todisturbtheuniverse

[todisturbtheuniverse]

the betrayal of FEN'HAREL

[todisturbtheuniverse]

hello hello!

it's been a long while since i posted here. but i am playing The Game, and as a result have been inevitably thinking about this place, and missing it. i'm really looking forward to reading everyone's thoughts once i've finished it. i'm still muddling along somewhere in Act 2 - if i hadn't already known my life has changed dramatically since Inquisition came out, this would be the final proof, lol.

i hope you're all well, or as well as can be expected, given recent events. maybe more dragon age talk here soon. ❤️

(unrelated: i clearly need to brush up on how tumblr even works these days. all the old tags i used to organize stuff on this blog appear to go exactly nowhere. 😅)

[todisturbtheuniverse]

The link in the post didn’t take me to Older’s article, so I searched and found it out here. Good reading in addition to the post.

“Getting” yourself to write

Yesterday, I was trawling iTunes for a decent podcast about writing. After a while, I gave up, because 90% of them talked incessantly about “self-discipline,” “making writing a habit,” “getting your butt in the chair,” “getting yourself to write.” To me, that’s six flavors of fucked up.

Okay, yes—I see why we might want to “make writing a habit.” If we want to finish anything, we’ll have to write at least semi-regularly. In practical terms, I get it.

But maybe before we force our butts into chairs, we should ask why it’s so hard to “get” ourselves to write. We aren’t deranged; our brains say “I don’t want to do this” for a reason. We should take that reason seriously.

Most of us resist writing because it hurts and it’s hard. Well, you say, writing isn’t supposed to be easy—but there’s hard, and then there’s hard. For many of us, sitting down to write feels like being asked to solve a problem that is both urgent and unsolvable—“I have to, but it’s impossible, but I have to, but it’s impossible.” It feels fucking awful, so naturally we avoid it.

We can’t “make writing a habit,” then, until we make it less painful. Something we don’t just “get” ourselves to do.

The “make writing a habit” people are trying to do that, in their way. If you do something regularly, the theory goes, you stop dreading it with such special intensity because it just becomes a thing you do. But my god, if you’re still in that “dreading it” phase and someone tells you to “make writing a habit,” that sounds horrible.

So many of us already dismiss our own pain constantly. If we turn writing into another occasion for mute suffering, for numb and joyless endurance, we 1) will not write more, and 2) should not write more, because we should not intentionally hurt ourselves.

Seriously. If you want to write more, don’t ask, “how can I make myself write?” Ask, “why is writing so painful for me and how can I ease that pain?” Show some compassion for yourself. Forgive yourself for not being the person you wish you were and treat the person you are with some basic decency. Give yourself a fucking break for avoiding a thing that makes you feel awful.

Daniel José Older, in my favorite article on writing ever, has this to say to the people who admonish writers to write every day:

Here’s what stops more people from writing than anything else: shame. That creeping, nagging sense of ‘should be,’ ‘should have been,’ and ‘if only I had…’ Shame lives in the body, it clenches our muscles when we sit at the keyboard, takes up valuable mental space with useless, repetitive conversations. Shame, and the resulting paralysis, are what happen when the whole world drills into you that you should be writing every day and you’re not.

The antidote, he says, is to treat yourself kindly:

For me, writing always begins with self-forgiveness. I don’t sit down and rush headlong into the blank page. I make coffee. I put on a song I like. I drink the coffee, listen to the song. I don’t write. Beginning with forgiveness revolutionizes the writing process, returns its being to a journey of creativity rather than an exercise in self-flagellation. I forgive myself for not sitting down to write sooner, for taking yesterday off, for living my life. That shame? I release it. My body unclenches; a new lightness takes over once that burden has floated off. There is room, now, for story, idea, life.

Writing has the potential to bring us so much joy. Why else would we want to do it? But first we’ve got to unlearn the pain and dread and anxiety and shame attached to writing—not just so we can write more, but for our own sakes! Forget “making writing a habit”—how about “being less miserable”? That’s a worthy goal too!

