here, and could keep being here. All she needed to do was just be.

It was nice.

It was really, really fucking nice.

The farmer began to realize that she couldn't let this go.

——————

There was a lot to like about Shane, once the farmer got past his jagged exterior.

His voice - rough but warm, a slight slur softening his diction as the nights wore on. 

His humor - so dry it was almost corrosive, dark and biting and unexpected, making her laugh in a way she hadn’t since she’d moved. Longer, probably, and it kept her returning night after night.

His laugh - quiet at first, almost swallowed. The surprised look that accompanied it, almost like he didn’t recognize it as his own.

His outlook - dark and real. Like he saw the world like she did. Like he was responding to life in a reasonable way. Like he didn’t quite fit into the bucolic haze around him, just like her. 

His hands - broad, calloused, thick fingers wrapping around his glass, bringing it up to his mouth. Another thing she liked about him, his mouth, lips fuller than you’d think, expressive beneath his stubble once he got talking.

And fine, yes, she absolutely thought about what it’d be like to be touched by those hands, how they’d feel on her, all strong and rough and demanding, and what his mouth would feel like if they kissed. She doubted there’d be much finesse to it, all tongue and teeth and overwhelming and perfect.

And maybe she thought about what he’d say to her in that rough voice too, his teeth nipping at her ear, one of those broad hands spanning her throat and…

Yeah. She was into it, whatever it was he was giving. That balance of vulnerability and detachment. The way he'd slowly soften over the night. The way he'd look at her out of the corner of his eye, forehead resting on the palm of his hand, all tired and disheveled and broken and raw. 

She thought he was hot. Fucking sue her or whatever.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t into her too. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, staring at her whenever she thought he wasn't looking. She could feel it, when she was leaning against the bar talking to Emily. Would play into it, even, a part of her enjoying how it felt to have an impact. 

Or when she was talking to someone else. She'd feel it, invisible daggers prickling her neck, though she never caught his stare. 

Emily would roll her eyes about it later. “I swear at one point he had social skills,” she said. 

The farmer had shrugged. “Social skills are overrated.”

“You’re good for him.” Emily had stopped wiping the counter to look the farmer in the eyes. “I haven’t seen his aura so green since we were kids.”

It was the kind of thing Emily said, all auras and crystals and stuff. The farmer usually just rolled with it, nodded along, but for once she wondered if she might know exactly what Emily meant. Because she could see it in herself too. Not green but a rich brown, tendrils reaching out, roots seeking solid ground. A place to latch in, to settle and grow. Something that was real, even if it was only for a day.

———————-

Einmal ist keinmal.

Once is never.

But what if… what if the man you’d been drinking with the last few months, the surly one who’d softened over time, who made you laugh, who made you feel real, who became the person you could trust to check in on your chickens while you were away… if that person pushed you up against your couch, ripped open your tights, and ate you out so thoroughly you were still feeling it days later…

If it was only once, was he still anything more than a drinking buddy?

Shane didn’t seem to think so, shutting down any chance of conversation with such a firm dismissal it was hard for the farmer not to feel it in her gut.

But what else was there to do but keep going? To keep sitting next to him at the saloon night after night? To watch him drink, watch him frown, watch him look at her with bleary eyes? What else was there to do but keep trying to crack him open, like the roots of a tree around a rock? 

Einmal ist keinmal.

But if you keep trying you can get somewhere. Get in deeper, let your roots find something to drink from. And that’s what it felt like when he finally opened up. Like she was being nourished. 

Because he felt the same way she did. He felt the weight of the future. He was tensed against what might be, about what could be taken away. 

But still, he could make her laugh, and she could make his eyes go bright and clear, and it was good, it was more than good, what she felt towards him was so much more than good, and he made it possible to feel like the life she was living was one she would get to keep.

——————

Shane started to laugh less as summer grew close.

The farmer wasn’t sure why.

And she wasn’t sure why she was the one to find him passed out in his bedroom.

And she hated the way it made him avoid her eyes after.

But she could play it cool. They were still buddies, right? She could tease him, tell him about her day.

She could think about him while she picked out a bra, zipped up her dress, did her hair.

She could ask him to dance. Ignore his quick rejection and ask him again.

