#I have Got to find a way to flip that metric...

[sysig]

Btw, this is what editing on this paper has been like (Patreon)

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[fahbev]

Babs, Bruce and Danny in my dpxdc merfolk au!!!

argh, plz excuse the poorly edited photo lmao- lost a lot of detail TvT

Babs has her info Here. But this is her design! I’m not actually entirely sure if any of these designs are final, i might tweak them, but here she is! I gave her necklaces.

Bruce is based on a leatherback sea turtle! The spots aren’t actually super accurate to a leatherback’s underside, but if you look at it a little harder... you may find a fun little easter egg. It’s subtle... or at least i tried to make it that way. (If people don’t get it i’ll explain in a rb lol) Did you know that leatherback sea turtles can be up to 880 pounds? Idk what that is in metric but that’s roughly 7 and a half Bahfevs. They’re also much more triangular/less round than other turtles, so I reflected that in his design. And ofc, Bruce and Damian are both sea turtles bc they’re related. But they’re different sea turtle species so it doesn’t make much sense. Who gives a flip. What’s Talia, you ask? To that I say: 🤷‍♀️

(Side note: apparently, I’ve conditioned myself so I can’t draw nuetral expressions. It’s gotta have some emotion or else it looks wrong, and it feels natural to always have something going on there. So... drawing Stoic McStoicface here was a pain in the penis. He kinda has an expression anyway lol)

Danny is based on a ghost knife fish! I’ll be honest, i didn’t even know these existed until I looked up “ghost fish” in the hopes of finding something thematic. But then... omg! They’re black with little white accents? Like Danny’s design? And they have cool, funky bodies? AND they produce electricity!?? That’s so FKING COOL! I’ll have to do more research, but so far i’m pretty sure they don’t produce enough electricity to hurt someone. They are related to electric eels though! I first learned that electric eels were knife fish and not true eels when I was researching the moray eel for Duke. Funny how that connects!

Danny’s story under the cut!

Heehoo!

Okay so basically: Danny went diving to gather pearls because he wanted to make his parents happy/proud. While he was diving, His foot got caught in a rock and he couldn’t get it out. He panicked and he begged— to who? God, maybe? The universe, or the ocean? Maybe just begging fate or any higher power that could be out there, he doesn’t know. His only prayer was “Don’t let me drown!”. Unbeknownst to him, one of the pearls he’d grabbed was a magic, wish granting pearl. They’re rare enough that humans don’t even have legends of them... but the merfolk do ;).

The pearl took his very non-specific wish and decided to give him a tail and gills. He swam back up in a panic, and saw his new tail. Of course, this is a very horrifying thing to happen. But in less than a minute... it was already starting to dry off. As it dried, it turned back into skin.

Now, Danny has to be extremely careful not to get his legs or hair wet when he’s near people, because he’ll turn back into a merboy.

i... probably should have given him a shirt? He’d be wearing it, right? But i also did need to see what I was doing with that fin thing lol. I mean, a shirt would get annoying with that fin- he’d probably take it off. Tbh he’d probably have it off when swimming in general? Idk.

So: funny thing that happened when I was drawing Danny:

A first grader came up to me while I had it open on my desk, and she was like:

“Oh my god, that’s so good! Like, how did you even draw that?”

so I was like: “Oh thank you! ❤️”

And I think she asked again “How did you even draw that?”

so I was a little confused on how to answer, so I said:

“Well, I used my pencil...” and held up my pencil—

and then she got distracted by a spinny chair.

She’s so precious omg 🥰

[fakeosirian]

☕️ sinner arc?

O H B O Y

full disclosure i still have not done my note-taking s3 rewatch so i'm liable to misremember (or just not remember) things but i thiiiink i'm confident enough in this opinion to post. it's not supposed to be "discoursey" tho i'm focusing on my crits of this arc more than the compliments because that's what i've done more thinking about. thank you for enabling this and also i'm sorry because you've unleashed the beast <3

thesis statement: the sinner arc, as it is, is both totally natural and consistent with the narrative up to that point and also a HUGE break from the rest of the show tone-wise, craft-wise, and tbh emotionally to the point that i think that it was kiiiiiiiind of a mistake. or at least it's hindered by being the final arc of the show (not counting TOR). some of my sour grapes are just personal bias against certain kinds of "whittling down the cast" plots, but after thinking it over for a While, tbh it bothers me moreso because the things i would change are very simple and would make a world of difference craft-wise without really changing any of the major plot beats or undermining the good parts. (and thus it's disappointing to me that that's not what we got when i feel like the creative team already avoided those exact issues in earlier parts of the show...)

so ok. getting this out of the way: i may come off harsh on this arc because i find it very stressful to watch for personal reasons LMAO so i'll hand this to it: it's very good at getting the desired emotions out of me (extreme discomfort/despair), so if that's the only metric you're using to judge quality, there you go: it's good.

unfortunately it also makes me sad about the state of the characters in a way that...you could interpret as success? but this is the bit that, even accounting for my bias, i think is Not Good. let me explain:

s1 and s2 do an excellent job of manipulating implied perspective of scenes to put characters you're primed to dislike in slow-burn situations that at first exacerbate their flaws and then give them a shot at, not necessarily "redemption," but...imperfect mutual understanding. examples: victor perceived as literally murderous is revealed to be a victim (and later perpetrator) of a generational cycle of abuse; joy, as a victim of that cycle of abuse, lashes out and victimizes others; patricia, eddie, and jerome have more moments from their povs, so it's not quite as dramatic, but they experience a similar character arc as well.

on the flip side, you also get characters whose povs you get as your "main lens" (that can trick you into thinking youre viewing an objective pov) that have biases that become apparent as they interact with those "villainized" characters and react in ways inconsistent with the tone of the scene (thinking of nina and mara here primarily, but fabian also is a good example of this). that's how you get nina flipping out at the friends that SHE CURSED to the point that finally, FINALLY, she acknowledges that she's gone too far. (i should do a writeup on the curse arc and her behavior leading up to it because i think it's a fascinating commentary on the nature of being an "audience insert" that sort of gained sentience over time lol.) mara is self-explanatory here because she cannot help herself from cooking up the WORST possible response to a mundane relationship problem, and yet the tone of the scenes from her pov ends up being extremely sympathetic to her feelings (the way it's shot, edited, the music cues, etc.) in a way that fosters a really neat type of dissonance between text and subtext that doesn't signpost/announce itself until it's already Very There.

when these two different methods for handling character clash, as an audience, you're simultaneously told how to feel (those tonal cues i was talking about) but also left enough clues to change your mind (which i think the generally pro-joy tone of the discourse on this website is proof that people will do and is an intended potential experience of the show tbh). the moral/emotional result of that is a really neat commentary on subjectivity, how complicated reconciliation is, and how the only people too far gone to improve themselves are those who simply don't want to. the scene at the end of s2 with nina giving victor the tear makes me so emotional because it's an olive branch, an acknowledgment of the complicated nature of the situation and that victor has been a horrible person and made horrible choices in the past, but he does not have to keep doing that, and he does make the right choice when push comes to shove. same thing with joy in the senet arc (and i love that fabian is simultaneously the pov character and honestly the antagonist because of his inability to manage his emotions until the end), and honestly, same thing with patricia in early s1 re: her paranoia surrounding nina.

so what does this have to do with the sinners? well, they pretty much fly in the face of that entire writing philosophy on a fundamental, functional level, by design. considering "that philosophy" is just...earnest emotionally satisfying character writing in a story primarily driven by its characters and how they interact with one another over time...that's not great!

the leadup to a sinner capture is great. the afterwards is my issue. you take these characters who are in a narrative about not letting your flaws define you forever and you erase and overwrite their personality to be their singular greatest flaw, and then you reverse that and snatch away their memories to add insult to injury. that's not character regression (which is a completely legit avenue and is why the sinner captures are great in theory) -- it's anti-development, anti-human. it's certainly made worse by the fact that it's the show's final arc and thus the ex-sinners don't get a chance to process their experience on screen (needing that closure for myself is why i'm writing flat on your face lol), but even if it was addressed in the show in the best manner possible, it'd still feel cheap to me because it's agency-stripping and deeply cynical by design.