Luckily, there are ways to do this. But before I get into them, please absorb this lesson: if you want to write, start by valuing your own well-being. Start by forgiving yourself. And listen to yourself when something hurts.

Next post: freewriting

Ask me a question or send me feedback! Podcast recommendations welcome…

[todisturbtheuniverse]

[todisturbtheuniverse]

my husband just admitted to me that he doesn't like pears

all these ripe ripe good fruits are for me, then

[todisturbtheuniverse]

HORIZON FORBIDDEN WEST (2021)

[todisturbtheuniverse]

Gonna need a ‘Aloy teaches her friends to use the Focus’ moment in Forbidden West, please and thank you

[todisturbtheuniverse]

ALOY & EREND IN HORIZON: FORBIDDEN WEST

[todisturbtheuniverse]

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Adjacent Truths

Rating: M Fandom: Stardew Valley Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer, Shane & Jas Tags: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Friendship, Pre-Relationship Word Count: 1900 Summary: Jas overheard something Shane can't take back, and it's eating him alive. The farmer notices. Also on AO3. Notes: Post-4 Heart Event—a direct sequel of it, if you will. Content warning for suicidal ideation.

When Jas had still been just a baby, Charlotte had told Shane that something changes in your brain after you have a kid. Hormones, chemicals, neurons firing, all fine-tuning, honing in on the sound of the baby's cry, making interpretations on an instinctual level. He'd panicked when Jas had started crying apparently unprovoked in his arms, but Charlotte hadn't even twitched. "She's just hungry," she'd said, with her tired-happy smile.

"She seems mad about it," Shane had said, looking down into the scrunched-up, red face, the tiny mouth open in a hiccuping wail.

"She gets that from Patrick."

But Shane wasn't, had never been, Jas's parent. By the time he'd learned to sort her hungry-crying from her tired-crying and everything else, she'd been nearly out of babyhood.

And there was no easy fix, anyway, for the way he'd made her cry this time.

She avoided him after what she'd overheard. He didn't blame her. She was a smart kid; it was a good time to cut her losses, free herself of any emotional attachment she had to him. Marnie would be a better guardian than he was, anyway. Maybe the ranch wasn’t doing all that great, but no one in the valley was, and they all managed to keep limping along somehow. Once he was gone, they'd probably be just fine, lightened by the absence of his dead weight.

But he kept hearing her. That was his brain's special talent: replaying, over and over again, the bad moments, so that he wouldn't forget how terrible he was. The sound of her sobbing echoed around in his head with the hundreds of other unpleasant things that repeated themselves there: the song he’d been using as a ringtone when he got the call about Patrick and Charlotte; the stuffed pig that Jas wouldn’t let go of that first week, the one that made the most obnoxious oinking sound; the disinterested scratch of the social worker’s pen on paper, changing the course of their lives forever.

“You want to talk about it?” Lydia asked.

Jas still went to the farm with him on Saturdays. She just didn't make conversation during the walk. The first words she spoke were to Archimedes, and then she waded into the woods, heading for the treehouse, silent.

He didn’t talk much, either, but that was how it had always been. Lydia would tell him about whatever project she was working on; she would remind him again that he could come back later for Jas instead of helping; and then, inevitably, they would get to work. Because he still wasn't enough of an ass to pawn his goddaughter off entirely on someone who hardly knew her.

It was a low bar, but it was what he could clear.

“Talk about what,” he said, and swung for the tree again. He was glad that the damn sprinkler system hadn’t had another crisis since last weekend. If Lydia had put him to that kind of fiddly work today, maybe he wouldn't have cleared that bar.

“Whatever it is,” Lydia said. She watched the tree, eyes darting between trunk and canopy, waiting for the moment it began to tip so that she could warn him out of the way. “I can’t read your mind, but obviously something’s been eating you the last few days.”

He swung the axe again. She hadn't traced his mood back to The Incident. Maybe she didn't want to bring it up if she didn't have to, or maybe other people just didn't spend as much time thinking about how much of a loser he was as he thought they did.