She could examine the red marks on her chest later that night, scrapes from the rock he’d pushed her up against. 

She could put her own hand over her throat, a laughably inferior substitute for the way it felt to be caught up against his palm. 

She could remember the way he’d called her “baby,” his voice all throaty and shattered, remember the way he’d moved in her, and how badly she wanted it, how good it had felt, how easily he moved her, how thrilling his words were.

More than once.

It wasn’t nothing anymore.

What the fuck was she supposed to do with that?

——————

There was a point where you had to talk it out, right? If it’s not nothing? If it’s real?

And she supposed that point was different for everyone, but for her the line was somewhere between “receiving cunnilingus from a drinking buddy” and “letting said drinking buddy fuck you raw within hollaring distance of that twee little flower festival.”

So yeah. Line crossed. 

They needed to talk. Couldn’t get around it. Had to get a few basics pounded out. 

Yes, I’m into this.

Yes, you’re into this too.

Yes, I have an IUD.

No, you’re not fucking anyone else like that, right?

The basics. That’s it. Not looking for a love confession or anything deep. She knew where he was at. She knew where she was at. She was realistic. She wasn’t looking for forever. Just… just an acknowledgement. Just an assurance of what they were both getting out of this. The rest could come if it was going to.

One day at a time. One step at a time. 

Einmal ist keinmal.

Repetition. Building.

But despite whatever promises she’d wrung from him, Shane was clearly in no shape to pick up a hammer.

She wasn’t surprised when he started avoiding her, but that didn’t mean she was happy about it. She kept up her regular trips to the Saloon, but his stool stood empty. None of the other locals seemed to want to sit there. One time a tourist was in it, and the farmer had to bite down the urge to shove him off.

So yes. Shane seemed aware of what the farmer knew - that they’d passed the point where things could be sidestepped. He was even less capable of dealing with that than she was, which was terrifying. She was already feeling the impact of life without him. Roots searching but nothing to latch onto. Stepping up the stairs with the handrail all slick and smooth. None of the bite that made her life feel permanent. Over a year in the valley, and she was back to feeling like it could all be taken away.

That’s why she showed up where Shane worked.

Was it the best way to go about things? Absolutely not, but they weren’t operating in the best case scenario. She couldn’t even imagine what “best case” would be. Shane taking her out to dinner? Buying her flowers? Complimenting her outfit, asking about her day? 

Fuck that noise. 

She wanted Shane, all bleary eyed and lopsided smile and crude humor and rough words and unpredictable and heavy and real.

For now, the best case scenario would be a conversation, and that’s exactly what she was going to get.

The universe aligned with her, it seemed. She couldn’t find him in the aisles of the Joja Mart, so she went out around the back. There he was, all alone in his jumpsuit, unloading boxes from the back of a truck. She watched him for a moment, before he saw her. Watched his forearms flex beneath his rolled up sleeves. Watched the way his gloved hands gripped each box. Saw the sweat on his neck. Imagined him picking her up and moving her with the same ease he moved those boxes.

The roots in her shivered, started to grow towards him.

She felt grounded again for the first time in weeks.

“Hey,” she said, finally approaching the truck. He was on the ground now, standing next to the handcart he’d just wheeled down. Right at her level.

“Hey,” he said, just as casual at first as if she’d slid onto the stool next to him at the saloon. For a moment she wanted to sink into it, to go along, pretend nothing had happened, nothing had changed, that they could just keep on circling around each other forever, drinking and talking and occasionally fucking and it would all be good, all be fine, all be enough to keep her settled into her life.

But no. Once is never. Twice? 

You can’t ignore twice.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” No sense in beating around the bush.

Something changed in Shane’s eyes, his stance. While he hadn’t been particularly open in his greeting, he’d at least been casual. All it took was the hint of conflict, though, for him to stiffen. Shoulders tight, jaw hard, gaze shifting off of her own.

“I’m at work,” was all he said.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here, because you’re not anywhere else. We need to talk.”

“I’m at work,” he said again, then braced the handcart with his foot.

“Take a break.” She tried to put a bit of playfulness in the command, but she wasn’t sure it hit.

“Can’t,” Shane said, and the handcart was moving, he was moving, heading into the store and leaving her behind.

Well, fuck that.

Now she was a little pissed.