the thing is, this is deeply fixable. there's no singular way, but one i'm particularly interested in experimenting with is having the "sinner" be a sort of alter-ego that takes over in certain circumstances, subverting the conscious mind and leaving behind memory gaps and inconsistencies that lead the sinners to doubt themselves just as much as the other characters. it'd heighten the themes of misplaced trust that s3 is doing a lot of work with, and it would give the sinners a chance to still be their characters, have agency, continue to develop, and idk imagining a scenario where patricia or fabian is desperately begging someone to NOT trust them sounds fucking delicious to me. also other thing: it'd also fix something that's not really a "mistake" but just makes me sad, which is the fact that once a sinner is taken...that's pretty much it for their character as you know them for the rest of the show. like yeah, they're still there, but man, when the show was airing and fabian got taken, i straight up felt like he died, lol.

there's another issue that that proposed solution would sort of solve? but tbh is just another consequence of this type of plotline, which is: zero-sum game character development, or characters getting their quality/development sacrificed for the development of other characters. i do not like that patricia, easily one of the most complex and interesting characters on the show who goes back and forth between evolving and devolving as a person regularly in a way that feels sympathetic and consistent with her previous behavior and environment, has that progress torched and flattened for the sake of eddie's development. it's not necessarily poorly conceived or structured or illegitimate, but it's hella depressing for me to watch, personally. if it felt like she had more agency as a sinner (ie. the way sinners function being changed fundamentally), i wouldn't mind as much/it wouldn't feel like as much of a zero-sum sacrifice, but as it stands, her sinner capture and subsequent existence is completely centered on making eddie maximum miserable enough to move the plot forward. that's where i feel like i need to rewatch because that's certainly an uncharitable read, so that take is accompanied with a metric ton of salt!

that brings me to my other semi-gripe (less significant than the above but worth talking about): who specifically gets taken.

victor getting taken at all, but especially first, kinda rubs me the wrong way because following s2 where he was getting taken for a ride just as much as the kids were (if not more), its sad to see him flattened back into the caricature he was through the kids' pov in early-mid s1, except this time he's actually just like that. i do feel like taking victor is natural, though, so i'm not totally against him being a sinner/he's a character that i think can survive being made this sort of pseudo-"irredeemable" without being retroactively ruined because he's always been a tragic character. sweet, though should not have been taken, full stop, and i legit hate that as a writing choice.

when it comes to the kids, i understand the thinking behind taking old guard sibuna and it does appeal to me to have old vs new happening within the greater landscape of s3 and the show as a whole, but i think it's missing the trees for the forest a bit. it's too focused on the subtextual positioning rather than the material reality of what patricia, fabian, and alfie are feeling and doing as individuals -- not so much re: patricia and fabian (they were cruising for a bruising), but alfie. like idk alfie isn't always a saint but mara was right there. (jerome was right there. joy was right there. i dont necessarily think either of them would have made good sinners -- frankly they might have made me angrier actually and mara is PERFECT PERFECT IDEAL -- but they make more sense than alfie to me.)

re: fabian, his capture is easily the best scene of all the captures, despite the fact that it makes me physically ill (honestly because it makes me physically ill lol), and that's because it's founded in previous behavior (senet arc is basically the blueprint for the sinner arc in many, many ways) and exceptionally tragic to see as a result because you like him, but he's been off the rails lately. the thing is, i love him being messy, but i hate the permanence of the consequences, like all you need to do is have one (frankly deeply semantic) slipup of character, and boom, you're evil forever unless your bestie can clean up your mess. it's good writing, but the message it sends is nasty, which like i feel like i've probably said a million times in this post, is sort of the whole deal with the sinners.

tl;dr: the sinner arc is powerful emotionally, and i enjoy picking apart the effects it would have on the characters in fanfic (so i'm not full on pro-revisionism lol), but it's just too cynical for me to vibe with and enjoy watching. i love the rest of the show for how earnest and unwavering it is in its belief in people, so seeing it take that turn for the intensely cynical gut punch right at the end -- even if everything works out in the end -- will always be somewhat off-putting to me. i feel like there's more i want to say to further explain that, but i've already spun my wheels enough here, so i'll save it for a follow-up once i've finally cracked and done that deep-dive rewatch, lol.

tysm for asking!! <3

[extreme-investor-network]

White House Says It's 'Watching' The Market

Imagine this: you’re President Biden, you’ve been a career politician, your understanding of economics boils down to believing you can price fix oil prices, being on the political influencer dole, funded by China, through deals liaised by your ne'er-do-well son and clinging to the inane concept that over-taxation can solve all the nation’s problems because they can help fund the country’s most incompetent capital allocator: the government. You wake up on any given Monday to find that the stock market has just casually shaved off 5% from everybody in the nation’s retirement accounts. The culprit today? A cryptocurrency lending firm called Celsius has caused additional market volatility on top of the volatility that the Fed is causing as a result of its fight against inflation. “Damnit, Joe. It’s time to act,” you think to yourself, convinced there is some type of government solution to free markets taking 1 day to start to puke back 20 years of pornographic monetary policy. You pull up a chair in the Oval Office and grab a pen and a fresh legal pad, both bearing the seal of the President of the United States of America. Time to get some work done. You scribble down the word ‘Celsius’ on the pad. You stare at it for about 6 minutes. “Celsius,” you say to yourself. Then, you underline it. Starting to get exhausted, you repeat to yourself again, “Celsius”, while trying to remember metric/standard conversions from 7th-grade science class. “Celsius. What in the world do I do with Celsius. Think, Joe. Think.” It then occurs to you that you don’t actually know what Celsius is. You call in one of your younger interns who might know. They correct you for not using their zee/zir gender pronouns correctly and change the subject to climate change. They’re no help. Friggin kids. You’re on your own with this one. Back to the drawing board. In the background, CNBC is showing the stock market crash in real-time. “These people are financial experts,” you think to yourself. “They’ll know what’s going on.” You turn around to the TV and find this: You study this image. The guitar. The fire. What does it all mean? Unable to ascertain an answer from CNBC, you flip the channel to another financial news network. “There’s no bullshit on other networks, they’ll know what to do,” you think to yourself, feeling satisfied. You turn the channel and find this: Before you can try to digest this savvy analyst’s take on inflation or the markets, your press secretary bursts through the door, urging you to give her a statement so she can fend off the media, who has been asking about the market crash all day. “Tell them we’re keeping an eye on the market,” you tell her boldly, proudly content with your answer. But last month we told reporters "That's not something we keep an eye on every day, so I'm not gonna comment on that from here," she reminds you. You motion to her that it’s all OK now. We’ve got our heads wrapped around the problem: rate hikes are the only way to stop inflation but they’ll also crash the market. And after all, you’re writing things down on your legal pad - figuring shit out; Presidential shit - and you nod approvingly to her before pulling down your aviator shades. She leaves the room to inform “the wolves” of your major decision to make a statement. It hits the wires: WHITE HOUSE WATCHING STOCK MARKET CLOSELY: JEAN-PIERRE Ha. Success. That’ll hold those sons of bitches off for a while. Turning back to your legal pad, you think to yourself that we may need a congressional hearing to figure out what in the hell is really going on here. “This is what happens when Putin has influence and when billionaires don’t pay their fair share,” you think to yourself. You meekly manage to generate a subatomic particle worth of an idea: I wonder if Powell can print enough money to just buy stocks, you think to yourself. Would that help inflation? You glance at the clock. 5 hours have gone by. It’s closing time at the Oval Office and tomorrow is another day. Turning the lights off as you walk out of the room, you stop and glance back at an empty Oval Office and the desk where you’ve produced today’s Presidential achievements. You shake your head in disbelief that the nation could have such a low approval rating for you. You exhale. “Celsius,” you mutter to yourself as you walk out. Original Article Here: Read the full article

[kidmachinate]

Two Sides

Light and dark, good and evil. That's things people like to hear about. Certainly people don't want to hear about the literal two sides of a coin. Some of the most recent two sides of the coin one could say would be quiet quitting and quiet firing. While I understand the use of these terms, like most new made up terms, these things were happening already. We just have buzzwords for them now.

Quiet Quitting can be unfair to a company, assuming the company is good. The employee chooses out of nowhere to simply do the bare minimum. To a company this looks bad. How dare they do what they are supposed to do for the amount of time they are supposed to do it and then leave on time. They literally decide to do their job...and that's it. No more, no less. There's technically nothing wrong with this but just don't expect to get promoted when doing so. The only part that truly makes it unfair is where the quitting part comes in. Alongside doing what is required, it is done in silence. They will provide next to no input things, keep to themselves, look for the next role, and then just up and go. This is also pretty much the default state for many my age as stability is hard to find at times. We like this. We get toTake the Power Back"as they say. This is harder to do in a role where metrics come into play. Everyone has them to some extent, but sales roles or money driven companies all about their KPIs are probably gonna flip the switch.