Sounded fake.

“I don’t know,” he said. Thud. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”

Lydia was no saint. Sometimes, just like everybody else, she got impatient. Usually it was because of the sprinklers. But those sometimes were rare, and she wasn't taking the bait today, as usual.

“Maybe,” she said amenably, and lapsed into silence again.

After a few more strikes, the tree creaked warningly. “Now,” she said, and they both hustled out of the way of the trunk. It fell slowly at first, then faster, faster, until it hit the ground thunderously right in the space they’d cleared for it.

Lydia was the mastermind, but at least Shane wasn't terrible at brute force labor.

She picked up a second axe; they both positioned themselves along the fallen tree to start chopping. She needed a fair amount of lumber to get that barn built before winter hit. It was hard for him to imagine thinking so far ahead. The farm was just overgrown enough that she could probably collect all the lumber she needed right here, instead of having to buy it. He didn't need to ask if she'd be able to afford it, if it came to that.

“But maybe I’m not,” she said, picking up the conversation after five minutes, like it’d never been dropped. “I mean, you’re cutting up this tree like it’s personally offended you, so there’s a chance. Just saying. I know you think I talk too much, but I’m a good listener.”

Shane took a deep breath. He fully intended to let out a heavy, annoyed sigh, the kind that usually sent anyone who’d dared take an interest scuttling.

But, as happened too often with Lydia, a stream of words came out instead, like he was powerless to stop them. One more thing he couldn't control.

“Take your pick,” he said, and went on dicing up the tree like it deserved the cutting. “Morris is on my ass about saying the catchphrase whenever I spot a customer.” Thwack. “Gus is on my ass about my tab, which is nowhere near as bad as Pam’s, but apparently it’s a problem when you’re not best friends.” Thwack. “Marnie is on my ass about looking for a better job, like there’s a lot of options in Pelican Town.” Thwack. “Jas won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”

They'd established a pleasant kind of rhythm. Lydia’s axe fell not far behind his, creating a rhythmic one-two-beat, one-two-beat.

“Jas,” Lydia said after a moment.

His axe fell out of rhythm. “What?”

“You told me to take my pick. I say Jas is the item on that list that’s really bothering you. The other stuff happens all the time.”

It was no use telling her it was just a figure of speech. It was, but at the same time, she was right. All that other stuff was background noise, compared to Jas.

He hated when she was right. Except when he didn't mind. It was always hard to tell which it was until much later, which didn't help a lot with in-the-moment reactions.

He settled for hitting the tree again.

“Why do you think she’s not talking to you?” Lydia asked, taking up the rhythm again behind him.

“You know why.” He said it to warn her off, in case she’d forgotten—but he didn’t think she had. He wasn't that lucky.

“Maybe. But tell me again.”

Lydia didn't believe in hiding things, letting them fester. She was completely fine wearing most of her bruises out in the open, cheerfully admitting that something had gone wrong and she was working on it—again, most of the time. She had a couple secret bruises that he'd poked, accidentally or intentionally.

But he was all secret bruises, or at least, he'd have liked to be. As long as he kept hanging around her, though, she'd keep digging them up to air out. The obvious solution was to stop hanging around her. He wondered, again, why he hadn't done that yet.

“She overheard something she shouldn’t have,” he said, “because someone dumped a canteen of water on me and made a scene.”

Lydia actually laughed, a little breathless, in the middle of her swing. “Oh, I see. It’s my fault.”

She was kind of refreshing, was the thing. Everyone else at The Incident had taken it so damn seriously. Granted, that was exactly two other people—Marnie and Jas—and one of them was seven, so maybe that wasn't surprising. But still. It was nice that someone had heard the thing he said and wasn’t afraid to talk about it.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I panicked,” she admitted. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry.”

He grunted in acknowledgment. They went back to the beat, one-two, one-two. In the distance, Archimedes barked.