She caught the door before it closed, followed him into the stock room. Shelves towered around her, and she had to hurry to follow Shane around behind a row of them. It felt like their own little world, back there. 

She continued as though he hadn’t just rejected her attempts to speak. “I’m not looking for anything unreasonable here. We fucked and you promised we’d talk about it, so let’s talk.”

“You can’t be here.” He wasn’t looking at her, focused on the cart in front of him, gripping at the handles a little more tightly than seemed necessary.

“So we better get this conversation over quick. I’m into you and I want to see where this goes. You’re clearly into me too. I need some kind of indication of what’s going on here. Where's your head at? What do you want?”

There. She said it. She stood with her arms crossed. The air conditioner was turned up too high. It made goosebumps rise on her arms, on her legs beneath her shorts. They had nothing to do with how she was feeling, nervous and angry and, fuck, a little turned on, okay? By the way he was looking at her now, stupid little hat shadowing his eyes, mouth pressed tight, hands seeming even bigger in his work gloves.

He took a deep breath. Adjusted his hands on the cart. Then, finally: “whatever you’re looking for here, you’re not going to find it.”

“That’s bullshit.” It was the truth, so it was easy to say. “I’ve already got what I want. I’m not looking for anything other than what we’re already doing. I just need some acknowledgement that we’re both, like, engaged in it.”

And then she said it again: “what do you want?”

Something changed in his eyes, like a light going out. “I don’t want anything,” he said, and started to unload his cart.

He was lying. She knew he was lying. Everybody wanted something. Even if what he wanted wasn’t from her, he still wanted. It made her feel off balance, like her roots were loosening, like a strong wind would knock her right over. “You’re a shitty liar.”

He said nothing.

That was okay. She had all the time in the world. 

Einmal ist keinmal.

She had to keep trying.

He kept moving those boxes. Off the hand cart. Onto the shelves. One after another, his gait slightly uneven, his grip favoring his right shoulder

She leaned against a shelf. Settled in. Watched him. Waited.

And finally…

“I’m going to be in trouble if someone finds you back here.” The handcart was almost empty. Shane was looking at the last unloaded box.

“So tell me the truth and I’ll go.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me you want me, or lie well enough that I can walk away.” The words surprised her, but after she said them she realized it was the truth. It was him or nothing. 

Einmal ist keinmal

Once was one thing. But it’d keep happening. He wasn’t able to stop it, and neither was she. She didn’t want to. She’d keep sinking those roots into him, and he’d let her, and then he’d pull away, and she’d feel them tear, keep cycling between reality and a dream, and there was only so long a person could do that before it all fell apart completely.

Shane took a long breath, kept staring at the box. “What I want is irrelevant,” he finally said. “I don’t have much room for good in my life, so it’s better to be realistic. Go find someone else to want.”

“No. I want you.” It was easy to be emphatic.

“Why?” 

That answer was easy as well: “Because you’re the only person here who feels real.”

He looked at her, for just a moment. Just a glance. Just enough to show he heard her, that he might even know how she felt. That maybe she felt real to him in the same way.

Which made the tearing even more painful when he said “I’m not a shitty liar, you just don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

She didn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter, because he was turning away, unloading the last box, exiting the conversation, dismissing her from his presence, from his life, from this reality, it felt like, consigning her to to scrambling up, to giving, to earning, to touches that felt like nothing, like clouds drifting apart beneath her fingertips and that’s not what she wanted. It’s not what would keep her there.

What she wanted was him, stinging stubble and biting humor and rough voice and clenching fingers and splinters and things left unsaid and truth.

Einmal ist keinmal

You had to keep trying.

So that’s what the farmer did. 

Because even if Shane wouldn’t tell her the truth in words, his body wouldn’t lie.

She approached him as he unloaded the box he was holding. Wrapped her arms around his back. He was warm, his jumpsuit rough against her arms. Her lips hit the nape of his neck, just the right height to rub her nose against, to breathe in, smell the unexpected fruit of his hair, trying and failing to cover the scents of sweat and liquor and him. 

And there it was, the truth. It was in the goosebumps that rose under her nose. It was in the way he shuddered, the way the breath seemed to heave out of him, the way one gloved hand came up to cover hers where they met around his stomach, and her roots were stirring, wrapping, stabilizing her, encasing him. Drinking. Receiving.