The other side of this coin blindsides the employee. You get denied a promotion, a role switch, or assigned a role you didn't ask for. A complete turnaround you aren't expecting. Before you know it, a lot is changing...but it is to force you out. Quiet Firing. Why do we need buzzwords for this stuff? It was already happening. Anyway...all changes and even if you were trying to go because you see the writing on the wall, they want to be the ones to put you out...except if YOU quit, no unemployment or severance for you. Even if they eventually cave and fire you, even after putting you in crap work conditions, keep in mind there are sneaky aspects to this as well. Severance is basically hush money and who can blame anyone for taking it...but the company gets to avoid guilt and/or not be out in a bad light by a disgruntled employee. People like to toss around the word gaslighting a lot when it comes to abusive relationships but work counts too. Your boss or other authority figures can very much make you feel crazy for your valid concerns.

Both situations are a bit uncomfortable and I'm not on the side of a company really, unless they are truly one of the good ones, or the only way to know 100% is if you're the one in charge of the company and hopefully you don't do the same thing to others. The point really, as many things or people can have two sides to them, you only focus on your two sides. Do you let yet another setback, caused by you or not, turn you into a caring and or determined person, or does it turn you bitter and resentful. I recall a particular role in which I was given the chance to shine before a shift in management. One where I was able to manage for a bit. I liked having a team and helping them along their path because a year before then, I was on the same one. I didn't forget where I came from. Didn't just bark orders and expect my team to cover up my for shortcomings, or take credit for what they did. Didn't want to show two sides. Just the humble one that got me into a good place to begin with. Money itself isn't evil it's the people that use the tool, which then choose whether to be a good or bad person with it. Even life or death is two sides.

The whole premise behind this page is to keep choosing the former against all odds and not have each and every post made be the last, unless we choose it to be. Then we make new stories, even if not told here.

[stonewallsposts]

Looks on a scale

Forgive me for this, I know I've weighed in on the subject a few times, but I'm interested in some of the dynamics of these questions. 

I was watching a panel discussion between a host and 7 young ladies. The host asked the women a question, and they responded in a straightforward manner. But when they got pushback, they defended themselves with a number of justifications. I think some of their defenses were reasonable. Some of the defenses were not, and a few of those girls attempted to defend their responses by "moving the goalposts" in a manner.   Another name for moving the goalposts might be challenging the premises, which is a solid argument tactic. In fact, an experienced debater will always work hard to frame the argument in a way that gets the opponent to accept certain premises. If those premises are accepted, then it is much harder to attack the argument.  

Beauty on a scale  A panel of young women are asked to rate their looks on a scale of 1-10. 

Out of the 7 women asked, all rated themselves a 10, but one, who gave herself a 9.5. They all said that not only were they 10's, but that everyone is a 10. They agreed that self-love was really important, so it's clear that they are talking about how they see themselves, not necessarily how others see them. 

The pushback by the host was that it was arrogance. One girl on the panel answered that you should have self-confidence. The host responded by noting that you can have self-confidence AND a reasonable assessment of your looks at the same time. 

The scale is subjective  One of the girls answered that if she thinks she's a 10, she also accepts that not everyone else is going to see her as such. 

Dave:  The defense here is that different people see things differently, so there is no way to accurately assess one person on "a scale". The question becomes "Whose scale?" This is a fair objection too. We all have different likes and preferences 

The 9.5 girl said she believes that if 100 people were ranking her, she'd probably get an average of 9.5. She believes she would rate that highly even on a wider scale of a 100 people judging her.  

The guy states: if you're a 10, that means there are no women that are more attractive than you. 

Dave:   Here I disagree with the host. A scale of 1-10 would be complete if there were 10 people. If we enlarge the group to 100, then in an absolute ranking of 100 girls (assuming such a thing were even possible), 1-10 would correspond to a percentile. A 1, the lowest, would cover the bottom 10th percentile, 10 would cover the top 10th percentile. There would then be 10 girls that are '10s'. Widen it out to 1000 girls and there would be a 100 girls that would be 10s. In that group, saying you are a 10 would not be the same as saying you are the prettiest possible girl. So I take the point here that a numbering system is too limiting.   In the wider context of a city, there would be thousands of girls that would qualify as 10's. If the world has 8 billion people, and half are women, then that would mean statistically there are 400 million 10s.

Attractiveness is more than just looks.  Another girl says: being attractive is so much more than just looks. 

Dave:  This is of course true. The question originally posed was where they stood on a scale of looks, not just overall attractiveness. This is an instance of moving the goalposts. If you change the equation and add in more factors, then limit the pool to the people who would find you personally attractive, then you can probably make a case for being a 10, even if you wouldn't rate that highly purely on a scale of physical attractiveness. 

But that said, it IS true that attractiveness is much more than just good looks. We are attracted to people (thankfully!) for more than just good looks.  

An objection to metrics of beauty.  Then one of the girls objects to the whole beauty-on-a-scale idea. 

The guy asks if the women have ever said something like: He's a 10, but he wears flip-flops. The panel of women laughs and says- well it's a trend and it's funny. 

Dave:  I will take the host's point that we all do in fact judge even beauty on a scale. It doesn't have to be the predominant factor, but nonetheless we do judge it in some form. 

I had a conversation once where a woman said there were lots of aspects to a personality, each of which you might put on a scale. She would perhaps want a total of 7. If the guy is a 4 on the looks scale, it isn't a deal-breaker, but he's going to have to be a 10 on some other scale in order to counter-balance that. I would imagine we all operate on something like this when we are first getting to know someone. 

Another important factor is that what elements bump someone up on a scale can change. If someone finds another attractive, then they start to see the elements of the other's personality, and even their looks, begin to weigh more. He might start off thinking he would really like a sporty girl, but if he meets an intellectual, then her intellect begins to be seen in a different light. At that point, intellect begins to mean more to his scale than sportiness.  

So while I think the host is right in that we all use these common scales to weigh how much certain factors are "worth", at some point, they become irrelevant. 

Some other moments from the panel  The guy asks around the panel: if you're a 10, then you think there are no women prettier than you? 

Dave:  I'll leave the comment as is, since I already gave my own opinions earlier.  I will add another at the end though. 

The first girl says, No, there definitely are. But I said 10 because you can't really rate that on a scale, and people have different preferences. So many people could be beautiful but the scale is a stupid way to calculate that. She thinks a numerical scale is a dumb way to assess attractiveness. 

Dave:   Stating you are a 10, and then following that up with "I said that because you can't really rate it on a scale" is contradictory. If you think it can't be rated, why did you insist you're at the top? 

The second likewise thinks using a scale is not helpful since everyone judges differently and beyond that, using a scale puts people down. 

Dave:  Yes being judged on a scale will cause you to see that some are rated higher, which naturally means that some are lower. This happens with every assessment. Saying it's not helpful is silly. If it weren't useful, no one would bother. But since we all assess options everyday, we use common metrics to do that.  

The fourth woman admitted that sure, there were prettier women than her, but because social media distorts things, everyone was screwed up in the way they assessed things anyway. 

Dave:  Uh, sure. 

The fifth girl says the scale is stupid because of course there will be more attractive people than we are, and there will be more attractive people than those that are more attractive than the ones that beat us and it doesn't matter. If everyone here sees themselves as a 10, then they're 10s. And the ones more attractive than them are 10's too. 

Dave:  This is a pretty ridiculous comment on its face. You rated yourself a 10- top of the scale. Then you said there are other people that are more beautiful, which automatically demotes you to at most a 9. Then you said there are other people prettier than the people that bumped you from a 10 to a 9, which means those that displaced you from a 10 to a 9, have now been demoted to 9's, and you've been demoted to an 8. Her answer was to wave it away and declare everyone 10s. Why? Because it's uncomfortable to admit you aren't in the most attractive group? But she already did that, so why can't she just state she is at best an 8? This is an inept refusal to admit she was wrong. 

The sixth girl says it doesn't make you any less beautiful if someone is more beautiful than you. 

Dave:  Well, the existence of the scale doesn't change your looks one iota. And undoubtedly, someone can still find you the most attractive option, even if there are others more beautiful. But if we are talking about judging on a scale, then yes, the instance of someone more beautiful than you does, in fact, make you "less" beautiful. ONLY in the sense of the scale, though, because the scale measures 'more' and 'less' beautiful.  