“So she knows you meant it,” Lydia said, after a moment.

His axe hit a little crooked, and the rhythm stuttered again. He looked up at her. She realized he'd stopped, and she stopped, too, returning the look.

It wasn't that she didn't look sad, or worried. It was just that those things seemed secondary to a kind of openness, a thoughtfulness, like she was solving some kind of puzzle. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, or whether he liked it or not.

“Haven’t told her otherwise,” he said.

He expected a lecture. He gave one to himself more or less every hour. Put on a good face for Jas, or Just tell her you were having a bad day and didn’t mean it, or Tell her you’re going to be around for a good, long time, even though you don’t know, even though it might be a lie. The kid had already been through hell. He should've figured out some way, any way, to keep her from going through more by now.

He just couldn't. He didn't know why.

But she didn’t lecture. She said, “You don’t want to lie to her.” As if she understood.

He went back to his wood-chopping. “I don’t know how to lie to her.” He wished he did. That would have made this a lot easier.

But then, if he lied, she wouldn’t see the inevitable coming before it hit, which would make it all the harder for her.

Lydia went back to chopping, too. “I don’t think you need to, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah? You got an age-appropriate way to explain wanting to die?”

Finally, she hesitated, but only for a one-two beat of the falling axes. “Not really,” she said. “But Jas has already been through a lot. She knows stuff that most kids don’t at her age. So you can tell her adjacent truths.”

“Lotta syllables.”

Finally, she gave an impatient little sigh. “I mean things like—you’re sorry that she had to hear that. That it has nothing to do with her, and doesn’t mean you don’t love her. That things are just hard for you right now.” She breathed heavily on the next swing, more exasperation than effort. “She gets that you’re grieving, too, Shane.”

Trust a person like Lydia to paint it in such nice strokes. Like his best effort, which fell far short of winning any prizes, would be sufficient to a needy little kid.

But maybe...well, saying something could always make things worse, but the idea hadn't come from him. It was a start.

“I’ll plagiarize,” he said. “Thanks.”

It seemed like she was going to let it lie there, but then she spoke up again. “Like I said, I’m a good listener, so. You need an ear, I’m here. Day or night. I mean it.”

She wasn't wrong. She was a good listener. But she had some kind of future ahead of her, still, and he'd poisoned enough people with his failures. It was out in the open now; it didn't need to be rehashed. Next time, he would keep his mouth shut.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

obi wan really died the second three skywalkers were within spitting distance of each other. he was all skywalker’d out. “sorry the maximum limit of this family’s bullshit has been reached. bye” iconic behavior

[todisturbtheuniverse]

With everyone rediscovering the joy of Mass Effect, I really felt it was the best time to post this pic of how amazing it could have looked if Mass Effect had been more willing to lean into the future space military look, and less into the “aliens that inexplicably look sexy to humans” look.

- wincenworks

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Braced

Rating: G Fandom: Mass Effect Trilogy; Mass Effect 1 Pairing: Female Shepard/Tali’Zorah nar Rayya Tags: Pre-Relationship Word Count: 1200 Summary: Tali had wanted in on Shepard’s mission. She just hadn’t expected Shepard to welcome her aboard without reservations. Also on AO3. Notes: I’ve been getting back into Mass Effect with Legendary (like everyone else), and thinking about these two this time around.

Already, Tali loved the Normandy.

After everything—running, and hiding, and losing Keenah—she’d had just enough time on the Citadel to begin to feel homesick. Trailing Shepard to the Citadel Tower, she’d peered through the crowd and seen none of her own people. And the station had a noise to it, a pulse, but it was nothing like the sound of the Flotilla, all the subtle clunks and clanks and hisses that marked the ships’ ages. She’d felt very much the intruder, walking through the belly of a beast so great that it didn’t notice her at all.

But the Normandy abated that, somewhat. It certainly didn’t have the same weathering as the Flotilla, but there was still something about it. Maybe it was just that she was allowed to know the ship—that rather than cast her back into the cargo hold, Adams had given her an impromptu tour and talked enthusiastically with her for a while before going back to his duties.