For the first time she wondered if she was taking more from him than he could give.

She would weigh this thought later, alone in her bed, the day's events playing through her mind.

But right now she couldn’t think because she was too busy feeling. The way he was moving, turning in her arms to face her, and there was nothing stopping her from pressing her mouth against his. Warm here too, then hot as his lips parted, hot through her stomach as a gentle press turned to something rough and demanding so quickly she could barely process it. 

And yes, yes, fucking yes, it was just like she thought it could be, Shane’s mouth absolutely insistent, tongue forcing, lips bruising, groaning, his body leaning, thigh pushing between her legs, gloved hands anchoring on either side of her jaw. She was pinned between his mouth and the shelves behind her, between heat and cold steel. Grounded. Real. 

For a moment it felt like nothing could be taken away.

“Fuck,” Shane groaned, drawing back. He still had that stupid hat on. The farmer knocked it off, wrapped her arms around the back of his neck. She could see his eyes better now, all green and dark, a mixture of desire and panic that she was starting to associate with his hands and his mouth. With pleasure. With cohesion. With nourishment.

“I want you,” the farmer said.

“Fuck, baby,” Shane groaned again, and then he was biting at the finger of his glove, ripping it off, and it was just his hand, rough in its own way, pushing up under her shirt, just for a second, palm spread wide. Traveling up, gripping at her breast, squeezing, shuddering, then down, undoing the button on her shorts, fingers racing lower, and she couldn’t help but dig her nails into the back of his neck. Those fingers, hard and perfect, rubbing back and forth against her, a little too fast, a little too rough, uncontrolled, and she couldn’t help but cry out as her body tightened.

“You gotta… shit, you gotta be quiet, baby.” And then his other hand, gloved, all coarse and heavy, smelling of work, of effort, of Shane was covering her mouth. Pressing, thumb down and curling around her chin, palm broad. She groaned into it, felt the rough fabric rasp against her bruised lips, felt his fingers sliding a little more fluidly, and that made him groan too. “Yoba, how do you… you want it so bad, don’t you? Want it as bad as I do. How do you keep wanting this? I can’t… I’m not… you’re so fucking perfect, how do we keep…”

He trailed off on a groan, fingers still working, gliding in quick circles around her clit. She didn’t know what was guiding her up more effectively - his hands or his words. She wanted to talk back to him, but all she could do was gasp and whimper against his glove and pull him in closer by the back of the neck. His forehead was almost touching hers now, and she could feel the soft brush of his hair. She locked her gaze on his, tried to pin him to her with it in the same way he kept her pinned beneath him.

She wanted him to stay right there.

Because he kept talking.

“Fuck, I can’t… I fucking taste you all the time. How do you do it, huh?” His fingers were flickering even faster now, their friction dulled by how wet she'd become. Her hips were starting to hitch, matching the rhythm of his strokes. “How do you make it so I can’t stop thinking about you? It doesn’t matter if you’re there or not, I swear I see you everywhere. I can’t… fuck, I miss you so fucking much when you're not there. I can't even… I just… I don't want to be away from you.”

So don’t, she would have said if his glove hadn’t been covering her mouth. I see you all the time too. I want you all the time. How do you do it? How do I keep you with me?

“Need you to come for me, baby. Fuck, please, I need… I want to. Wanna see you come. Do it for me baby.” He looked fully desperate now, staring into her eyes. She did her best to nod under his glove, to keep her eyes open as her hips tensed, as her thighs began to shake, as heat climbed up her spine, coiling, a vine wrapping around her ribs and her arms and her throat, making her whimper and her eyes lose focus. “Fuck,” Shane breathed, his fingers keeping that perfect rhythm. “Look at that face. Yoba’s fucking Light, you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.  You coming for me?”

The farmer did her best to make an affirming noise, because yes, she was coming, coming hard, all tense and coiled and connected, all liquid rush and Shane’s rough voice, spilling more words than he’d ever had before (“yes, baby, yes, fuck, there you go, so fucking good, don’t you stop, keep coming for me, that’s right, that’s my girl, don’t you fucking stop”). 

It was endless.

It was real.

Einmal ist keinmal

But that moment felt like it stretched on forever.