I'll add here that because beauty is such a subjective thing, it IS really hard to say a person is some numerical value on a scale. It really does depend radically on who is doing the judging. Granting that there are some women who will rate higher on many scales than others. But since most of this is done in service of finding mates, rather than trying to win beauty contests, scales become less relevant. 

But let me return to the host's framing: if you're a 10, then you think there are no women prettier than you. 

There is no such thing as "the prettiest". I can find any number of exceptionally beautiful women that all look different. I don't think I could possibly rank one as 'the most physically beautiful'. This is going to happen all the way down the scale. While I can certainly assess beauty along a scale of what personally appeals to me, and I can note that in general, certain things would be given a higher rating than others, it all gets pretty muddy. 

As I mentioned, we need to assess options. We do so by considering aspects and then ranking them. This is just natural and it's natural that we do so with attractiveness as well. But at some point, many of the things we initially use to inform our choices are going to fall away. 

[comicaurora]

Do you find questions about lroe and logistics annoying? How do you draw the line between 'thinking the story is cool and wanting to know how something works' and 'trying to poke holes in the story to feel better about themselves'?

TLDR: It doesn't annoy me, but I do ignore anything that I don't think would produce an interesting answer. There is no line, but I do have thoughts.

I think a lot of media analysis and criticism centers on an invisible variable that is often overlooked, and that variable is "what standard are we holding this story to?"

Media criticism often described as "bad faith" tends to hold stories to standards like real-world physics, shot continuity or other small-scale and potentially irrelevant metrics that have nothing to do with the story's plot, morals, stated goals or overall themes, and will instead - as you put it - poke holes in the story in an apparent attempt to feel smart or score points. This criticism isn't asking how well the story is succeeding at telling itself, it's finding things to complain about by whatever metric is most convenient for that.

This isn't limited to media criticism. In fact, it's the same underlying structure behind almost all forms of bullying. There is nobody perfect enough to be completely uncriticizable, and there is no story that cannot be picked apart with an uncharitable enough angle. If your goal is to pick something or someone apart, you can always find a reason. And a story that's perfect from one angle can be shredded a hundred different ways from a million other angles.

I'm sure I've talked about this before, but one difficulty people encounter when writing any form of representation, for instance, is the existence of opposing stereotypes. If you write a female lead who's demure and gentle, she's playing to a feminine stereotype - that's a criticism point. If you write one who's brash and strong, oopsies, you're tacitly indicating that she can't be a protagonist without ditching her traditionally feminine qualities, thus indicating those qualities are bad! Criticism point. No matter what kind of character you write, you can be criticized for the stereotypes they fulfill and criticized for the stereotypes they defy. There is no way to write a character who cannot be criticized, and it's especially visible for characters in heavily stereotyped demographics.

And there are forms of representation or allegory that work for one thing but are terrible if interpreted as something else, once again producing angles of attack that you can be criticized for. Suppose you have a character whose arc is fundamentally about learning to accept themselves for who they are rather than changing themselves for the approval of others. This can be read as a positive and self-affirming arc for all sorts of identities, but if you reach, you can also read this as advocating against things like transitioning. And on the flip side, if you tell a story about someone changing themselves to be happy, it can be read as a toxic message for people struggling to accept themselves for who they are.

Because of this, it is impossible to write any sort of story that cannot be criticized, and it is unhelpful to act like a story that can be criticized is automatically in some way deficient or morally bad. If you find the right angle, anything can be criticized or deemed problematic in completely legitimate ways. Not enough of this, too much of that, what we got wasn't what I wanted, etc etc.

"Can I find a reason to criticize this" is an unhelpful and often unpleasant mindset. The answer is always yes, but it has the twofold impact of making the permacritic rather unpleasant to talk to (constant negative reinforcement will do that, see the "bullying" thing above) and making it very difficult for the permacritic to actually engage with media in any sort of helpful way. This school of criticism does not ask "what standard should I be holding this media to?" Without controlling for that variable, the criticism is just a lot of complaining.

When criticizing, I think it's very important to maintain focus on that question of the standard you're holding the story to, and the underlying corollary, "what is the story trying to be - and is it succeeding?"

I've seen media criticism that boils down to "this is not the story I wanted it to be." Valuable information, but not a helpful criticism to level at the story itself. Rather than taking the story at face value and judging it on its own merits, it holds it to the standard of a different story. This is where you get things like fix-it fanfics where people change the story to fit what they wanted to see. While I don't have a personal objection to this - fans can do what they want, and if someone wants to see a specific story I think one of the best things they can do is realize that and make that story - I think I'd personally steer clear of it. One of the joys of consuming media is seeing stories I'd never personally be able to think of, and holding all those stories to the standards of my own limited creativity feels like a good way to guarantee that I never grow and improve as a writer.

But if we hold a story to the standards of itself, there's still plenty of criticism to be had! And this is, I think, where valuable criticism lies. If we can figure out what a story is trying to do, we can determine how well it succeeds or fails. If a character is supposed to be overwhelmed with grief but the performance feels shallow and poor, that gives us a solid point of criticism - the story is failing to convince us of its own point, "this character is sad." If a fight scene is supposed to be frenetic and brutal but the editing is so frantic that we can't make out any of the coherent movement, the cinematography is disrupting our ability to buy that this is a serious, perilous fight scene.

This is why I think authorial intent is a very valuable factor in criticism. It isn't the only factor, but it gives us something very solid to measure against. When we're asking "what is the story trying to do?" and we find a comprehensive, clear answer to that, we can follow up with our subjective judgment "how well did it do that, and how and why?" This is the kind of vivisection that tells us how the story is really put together and lets us learn from it.

Without the question "what is the story trying to do," all our criticism is completely unhelpful from an artistic perspective. Does it matter that a scene doesn't conform to the laws of physics? Only if the scene is supposed to conform to the laws of physics! Does it matter if a background prop moves between takes? Only if the prop is important! What lessons can we learn from scattershot complaining that aims to find something wrong with every single frame of a story? We learn nothing, because even if every single "error" was "fixed", this school of criticism could find the exact same number of problems on a second pass. Any artist could tell you that perfection is unattainable and a work can always be criticized. The only people who think "I found something wrong" is an exceptionally clever observation are generally not artists, and typically don't volunteer helpful feedback for artists.

So to get back to your actual question, I think it's pretty easy to tell when someone is approaching your story from a place of affection or curiosity and when someone's just looking to score points off you or take out their personal frustrations on the closest target. There's no hard line because the difference isn't in the critical process, it's in the underlying approach. A bad-faith criticism can stumble on a solid point once in a while, but the critic still won't gain or give anything valuable from the experience. They're just racking up points.

[phantomrose96]

Buds After the Frost

This was supposed to be a short warm-up writing exercise yesterday and then it got... longer. Enjoy!!

...

The doors opened for Maddie Fenton with a pneumatic hiss. Pressurized nitrogen released, splitting open the vacuum seal on the door as its twin halves slid apart, slotting into the wall-mounted sleeves. The nitrogen misted out, cold and dry, air currents catching in swirls around Maddie Fenton’s lab coat. Her feet thocked against hollow metal, amplified by the coldness and the vastness of the containment room beyond.

She paused short of the specimen’s cell, mindful attention drawn to the panel of controls nested rightmost against the wall. The monitor read out stats, tracked metrics of the specimen’s heartrate and blood oxygenation and blood pressure. Dials beneath the screens offered her means of interaction, manipulating the cage’s environment without needing to tamper with it by hand. She ignored these, as she had been ignoring them the entire time, and paid mind only to the single switch which would seal shut the doors behind her.

She pressed it. Another pneumatic hiss followed, locking out the world behind her. Her breath curled, cold. She and the specimen were alone.

“No coffee this morning?” he asked.

Maddie sat down at the control panel, elbow leaning against the dashboard for support. She turned to the cage. “No. One of the interns broke the pot last night. New one should be delivered today.”

Phantom let out a huff of air. “You mean in this whole gigantic mega-hyper-futuristic government lab, there’s nothing that can stand in as a coffee pot?”

“I wouldn’t stay employed long if I tried using equipment to brew coffee.”

“Use one of the big ectoplasm beakers. Ectoplasm washes out with soap and water. Just suds it up and throw it in the coffee maker. I’m an expert about these things.”