“Surprised you’re still up,” Shepard’s voice said from somewhere behind her.

Tali couldn’t help that she flinched a little, startled by Shepard’s sudden appearance. She hoped that Shepard was still feeling benevolent. It was hard to tell by her voice alone; Tali didn’t have a lot of experience with humans.

She’d expected to have to beg to be allowed to come along. Not on her knees, maybe, but she’d been sure that Shepard would want more proof of her abilities, evidence that she would be an asset, not a liability. That was how others viewed her people: an undue strain on even a multispecies crew, needy. She’d expected to have to prove that the extra resources they’d spend on her would be worth it.

But after the hearing, she’d understood. Shepard was short on allies. She couldn’t afford to turn away help, from any quarter.

“My day-night cycle is still messed up from the Citadel, I guess,” Tali said, closing out of the diagnostic she’d been examining.

Keep reading

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Braced

Rating: G Fandom: Mass Effect Trilogy; Mass Effect 1 Pairing: Female Shepard/Tali’Zorah nar Rayya Tags: Pre-Relationship Word Count: 1200 Summary: Tali had wanted in on Shepard's mission. She just hadn't expected Shepard to welcome her aboard without reservations. Also on AO3. Notes: I've been getting back into Mass Effect with Legendary (like everyone else), and thinking about these two this time around.

Already, Tali loved the Normandy.

After everything—running, and hiding, and losing Keenah—she'd had just enough time on the Citadel to begin to feel homesick. Trailing Shepard to the Citadel Tower, she'd peered through the crowd and seen none of her own people. And the station had a noise to it, a pulse, but it was nothing like the sound of the Flotilla, all the subtle clunks and clanks and hisses that marked the ships' ages. She'd felt very much the intruder, walking through the belly of a beast so great that it didn't notice her at all.

But the Normandy abated that, somewhat. It certainly didn't have the same weathering as the Flotilla, but there was still something about it. Maybe it was just that she was allowed to know the ship—that rather than cast her back into the cargo hold, Adams had given her an impromptu tour and talked enthusiastically with her for a while before going back to his duties.

"Surprised you're still up," Shepard's voice said from somewhere behind her.

Tali couldn't help that she flinched a little, startled by Shepard's sudden appearance. She hoped that Shepard was still feeling benevolent. It was hard to tell by her voice alone; Tali didn't have a lot of experience with humans.

She'd expected to have to beg to be allowed to come along. Not on her knees, maybe, but she'd been sure that Shepard would want more proof of her abilities, evidence that she would be an asset, not a liability. That was how others viewed her people: an undue strain on even a multispecies crew, needy. She'd expected to have to prove that the extra resources they'd spend on her would be worth it.

But after the hearing, she'd understood. Shepard was short on allies. She couldn't afford to turn away help, from any quarter.

"My day-night cycle is still messed up from the Citadel, I guess," Tali said, closing out of the diagnostic she'd been examining.

"Which part?" Shepard asked, stepping up to the console alongside her, but she didn't look at Tali or try to scrutinize what she'd been working on; she gazed up at the drive core instead, the soft blue light playing across her strange, alien face. "The running and hiding and being shot at, or the general city-that-never-sleeps atmosphere?"

"It wasn't so much being shot at," Tali said, deflecting. She didn't want to look like too much of a troublemaker. "You saw the worst of it." This was technically untrue, given that she'd gotten shot before the encounter with Fist, not during, but she hoped Shepard just wouldn't remember.

"You're all right?" Shepard asked. "I know you said the Fleet gives you resources to help you survive out here, but I can't imagine they spend a long time instructing their young people on how to treat gunshot wounds."

The apparent concern was nice, but Tali just said, "You'd be surprised."

Shepard looked at her sidelong, some crease in her forehead deepening. "That's…" She paused, lips pressed into a thin line. "Troubling."