——————

The farmer didn’t know if their talk was a success or a failure.

Maybe it was neither.

Maybe it was both.

She laid on her bed and stared at her ceiling. 

The feeling was back. Like none of it was real. Like it was all about to slip away.

She pressed her hand over her mouth. Thumb down. Palm broad. Tried to imagine it was a glove.

It felt a little better.

Einmal ist keinmal.

She had to keep trying.

She couldn't stop trying.

She couldn't help but keep trying.

Whatever this was, whatever was happening between the two of them, it wasn't a never. It didn't have to be always for it to be something. 

The something it was was the something she wanted. 

Rough and sharp and real, like calloused hands and stubbled skin and tired eyes.

The farmer sighed, pressed her hand down a little harder. It braced her, kept her from feeling like she was going to float away.

Einmal ist keinmal.

Once is never.

You had to keep trying.

And so that’s what she was going to do.

Masterlist

[recurring-polynya]

Man, I wonder what people in the outer Rukon think about shinigami captains.

Obviously, they are known to some degree in the low-numbered districts. Ganju declares Byakuya to be the "most famous of the 13 captains," suggesting that he has a full set of their trading cards. Jidanbou also recognized Gin on sight, but again, he's sort of like a Gotei 13 hourly contractor.

On the other hand, in Episode 312, the one where Oomaeda lies to some children so they think he's a captain, none of the adults in whatever district he's in call him on his bullshit. Presumably, they aren't even that far out, since he was napping there in the middle of a workday and the children are later able to travel to the Seireitei with little difficulty. Obviously, though, the roster of current captains doesn't seem to be common knowledge*, or even the fact that a captain ought to be wearing a haori and accompanied by an adjutant.

*Insert renji_matsumoto_who_is_your_captain_again dot jpg

Anyway! I don't care about the inner districts, where you can still probably get a copy of the Seireitei Communication and the Hanbantai Players occasionally darken the Bonnaroo lineup.

Rukongai is a big place and contrary to popular opinion, it is not the mandate of the shinigami to protect it. Upwards into the double digits,most people have probably never seen a shinigami, and even if they have, their understanding of what shinigami are capable of ranges from incomplete to wildly inaccurate. Imagine being a kid from District 58 or so who gets saved from being eaten by a Hollow and is thus inspired to shoot your shot at the Academy. At what point does someone reveal that person whose sword made you pass out was no one. That there are tiers of people above them, and at the very top are people who come with their own gravity wells. Some day, "captain" will just mean "weird, very dramatic personage who signs your paycheck and doesn't remember your name", but the first time you see one, and your entire peripheral vision goes black? Whew!

They have to know about shinigami captains out in the deep Rukon, though, because they are the stuff that folk legends are made out of. Some are heroic, some are monstrous, most are both. Occasionally a Rukongai district manages to spit out a captain--do they have any memory of him? Is there a notion of hometown pride, regardless of the fact that no one bears any love for the hometown, certainly not him? Certain names are common among shinigami captains, so it's not always clear which Shihouin-taichou a given tale belongs too, but maybe it's also not important. Captains are long-lived, and it's hard to know if the one from your favorite drinking song kicked the bucket centuries ago, or if she gets a fit of the sneezes every time your pub mates are feeling musical. There are some captains that show up in Rukon-stories whose names don't appear in any sort of official records, and it's a matter of speculation which ones are fully apocryphal and which ones might simply be an epithet and for whom?

(Unohana. They are nearly always about Unohana).

[unsen]

I mean no disrespect by what I say, nor is it intended as hate speech. Because in reality, it isn't hate speech. It's how we truly feel about this.

Trans has become something that it's not. The definition has been changed and it shouldn't have happened. 10 years ago, if you googled “transgender”, you would've found the word for word definition “transitioning from one gender to the other”. If you had read medical journals, you would've found that to be trans you needed to have gender dysphoria. But that's not what it is today. And it has set our progress backwards, so much so that I'm not even comfortable using that label for myself.

In my mind, I have always been a man. I have spent 11 long years getting my outside to match my inside and a good few years ago I had finally become successful. And it makes me deeply physically uncomfortable to be reminded that I was not born how I present. I'm not some fully female presenting person getting mad that someone calls me “she” and screaming that I'm a man. I'm a fully passable man that has put in the effort to be fully passable.