“It’s more about protocol.”

Phantom waved her off. “’Protocol.’ Bureaucracy is standing between you and a delicious cup of ectoplasmic coffee, Dr. Fenton.”

Maddie looked forward now, taking him in. He’d hovered to the front of the cell, translucent reinforced glass separating him from the rest of the lab. Green eyes shined above a cheeky smile, a dusting of loose white hairs falling over his eyes, the rest of his bangs swept slightly to the side. His tailed flickered, his aura pulsed, his vital readings blipped out steady, normal, healthy.

“Phantom?”

“Yeah?”

Maddie paused.

“Why are you still here?”

The ghost boy let out a small guffaw. He motioned his arms around him, hands waving. “I dunno. Maybe the big ghost-proof box I’m in has something to do with it?”

“The shield is down, Phantom,” Maddie answered quietly. She set her eyes to Phantom, investigating. “…I put it down last night. It’s down now. You knew this.”

Phantom took just a moment too long to react, eyebrows arching up. “Oh, huh! Nope I didn’t notice. I mean it’s not like I’m constantly throwing myself at the barrier to electrocute myself so no I just didn’t try getting past it last night so I didn’t notice.”

“Phantom,” Maddie said again, voice measured, words stern. “You saw me crank down the dial that controls the shield.”

“Well I don’t know what all those buttons and dials do.”

“Yes you do. You’ve been observing me since day 1. You knew.”

Phantom kicked back in the air, floating a fraction back and higher. “Well maybe I thought it was a trap, I dunno. Or maybe I just like to get in your head, you know? What unpredictable thing will Phantom do next! Gotta write another 200 equations about ghost theory to figure that one out, Dr. Fenton.”

“Phantom.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you not want to leave?”

“Oh I wanna leave.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“We’re having a conversation. That’d be rude.”

“Will you leave as soon as I exit the room?”

“Who knows?”

“Phantom.”

“Yeah?”

Maddie stood. She left her chair and the control panel behind. She walked up to the specimen cage instead. It was cubic, a skeleton of metal bar ribbings with a metal mesh that plastered the glass sides like a membrane. The top anchored to the ceiling, the bottom—raised by about a foot—anchored to a pedestal on the floor. Maddie stared through the mesh into Phantom’s eyes.

“Is there anyone who realizes you’re missing?” she asked.

Phantom chewed on the question. “Nah. Well um, trick question, actually. Probably not. Assuming I do this right, then no one has even realized I’m gone.”

“Do what ‘right’?”

“You know that thing about Clockwork I explained?”

“You said he’s the ghost that controls time and reality.”

“Yeah. SUPER powerful.”

“And you said you …were from one of those other realities.”

Phantom nodded. “Maybe I touched some things in Clockwork’s lair I wasn’t actually allowed to touch. Jury’s still out on whether I’m in trouble for that or not. I’ve been a little too ‘stuck in this reality’ to know if Clockwork is pissed. But yeah, I got um, bopped into your reality instead of mine. So technically my reality is lacking me right now, and yeah there’s people there who’d know I’m missing.”

Phantom flipped upside-down, as though laying on his back. He rested his palms beneath his head, elbows out, suspended in an invisible hammock, head tilted far back so that he still stared at Maddie. “Especially since it’s been, what, a month that I’ve been gone?”

“2 weeks.”

“What? No way. I’ve been here absolutely forever it has to have been at least a month.”

“This is day 14 of your observation, Phantom.”

Phantom blew a strand of hair out of his face. “Anyway. Two weeks is still long enough to have a search party out on my butt. But whether or not that’s happened is up to – it’s kind of a Schrodinger thing. Because here’s my strategy. Assuming Clockwork hasn’t banned me from reality-hopping forever, I can just get him to send me back to my own reality at the precise moment in time I vanished. And then bam, no one ever knows I was gone. And it makes no difference whether I do that today, or next week, or next month. So assuming you eventually let me go, then I’m all set there.”

“You say that almost like you don’t care when it happens.”

“I dunno, more like I’m just not losing sleep over it. It’s not like I have a say in the matter. You do. I don’t.”

“Is the time you spend here just meaningless, to you?”

“I wouldn’t say meaningless. I’m still aging goddammit.”

“You’re a ghost.”

“I’m complex.” Phantom flipped right-side-up again. “If I start growing facial hair, send me back. I’m gonna have some awkward questions to answer if I show up again with a ghost beard suddenly.”

“…And what if I never send you back?” Maddie asked, careful with her words. “How does your plan work if you stay here forever? If I destroy you first?”

“Um. …It doesn’t, I guess.” Phantom set a hand to his chin, thinking. “Yeah um, please don’t do that. I don’t wanna worry my whole family like that.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“What part?”

“That you have a family.”

“I mean. I think that came up in Interrogation Session #3. Consult your notes.”

“I just have a hard time believing you.”

“Because I’m a ghost?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a complex ghost.”

“I know. You keep saying that.”

“It’s true.”

Silence filtered in between them.

“…What is your family like, Phantom?”

Phantom stiffened a fraction, his eyes finding Maddie’s and shifting away. “Oh, you know, family.”

“Do they exist here too?”

“Huh?”

“You’re from another reality, at least you’re claiming you are.”

“I gotta be. The me from this reality died 6 months ago, didn’t he?”

“The you from most realities is dead, Phantom. You’re a ghost.”

“A complex ghost.”

“The you from this reality was destroyed 6 months ago.”

“Which you validated with your own sciencey equipment, right? You said so! So you know I’m not lying. Unless you think I recombobulated myself from being a protoplasmic smear on the sidewalk.” Phantom caught himself, registering the flinch in Maddie’s body. He deflated a bit, eyes averted. “S-sorry. Inconsiderate phrasing.”

“Why?” Maddie asked, tone flat, blunt.

Phantom’s eyes shifted back. “Um. Just. You know. That accident was. There were um, you know—”

“Human causalities.”

Phantom squirmed. “We don’t have to talk about that, you know? No one wants to talk about that. Okay as a ghost I guess ‘talking about how I died’ is sort of a bit more normal, but this is weird yeah, ‘talking about how an alternate-me died permanently’? That’s morbid. No one wants to talk about that.”

“Okay then. You can go back to answering my previous question.”

“Um. I forget.”

“Does your family exist in this reality?”

“Um, well who really knows, you know? I had like a grand total of 20 minutes of freedom in this reality before you captured me, so, don’t ask me like I’m any kind of expert about your reality. What’s it matter?”

“I want to know if there’s anyone in this reality who’s mourning you.”

Phantom’s face schismed with surprise. His front dropped, and the first look of genuine emotion sank into his glowing eyes. “Woah… That’s um, weirdly nice, of you, I guess. Why do you… want to know?”

Maddie said nothing.

“I. Um. I think the answer is no? So don’t um. Worry about that. If you were worried? Which is weird. I’m the enemy, aren’t I? Evil spooky ghost to be studied?”

“I’m not so sure what you are…” Maddie answered. “I heard you got destroyed trying to save them.”

“The um… the human casualties?”

“Yes.”

“I said we don’t have to talk about that.”

“Phantom.”

“What?”

“Do you know who they were?”

“The… casualties?”

“Yes.”

“Come on we’re on a different topic now.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“I don’t—how’m I supposed to know? I don’t know how I died here, you know? You think I’ve got some kind of like… parallel-universe death vision?”

“So you don’t know?”

“N-no.”

“I have a different question, then.”

“Okay, good, because I haven’t been liking these previous ones.”

“Are you staying just to keep me company?”

Phantom faltered. He looked left, then right, hand scratching at his chin. “I’m staying because I’m in a ghost-proof box.”

“It’s not ghost-proof anymore. The shields are down.”

“I feel like you’re circling around some accusation I’m not smart enough to follow. This feels like entrapment.”

“Then I’ll be more direct.”

“Oh no there is an accusation.”

“I think you do know how you were destroyed in this universe, Phantom.” Maddie took a step forward, and she let her left hand touch the glass, eyes focused on her fingers. “I think you know what happened at the Nasty Burger.”

“That’s—um—the human food… consumption… location… that the local human adolescents meet at, yes?”

Maddie looked up, and she locked Phantom with her stare. He squirmed, and he relented.