"The galaxy is a dangerous place. You don't need me to tell you that. And there aren't so many doctors who know how to treat a quarian properly, without making it worse, that we can go without learning."

Shepard's mouth went even thinner. "Well," she said, "Dr. Chakwas is qualified. I checked with her when you decided to come aboard. Not that I don't trust your handiwork, but if you want another eye, she's the best."

There'd been another response at the tip of Tali's tongue. Ready to insist that she wouldn't bother the ship's doctor with anything. But Shepard wasn't worried about that, apparently.

Tali had thought that Shepard couldn't turn away help, but she hadn't thought that Shepard would spend extra time looking after that help.

"Thanks," Tali said, awkwardly, unsure how else to respond.

Shepard shrugged one shoulder. "I've been shot at a lot lately. Can't help but think it's going to continue. Since you're standing next to me, best be prepared."

"I usually prefer to stand behind cover," Tali said.

Shepard smiled wide. "Hah! That a critique of my positioning? There were only so many places to stand in that damn alley."

It was a little hard to tell, smiles could mean so many things, but there was a...warmth, to Shepard's voice. A cheeriness. Tali guessed that she was joking, and hoped she was right.

"No, I'm sure an N7 knows what she's doing," she replied.

Shepard laughed; Tali had guessed right. "Glad someone on this ship believes that," Shepard said.

Tali didn't push her luck any farther, staying quiet. Shepard looked back up at the drive core; the mirth had softened her face a little, smoothing out the lines and creases. She looked a little younger, suddenly, than she had.

"Truth is," she said suddenly, letting out the words like a sigh, "we're venturing into the unknown. Does anyone know what they're doing, in those circumstances? No. You just have to prepare, as much as the galaxy lets you, and then you take your shot."

It didn't seem like Shepard was talking to Tali anymore, not really. More like she was restating a truth to herself, reaffirming it.

"So it's not the aftereffects of the Citadel's city-that-never-sleeps atmosphere keeping you up?" Tali asked. "You're making preparations?"

Shepard shook her head; when she spoke again, she seemed more present. "Nah. Sometimes I just like to come down here and look at the ship at night, while Adams isn't around to talk my ear off. I appreciate that the Normandy is a technological marvel, state-of-the-art, cutting-edge, but when he gets into the technical details I start to fall asleep on my feet. I just don't have the mind for it."

"It is an incredible ship," Tali said, with feeling. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Sometimes I wish I could understand it like Adams does. Like you probably do. But there's magic in that gap, you know? In the unknown. Ashley has her god. I have this."

Tali thought to tell her that there was still magic, even when you saw clearly how all the pieces fitted together; there was magic in it because once you understood, you could not believe how all these disparate parts managed to carry a machine, make it whole, make it live. But she did not want to talk Shepard's ear off, like Adams did, and risk making a nuisance of herself when Shepard had been so accommodating, so she stayed quiet, silently taking note that Shepard was a person aware of her own weaknesses, that she put other people on her team to make sense of that gap instead of leaving it shrouded in mystery.

"I won't keep you," Shepard said, pushing back from the console. "But if you need anything, don't be shy. Let me know. Special pillow, sleeping pod...whatever. I know we're not exactly outfitted for your people."

"I can make do."

"That's what I'm saying. You don't have to." Shepard started off for the cargo hold. "Good night, Tali."

"Good night," Tali said, watching Shepard go.

She'd wanted in on this mission. No hesitation. But she'd been braced for something...different. For Shepard to be someone different. Someone more like the people who, in their prejudice and ignorance, had gotten Keenah killed.

She was still braced. Just in case. But she was beginning to like Shepard.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

Shepard trying to go all formal with the handshake and Garrus just kind of not-so-subtly holding her hand instead in the middle of warzone full of important military people on Palaven is always a goddamn arrow through my heart

[todisturbtheuniverse]

yeah

[todisturbtheuniverse]

You throw away Shepard’s hamster? You put hamster in bin like paper?? Oh! Oh! Jail for clone! Jail for clone for one thousand years!!