But now I can't even correct people when they do accidentally get it wrong, like one of my coworkers does who does it to everyone, not just me. Because then I’m viewed as that. And that's not who people like me truly are. It's who people like them are.

Let's face it. If you don't have gender dysphoria, you are not trans. And it's okay to not be trans. I get it, you want a community, you want to be accepted. By why would you want to be in a community that you don't belong in? You can be gender non-conforming, but that doesn't make you trans. Trans is not a spectrum. I don't believe this, but I won't say you're wrong if you choose to believe gender is a spectrum. But trans? It has a set definition and a set criteria, and you can't just go changing that because you want it to fit what you want it to be.

If you want to be a part of a community, create your own community. Don't push your way into someone else's and push those people out. Because you've taken ours and made it your own. And now, even though it may have been mine years ago, it no longer is. And that's not okay.

[randomfoggytiger]

Do you think Mulder viewed the office space as "our" office space or as "my" desk and Scully's area over there? How do you think Scully saw it?

There are times when Scully seems more comfortable sitting at his desk than others. At first view, I thought she was comfortable at his desk in "Never Again", but upon further viewing, I interpreted her as maybe hesitant sitting there and Mulder not minding her sitting there and seeing it as an "our" space until he threw his little tantrum of saying that he worked hard for the xfiles while she was just assigned to the xfiles. That is where I saw he, even as much as he tried, was still territorial of his space even with Scully. At the end of the episode, I got a sense that she didn't feel like she belonged in the space and that she probably saw it as his office because she walks in, pauses a minute, looks around, and then moves once he enters his space and "allows" her in. Even the way she sits down is tentative and how she sits in the chair is uncomfortable.

I think there is a point when Mulder welcomes the office to be a communal space because we see the pregnancy book and the couple of pictures of them, but when does that happen? Is it an "us" spabce? Who, in your opinion, would put up their couple pictures in the office? I think it would be Mulder because he is more of the sentimental one and he is already seen as someone who puts up his sister's picture, so he likes to literally see what he values and what matters to him. Interestingly, he doesn't have a picture of his mom on his desk or at home.

I don't recall if the Mulder/Scully pictures are up in season 8 &9, in his home office in IWTB, or in the Revival. Did you see the pictures return, or did they just get rid of them?

TL;DR:

The desk functions as a mouthpiece for the current state of the relationship. Mulder considers it theirs, though he sits behind it; and thinks Scully's insistence on having her own means she is drawing away from him. Scully, meanwhile, reads his lack of forethought as lack of consideration; andm consequently, withdraws.

I'm pretty sure she did have a desk in the early seasons. At some point that went away; and that, too, is interesting-- that perhaps Scully didn't ask for another one because she, too, felt like Mulder's desk was communal... until she began to doubt her place on the files.

Lack of vulnerable communication really affected Scully's perception and Mulder's translation, a crack that split open in Never Again and was resolved (mostly) in Field Trip.

Lastly, I think the office pictures were stored away; but I'm not 100% certain. Samantha Mulder remained, though.

Too Long, Wanna Read:

I think Mulder saw it as an "us" space by the close of Season 1 (if not right after the Pilot.) However: he does have a protective streak, eagerly willing to share territory only IF he and his ideas are taken seriously. Not territorial so much as battered by the world, and sore.

In Never Again, he's stung by Scully's "Refusing an assignment? It makes it sound like you’re my superior" and snaps at her dismissal. Yet, he's immediately shaken by her "And it's become mine," asking in a smaller voice, "You don't want it to be?"

The episode was about Scully's other fathers and endless lines, but it was also-- at its core-- about the lack of communication between both partners. Mulder believed Scully wanted to be there... but did she, really? Did she truly value the work, or was she just there to do her job as a scientist? And likewise, Scully thought that Mulder needed her there but came to wonder if her presence had left any impact on the files.

It's a question they sort of answer by the end of Season 4 and into Season 5-- Scully wants "to work... for my own reasons" in Memento Mori; and she comes back to work-- and Mulder-- as soon as she can (by Detour.) However, Mulder is still holding back; and that breeds, again, a sense of displacement, i.e. The Pine Bluff Variant and The End. By Fight the Future, he's forced to speak the truth; and Scully is stunned over how deeply he valued and needed her.