“I um…” he continued. “I—yeah—yeah, okay? I know about the Nasty Burger accident. It was supposed to happen to me too in my reality but I—Clockwork—stopped it from happening in my reality.” Phantom glanced left, right, as if staring beyond the confines of his cage. “When I first got knocked into this reality, I went to go find the Fenton portal so I could try to refind Clockwork and fix this and… Well it wasn’t there. And I tried to find some people I know and… I checked out the library in case the Fentons just lived somewhere else and. I um. I found the articles.” His eyes focused on hers again. “They all say you were the only survivor, yeah…?”

“I was sick, that day. It was just a cold. My husband Jack went without me.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It took my daughter and my son too.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“And it destroyed you.”

Phantom opened his mouth, but no words followed.

Maddie looked up.

“You knew this. You’ve known this ever since I captured you.” Maddie let her hand slide away from the glass. “Did you let me capture you?”

“Why would I let you capture me?”

“Because you feel sorry for me.”

Phantom’s eyes flickered about, unwilling to meet hers. “…Nah. Nah. I don’t—come on ‘sorry’? I’m a ghost you know? Bane of humanity! We’re enemies. You were just too skilled a hunter and you captured me.”

“And yet you won’t leave.”

Phantom lapsed silent.

“I um… I wasn’t happy to read about—to know the, the thing at the Nasty Burger happened here, okay? That’s something that I kinda didn’t want to believe existed in any reality anymore, but I guess… And if you were still alive. I was… maybe just kind of happy to see you? That you were okay. And still hunting. That was kind of, like a small relief.” Phantom glanced away, back again. “I wasn’t evil, you know. In my reality or this one. I care about what happened to the Fentons…”

“You let me capture you. …And you did it because you thought it would be a nice thing for you to do for me.”

“I Just—I thought maybe, um… I mean when you phrase it like that. I mean what else could cheer up renowned ghost hunter Maddie Fenton quite like a ghost subject to study? Me, especially? The ghost boy or public enemy #1 or whatever. I’m fun, aren’t I?”

Silently, Maddie pushed away from Phantom’s cage. She moved to the control panel, stiff movements and numb fingers. She entered the release code into the console, and unslung the key from her neck to twist into the override, and she threw down each successive lever in the row of four lining the top of the mechanisms.

The scrape of glass sliding away sounded behind her. All four walls of Phantom’s enclosure dropped away, metal mesh sliding away piece-meal. Phantom stared at her, blinking, floating in place.

“You’re free to go, Phantom.”

“I—uh—well hang on, I don’t think the Guys In White would be too happy about that. You can’t just let me—”

“Go, Phantom.”

“They could like, fire you.”

“I don’t care about this job.”

“I—come on, you still wanna study me, don’t you? Chat with me? If you feel bad maybe just get me a couch and some video games for my cage then I’ll be—”

“Phantom.”

“What?”

“Go home to your family.”

The half-hearted smile dropped from Phantom’s face.

“Come on. You can’t just evict me on such short notice. I’m not ready for Clockwork to kick my ass so soon.”

“Go home.”

“I’m not in any rush! I like talking to you. Don’t you—don’t you like talking to me too? In like a scientific way?”

Maddie lowered herself into the chair by the control panel. She leaned forward, arms pooled in her lap, eyes to the floor. “You have a family to get back to, Phantom.”

“It’s—there’s time travel shenanigans! Like I said they don’t even know I’m gone.”

“Every single day, Phantom,” Maddie looked up, eyes stern, “…I wish every single day that my own family would just come back home. I won’t do the same to you. I won’t do the same to your family.”

Phantom said nothing. A somber acceptance sunk into his eyes.

“They’re… alive, you know. In my dimension.”

Maddie dropped her head, and she blinked away the wetness in her eyes.

“I actually… in my dimension I’m kind of closer to the Fentons than I think the, the Phantom in this dimension was. It’s… complex.”

Maddie said nothing. Silence built between them.

“Jazz is um… Jazz is applying for colleges, y-you know. She got in early-acceptance to Yale but um, we all—they all—visited Columbia last month and I think that’s what she wants the most. I can see Jazz in New York City. I think she’d rock it.”

Maddie blinked again. Tears plicked into her lap.

“…Should I stop?”

“Jack… Tell me about Jack.”

“Oh. Yeah he um… big and goofy as ever. He’s got some kind of eight-armed-octogun he’s working on. I know because I was his target practice, involuntarily by the way. He keeps trying to merge “Fenton” and “octopus” together with mixed results. We—Mo-addie—you… are still trying to talk him out of ‘Fentoctopus’.”

Maddie’s ribcage shuddered, a repressed sob, a repressed laugh.

“And Danny?”

“Danny… um… Danny is...” Phantom’s shoulders fell a little bit. He looked away, and then back at Maddie. “He loves you. I know that.”

Maddie blinked, and blinked again, and her eyes wouldn’t clear.

“And are they happy?”

“They’re happy.”

“Am I happy…?”

“You’re…” Phantom’s tail bounced. “You’re happy, I think. I like to think so. I think you’re very happy. You have a great family.”

Maddie nodded.

“Now go.”

“But I still—”

Maddie reached forward, and she grabbed the ecto-gun propped against the control panel. She lifted it into her shoulder, and flicked the safety, and the charge built along the rising whine.

“Go.”

Phantom balked. He blinked. He kicked away from his wall-less cage. “Not forever. I’ll be back. You won’t be alone here forever.”

He was gone.

And Maddie was alone again.

…

Clockwork surveyed the boy in front of him whose head was bowed nearly to the floor, white bangs trailing along cobblestone, hands clasped, apologies repeated, begging case made.

Clockwork ran a hand along his beard, which unfurled, drew back, undid itself with the shifting of his form to a simple child.

“So let’s see. You have the audacity to break my rules andbeg me to meddle on your behalf in the time stream, all in the same breath? Apologies don’t usually come with additional requests for favors.”

“I know,” Danny’s head dipped lower. “You can punish me however you want for touching the restricted timelines but you have to help it, or let me help this one timeline. Please, please just send me back to the Nasty Burger incident so I can save it.”

“It’s already been saved.”

Danny faltered. He looked up.

“You died at the Nasty Burger incident that night,” Clockwork elaborated, form shifting older. “There is no you to ruin that future. That timeline is safe. It’s a very lucky timeline.”

Danny blinked. “N-no. No that’s not what I mean. Save it like you saved my timeline.”

“That did happen. You’re describing your own timeline.”

“I mean do it to THAT one.”

“You are misunderstanding timelines.”

Danny lapsed silent. Worry bled into his eyes, and Clockwork sighed.

“There is no undoing timelines, Danny. There is only forking them by meddling in the stream. All futures and pasts you witness exist, and do exist, and continue to exist,” Clockwork paused, “with the exception of realities I needed to cull, to prevent utter catastrophe.” His gaze fixed on Danny. “The futures that your evil self destroyed, I did have to cull. And culling a reality is not to be done lightly.”

Clockwork motioned with his staff. “There were a handful of surviving realities that I was able to save. That room you meddled in without my permission—they contain the realities off the main track where, for one reason or another, something else succeeded at destroying your future self. …Your own deaths, in fact. In every one of those realities, Danny, you are dead.”

“I don’t…” Danny shook his head. “So then just tell me how to save that one I was in, okay?”

“Oh, that’s easy.”

“How?”

“You don’t.”

Danny said nothing. Clockwork shifted young.

“You can let it live on in that room, or you could ask me to cull it, Danny. You could ask me to cull every reality in that room, so that the main branch, the one you’re from, is the only reality in existence. So you never have to worry about any existence where your family is unhappy. And it will be that way until you, or I, or someone else, meddles with the timestreams again, and more splits occur.”

Still, Danny said nothing. Clockwork continued.

“Sometimes, a mass culling of realities is healthy for the tree of time, like pruning a plant down to its stalk to survive an unforgiving winter, or a terrible disease. But I did that, just recently, to save all of time from the blight of your future self. It would feel cruel to snip off the first buds that have come after the frost.”

Danny lowered himself to the floor.

“Okay…”

“Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. Just. I have a different question then.” He looked up, a young devastation wet in his eyes. “Can I still go back and visit that reality, sometimes?”

“No. I cannot give you permission to do that.”

“Please!”

Clockwork spun his staff. A portal swirled into being in the space between him and Danny. Washes of color formed patterns, shapes, objects, images. Like a mirror, it reflected Clockwork’s lair beyond its shimmering surface.

“This is a portal back into your own reality. It is set to the location and the time that you vanished. Go there, and leave through the Fenton portal, and nothing will be amiss.”