Then in Season 6 they have no files, and must rely on each other again: Season 2 but with a clearer understanding of their current dynamic. Then they get the files back and flitter about in limbo. And finally, we get a resolution to Never Again, in a way-- Field Trip, where both are in a place where Mulder can just say what he's always thought:

"Scully, in six years, how... how often have I been wrong? No, seriously. I mean, every time I bring you a case we go through this perfunctory dance. You tell me I'm not being scientifically rigorous and that I'm off my nut, and then in the end who turns out to be right like 98.9% of the time? I just think I've... earned the benefit of the doubt here."

He's jaggedly forthright and it hurts her feelings (of course); but it's the same sentiment that she's subtly (and not-so-subtly) maintained all the years they've worked together (in all the Vince Gilligan episodes, particularly): Mulder, there are no such things as vampires; Mulder, there isn't a bug person creating zombie people; Mulder, we didn't see a spaceship in Antarctica; Mulder, you didn't see me on the Queen Anne. Mulder's dark thought in the back of his head is that Scully has felt this way, truly, for years-- since the start:"Tell me you think I'm crazy"/"Mulder, you're crazy." It's a toothless speculation when all is well... but not so much when things are rocky between them.

Scully, in Never Again and Field Trip, feels dismissed and reduced, simultaneously not communicating her own hurt-- or becoming uncomfortable when doing so-- and not realizing that her partner is suffering in the same way. His "passion, dedication, and strength" that she relies on is something Scully is afraid to fully trust, just as she's afraid to fully commit to any one path or afraid to let anyone in too close. Mulder and Scully are both avoidant, scared people who would rather circle the drain than spell out their grievances; and because of this, she would rather "do the work" and hope her message comes across (i.e. hope that he doesn't consider her a spy or a burden or someone who "held you back", as she's sometimes wondered, and feared, from the start) than speak the truth out loud.

As much as Mulder prizes her challenging honesty and her unbending scientific rigor, he also feels dismissed by it-- just as Scully feels overlooked by his zeal for the work or the next "truth."

Field Trip resolved that divide; Biogenesis-Amor Fati widened both their minds (literally and figuratively); and Millennium was just the conclusion of their arc together, with Closure and all things book ending their separate, personal journeys.

So: Mulder always thought of the place as Scully's, that the space in the back was "hers"-- that she had claimed it. This was news to Scully (and not good enough, understandably); and when she challenged it, he offered to get another desk. That never went anywhere, and the topic was never brought up again; but I think there's a part of Scully that just accepted things the way they were. And to Mulder, that meant integration.

Was it resolved completely on-screen? Not really. Was it a part of their relationship that became habit between them? I think so. I also think Scully only returned to the "your and my desk" dividing lines-- or lack thereof-- when she was questioning her place in the world and peace in her choices (Never Again's lasting legacy and "other fathers", all things's identity and peace and "other fathers.")

In short: Mulder considers the desk (and basement) "theirs"; but because he didn't explicitly communicate this for nearly six years, Scully was left to decipher her place there depending on her current confidence or fluctuating sense of displacement.

[fancykraken]

Me: *is queer*

June: 🌟🏳️‍🌈HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!🏳️‍🌈🌟

Me, imposter syndrome at max: I wish I could participate

[voraciousvore]

"I'm not kinkshaming anyone, I'm just trying to distinguish myself from all those gross disgusting degenerate perverts over there!"

Thanks. I really appreciate being excluded and shamed on this app because I'm not a puritan who only enjoys exclusively chaste and fluffy sfw scenarios. You all are such a welcoming and tolerant community for the extremely narrow niche of what you define as "acceptable." Sorry for being such a depraved and disgusting person. Guess I'll fuck off now.

[pardonmydelays]

ok, so now what?

[shalom-iamcominghome]

What led you to decide conversion to Judaism was "for you"?