“No. No no I won’t. Clockwork you have to let me—”

“I am doing you a favor, Danny, getting you home after you caused more trouble. Do not make further demands of me.” Clockwork curled forward, old, sallow skin sagging, and he turned his back to Danny.

“You have to give me permission—”

“I am the only one who has permission to meddle in realities, Danny. This is an absolute.” Clockwork glanced over his shoulder. “And because this is an absolute, I have no reason to have a lock on the room housing those budding other realities.”

Danny blinked.

“I wonder if anyone might break my rules anyway. I wonder if anyone might be nosy, and enter that room anyway, and water the plants in that greenhouse without my permission.” Clockwork stared forward again.

“Clockwork…”

“Luckily I am the master of all time. I would be able to see this coming. And maybe plan for it. If ever such a person would come into my lair, and meddle in my timelines, and try to spread a bit of his own kindness to the realities he couldn’t quite save, I would be fully prepared to stop him.” Clockwork spoke into the green abyss beyond him. “Unless, maybe, I were to accidentally have my back turned.”

Silence trailed after Clockwork’s words. He kept his back to Danny, staring into the abyss of swirling green ether beyond.

“…Thank you,” Danny answered, quietly. “I’ll be back.”

“I imagine you will. Those realities may get lonely without you.”

When Clockwork glanced back over his shoulder, both Danny and the portal were gone.

[scripttorture]

Hello! I have a few questions related to your most recent post and the definition of torture. You said:

"A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture."

According to everything else I have seen on your blog, this makes sense - the mental and physical trauma from being tortured have lasting effects which make certain tasks more difficult.

However, this seems to juxtapose certain tropes I've seen in US military training advertisements. For example, "Hell Week" in the Navy SEAL training seems like it would be torture if it was forced upon someone (like if the soldiers didn't sign up for it and didn't have the option to quit.). *Hell Week is when soldiers are training continuously for 5 days in freezing, wet conditions, with little more than 4 hours of sleep for the entire week, under insane amounts of physical and mental stress.

- If someone chose to be tested both mentally and physically, I feel like it wouldn't be torture. However, if the same exact conditions were forced upon someone else (testing their mental and physical limits without their consent or understanding), does your quote above mean that the person who did not have a choice would not reap the benefits of the training/testing? Or would the Navy SEALs be better soldiers if they didn't have to go through 'torturous conditions' during Hell Week, regardless of their choice to do so?

(I used Hell Week as an example, but I meant this question generally. I'm trying to figure out how to best train an elite soldier and avoid any harmful torture apologia tropes, while also making sure that they are able to handle insanely challenging situations)

- My other question has more to do with the definition of torture that you quoted from the UN in one of your master posts. If someone is being seriously injured (pulled fingernails, whipping, starvation etc), but not for the purposes of interrogation, punishment, or intimidation, is that still torture, or is that just abuse? And, regardless of what we call it, would the effects be the same as if it were torture for any of the three motives above?

Sorry if this is long and hard to understand, I can clarify if needed!

It’s not the longest I’ve gotten and it’s perfectly clear, duck*. :) Honestly this is a difficult topic with a lot of nuance, it’s better to take a longer and more thoughtful approach.

 From the stand point of the legal definition and what we study/understand as torture any consensual activity, however extreme, is not torture.

 But here’s where it gets interesting: consent and our attitude to an activity actually changes our response to pain. It may even change how much pain we feel.

 I’m going to take a slightly different example to yours. There are a lot of cultures globally that have practiced scarification, ritual cutting to deliberately form scars. And this can be done for a lot of reasons: membership of a family or clan, coming of age, traditional medicine, religion, you get the idea.

 A lot of people in these cultures describe their scars as incredibly important and the process of getting them as a moving, deep and positive process.

 This does not mean they wouldn’t be traumatised if they were attacked by someone with a knife.

 Being able to approach something painful and see it as positive really changes our perspective. It makes trauma and mental illness a lot less likely. And being able to back out, even if it’s just for a little while to take a breather, seems to make us able to withstand more pain then we would have otherwise.

 The simplest and most famous experiment that dealt with this relationship between our mindset and pain asked people to keep their hands in ice cold water. They timed how long people could do it when they were told to stay silent and how long they could do it when they were allowed to swear. If they swore they could hold their hands under for longer. An average of forty seconds longer.

 Looking back over O’Mara (Why Torture Doesn’t Work, a very good intro to how pain works and what it does to the brain) the way he describes it as by thinking of the experience of pain as a collection of three things. There’s the physical sensation itself, the nerves firing. But there’s also an affective component, how we feel emotionally about the experience and a cognitive component, how we think about it.

 Did you ever play that game as a kid where you stuff as many chilis as possible in your mouth to see who would spit them out first? I… might have done. And from what I remember it hurts an awful lot. But those memories to me are mostly about messing about with my friends, I remember trying to be stubborn about it and I remember us laughing at each other.

 This is a completely different experience to someone being held down and having chili stuff up their nose. But the difference isn’t necessarily in the physical damage done or the physical sensation of pain. It’s in the other components, the emotional response and the rationalisation.

 I also had a filling drilled in my tooth without painkillers as a kid. I don’t know how common this is in the West? It happened in Saudi. Honestly my biggest memory of it is the language barrier between myself and the dentist.

 These are anecdotes obviously but I’m trying to show that you probably also have experiences in your own life that back up the experiments too. The way we think about a painful experience really does make a huge amount of difference. And that means consent matters enormously.

 These soldiers are going into this experience knowing what to expect, how long it will last and that they can stop at any time. That makes a huge amount of difference. Those same factors have drastically increased the time volunteers will spend in solitary confinement for research. I’m pretty sure if I dug even a little I’d find pain studies with similar findings.

 Here’s the flip side: the physical factors are still in play.

 Sleep is an important physiological process that’s essential to normal functioning. Studies on consensual sleep deprivation have shown massive negative impacts on memory along with a host of other things that you can read about here.

 Let’s take a non torture example. A student who stays up all night cramming for an exam is not going to develop the symptoms of trauma that a torture survivors who was sleep deprived would. But the effect sleep deprivation has on memory is due to sleep playing an essential role in preserving memory (and learning more generally.) So they’re both likely to have difficulty remembering things in days just before and just after sleep deprivation. They’re also both more likely to have false memories and catch a bad cold.

 As a result of this memory impairment I question the educational value of anything involving sleep deprivation: you can’t learn while messing up the processes that let your brain remember things.

 There have been cases in the UK of people dying during training for the armed forces. Because while consent makes a huge difference, mindset makes a huge difference- our bodies still have limits. We can choose to push ourselves past those limits and, whatever our motivation or feelings, it can do real harm.

 Personally? I’m unsure of the benefit of these kinds of exercises. As in I’m unsure there is a benefit. Learning is going to be shot, chances of injury are going to be a lot higher- I don’t see anything that could be improved by these sorts of exercises.

 Anecdotally people do report feeling like a closer unit after going through these sorts of routines. That might be the benefit: moral and unit cohesion, possibly self-esteem too.

 If you’re making up something for your story I think it’d be helpful for me to mention a little statistical effect that gets used to justify punishment pretty regularly. Get some dice out if you’ve got them and roll one. Let’s say the number represents performance in some kind of test (because effort and learning matter but our performance also varies because of things we can’t control.) A roll of 1 gets punished, a roll of 6 gets praised.

 Now after you roll that first 1 statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be better. And if you roll a 6 then statistically speaking the chances are your next roll will be worse. People observe this effect in real life and they often conclude that there’s no point in praising someone but that punishment leads to improvement. Really it’s just a statistical effect, after a particularly, noticeably bad day the chances are things will be better next and vice versa.

 This effect can make it difficult for people to recognise overall, long term progress. Which is the kind of progress you should be paying attention to when designing a training program.

 If you want good performance from people, whatever the metric, the most efficient thing to do is ensure that those people are; well fed, have access to clean water, get plenty of sleep, have breaks and have access to medical treatment when they need it.

 I’d say the main things to keep in mind when designing this fictional training regime are:

Being honest about the effects you describe, ie if they’re spending long periods without shelter are they at risk from exposure? If they’re standing in cold water are they going to get hypothermia?

Remember that even if something is damaging or causes lasting trauma it would not necessarily prevent someone from doing their job. Torture survivors have serious, lasting symptoms but many of them still work.

 I think I’m going to leave that there because I’m not an expert in militaries or training people. And keep in mind that I am a pacifist, read this with my biases in mind.