I'll preface this post by saying that you are, essentially, asking to open a Pandora's box - this is an inherently huge question to ask, and I only request that you keep this in mind when I talk about this. I'm completely open to this discussion, though! I am absolutely happy to talk about my journey because it is so deeply personal and fulfilling,

I was raised in a Lutheran family - I was baptized, but I was never really... required to go to church. We'd gone before, my dad and I, but I don't remember this because I was young. However, what I do remember is just not believing in any of it. I never truly believed in Jesus, I'd only said I did. Despite having little pressure put on me in a religious aspect, I'd always just assumed that I should please my family. I went to Jesus camp (a moniker for the religious camp I'd gone to a few times), and I went to a handful of confirmation classes. As I understand it, Lutherans practice confirmation in order to educate young adults about the religion, and by the end, the person decides if this is right for them. I dropped out completely, and honestly, it was simply due to "I believe none of this besides g-d."

Once I had consciously admitted to myself that I really could not reconcile my disbelief, I decided to disconnect completely from all forms of xtianity. I mostly kept to myself and didn't even interrogate my feelings about g-d or religion at all.

After a while, I realized that I truly knew nothing else besides xtianity. I always thought it was my duty as a person to learn about others to accept them. I started throwing myself into education about other religions. Now that I think about it, I think part of myself really did want to connect with something that felt right in my soul. For a while, I didn't find that. Once I started learning about what were the true basics of Judaism, I felt a strange and indescribable feeling, really for the first time ever.

My journey into Judaism really began on an intellectual level. I truly jived with what I was learning - I remember one of my big issues with xtianity was the idea of "spreading the Good News," or proselytizing. I think learning that about judaism was what made me realize that there was something out there that I could logically understand. I loved the cultural understanding of disagreement - that you can even disagree with g-d and not be sent to Hell For All Eternity. I loved that observing mitzvot wasn't really a strict dogma. It was a process we all undertake on some level. I'd say that the common attitude held in the xtain spaces I was exposed to all my life (that is - "all of this is strict dogma, and no questions are deemed acceptable.") really made me appreciate the intellectualism that judaism often fulfills. By nature, I want to disagree with others, explain, agree, and ultimately learn, and I loved the culture of education.

I'd say much of the emotional attachment I now have to judaism came later. There is only so much you can appreciate about judaism from the sidelines, and once I got involved in my community, I truly learned this. Much of my love for judaism is simple - it's everyday life, really.

I think what made me decide so soon that judaism was right is because I am trans. I am no stranger to this feeling, I just had never felt it about religion. It's a deep, soul-level understanding of belonging. It's a feeling you can never do justice to through word alone. I've felt this before, and I know this is a feeling that I cannot simply ignore. It's something you can only grab hold of and never let go. It is a primal understanding within your entire being - at least it is for me.

Because of this, there is so much that I have not touched upon here, but I think I've been rambling for long enough. Again, I welcome any and (almost) all questions that may be remaining. So much of my decision about judaism came down to exposing myself to conversion stories and thoughts about judaism from jews, and if there is a chance I might be even a little like that, I will always welcome it!

[musical-chick-13]

Oh, reeeeeeallllly feeling the "forever outside both communities for different reasons" tonight.

[transmascpetewentz]

They should give every tboy a free prostate

[motoroil-recs]

[Kinfession]

It feels kinda bad when you just don't experience memories often

Most of my fictionkin friends experience memories and stuff but I rarely do so I never know if I'm a canonmate of anybody

And sometimes people will talk about their memories to me and ask if I remember it and I'm like "idk man,,"

LIKEE some stuff could be a memory but also I'm an avid artist, writer, story maker, and daydreamer so like. could be a memory or just my brain being silly yk??

ANYWAYS I wanted to say: anyone who doesn't experience memories are also super valid!! It might feel invalidating because a lot of people do, but that doesn't matter! You're still a valid kin <3

-⭐️

🏎️‼️

[aroapl]

Seeing someone use the phrase allospec was a game changer for me. Like, do I experience my sexuality in a completely allosexual way? I don't think so. But I'm far closer to allo than ace, and I identify with allo experiences of sexuality far more than acespec ones. I'm allospec!

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

..

[awesomewithoutme]

I've felt so lonely and isolated here lately. I know it's literally all in my head, because everyone here loves me. 💅 but just because somethings all in your head doesn't mean it doesn't bother you. 💔

[hahahax30]

Queer people will claim that clothes don't have gender but in the next breath they'll say that they do, however, have a sexuality