 Getting to the second question, there is a little more to the UN definition then that. The primary factor is still who the abuser is. For it to be torture (legally speaking) the abuser has to be (or be ordered by) an on-duty government employee, part of a group that controls territory (ie an occupying force). Some countries also count international organised criminal gangs in this definition.

 It’s also important to note that torture can be targetted at someone other then the victim. So if the police arrest the brother of a political opponent and beat him in order to intimidate the politician, that is still torture.

 Basically there are a lot of factors in the legal definition of torture and it’s that way by design. The hope is that you end up with a framework that captures as much government abuse as possible.

 But it also means that there’s a pretty high barrier when it comes to proving torture. Which means that things which are legally torture can be prosecuted as assault, bodily harm or equivalents to these, because it’s easier to get a conviction for those charges.

 Technically you are correct: if abuse done by a government official doesn’t have one of the four motivations in the legal definition (attempts to obtain information, forcing a confession, intimidation or punishment) then it doesn’t meet the definition.

 However in practice I’ve not heard of a case failing because of the motive.

 I’m not a lawyer and I’m not an expert in international law. I won’t say it’s never happened. But it’s much more common for cases to fail for other reasons. Off the top of my head I’d say the most common reason is difficulty proving the abuse took place.

 The most common types of torture today are ‘clean’, a term we use to indicate that they don’t leave obvious marks. If someone turns up with fingernails torn out or the skin of their back lacerated by a whip that is clear physical evidence of abuse. Nothing else causes similar injuries. But if someone turns up at a doctor’s with swollen feet or reddened skin, if they’ve lost a lot of weight or they’re so tired they’re struggling to stand… Well all of those things can be caused by common tortures. But they can also be caused by common illnesses.

 A lot of the deaths from torture today are similarly hard to prove. Beatings and stress positions ultimately cause death by kidney failure. Which can mean that prosecutors are asked to prove a victim didn’t have an underlying health condition. Or take drugs.

 Honestly my instinct is that the motive is the easiest thing to prove. It’s often harder to bring charges against people in positions of authority, regardless of the country we’re talking about. Bringing those charges, proving abuse took place and proving it was done by the person in question, those are usually the tricky parts.

 The difference between torture and abuse is scale. Torture is industrial scale abuse.

 The law doesn’t define that scale but that’s what we’re talking about when we talk about abuse from organised authority. Abusers might have dozens of victims. Torturers have thousands, tens of thousands.

 If you want to explore a different motivation in your story, something outside the legal framework, consider the scale at which this abuse is taking place. Consider how organised it is. If it’s organised and large scale, with multiple abusers, with no prior relationship between the abuser and victims then torture will probably be a better model then abuse. If it’s smaller scale with a more personal relationship and if it isn’t supported by a legal framework/organisation then abuse might be a better model.

 For victims and survivors the difference isn’t so much about the symptoms they personally experience as the… side effect of that scale. Abuse victims are often very isolated and may not know anyone who has had a similar experience. Torture implies a community of survivors and possibly generational trauma. There are also effects to do with access to support, access to medical care and how likely it is that someone will be believed.

 Torture survivors are often systematically disenfranchised in a way that abuse victims are not. Torture survivors are often forced to leave their home country. Anecdotally, based on what I’ve seen globally over the last few years, I think that struggling to get citizenship is increasingly an issue for torture survivors. And without citizenship there’s difficulty finding legal work, getting accommodation, accessing medical care, accessing the legal system etc.

 I do not know whether torture survivors are more or less likely to be believed by their community compared to survivors of abuse. I do not think any one has attempted a comparative study. I do know that the prevalence of clean torture means that many torture survivors are not believed and this puts up a further barrier, making it harder to access medical treatment and bring charges.

 Rejali’s book was published in 2009, so things may have changed a tad. At the time he was writing the average wait for a torture survivor to see a specialist doctor was about 10 years.

 Abuse is to torture what murder is to genocide. And there are difference on a wider social scale as a result.

 I mention all that because I feel it’s relevant but the impression I get is you’re mostly interested in the long term symptoms? In which case, yes the legal definition makes very little difference. The physical injuries caused by particular kinds of abuse don’t change depending on whether it’s a private individual or a police officer holding the Taser.

 The lasting psychological symptoms are not particular to torture; they’re what the human brain does when traumatised. The same symptoms can manifest in people who witness traumatic events but weren’t actually hurt themselves. They can manifest in people who were injured in accidents and they manifest in people who were neglected or abused. Hell, I have a couple of them, though no where near the severity a torture survivors would experience. A sufficient amount of stress is enough for these symptoms to start developing in anybody.

 You can find the general list of symptoms here. There’s also a post specifically about memory problems over here.

 The pattern I describe; that these symptoms are a list of possibilities not ‘every torture victim will get all of these’ holds true for trauma survivors generally. Anecdotally there is some variability with chronic pain being reported more often with some kinds of abuse. That might be because it can have physical causes, psychological causes or a mix of the two.

 Whether it’s torture or abuse there isn’t any way to predict a survivor’s symptoms in advance. Much of the advice I have about writing torture survivors and their symptoms holds true for trauma survivors generally. Which is why I’ll still take a crack at some questions that aren’t about torture.

 Pick the symptoms that you feel fit the character and serve the story. We can’t predict symptoms and that means that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t pick the things that appeal to you.

 And I think I’m going to leave it there. I hope that helps :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*This is a weird English endearment. I had someone ask if this was me trying not to swear. 

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Maybe WE don’t believe in YOU!

It’s throwback Thursday time ... this is a goodie from 2009 (dragged kicking and screaming from Gossamer) ... oi, these things amuse me at times :)

any and all errors are from the original post and have not been changed to preserve giggles and chuckles :)

@today-in-fic​

&&&&&&&&&&

He saw her sitting halfway up the bleachers, amidst yelling parents and clapping children. He knew she'd gone outside a good 15 minutes ago but since she'd neglected to come back, he though he'd better go and collect her. He didn't move fast, more at his usual long-strided amble given there wasn't much to hurry about anymore. Since the police station was next to the elementary school fields, he didn't have far to walk; soon standing beside the rickety aluminum riser seats.

She didn’t notice him at first but when she did a general sweep of her surroundings, as was natural habit at this point, she lit on his face staring up at her and with a barely noticed head-tilt, she gave him a half smile.

Figuring this was an invite of the most discreet kind, he picked his way through the scattered crowd, settling next to her without a word. Silently, they sat together through the last minutes of the game as well as through the exodus of people, kids, strollers and family dogs.

It wasn't until the last person stepped off the field that Mulder turned to her, squinting against the late afternoon sun, "hi."

Pushing her hair back, only to have the light breeze ruffle it again, "hi."

"So, got a little tired of Sheriff Blowhard and his parade of blightless minions?"

"A little. There's only so much blowharding and blightlessness one can take. Besides,” nodding towards the now deserted field, "they looked like they needed another fan."

Knocking shoulders with her gently, "you know, if we get our paperwork done, we can get the hell out of Dodge."

Holding silent for a moment, "promise me our next case won't be like this. I don't think I can do this again anytime soon."

"Well, I'll try to order us up a nice, juicy monster but don't hold your breath."

"Just promise to try. That's all I ask."

One glance into her tired, dull eyes made him nod, "promise."

"All right then." Standing and holding her hand out to him, "let's, as you put it, get the hell out of Dodge."

"If only the place was actually called Dodge."

"Getting the hell out of Parson Village doesn't exactly have the same ring to it, does it?"

Finally down on the ground, they walked back across the parking lot, "not really."

&&&&&&&&&

Working through the last of the forms, they said good-bye and left, glad to be leaving the place behind them. The drive back to the hotel was quiet but a companionable quiet, one where Mulder left the radio off and Scully stared out the open window, enjoying the fresh air and the colors of the setting sun.

Back at the hotel, "do you still want to leave now or wait until the morning?"

He knew she would prefer to go than stay and since he wasn't tired, "now works for me." Checking out went by in a flash and once Mulder had made a not so secretive trip to the vending machines, they were off, "you sure you want to drive first? I'm awake."

Scully just turned the car on, "I'm good for now. I'll let you know when it's your turn."

"Fair enough." Putting his seat back to a decent incline, he settled in, "mind if we keep the windows open for awhile?"

She gave him a smile, "as long as you don't mind me having the wind blown look."

"Naw, you wear it well."

"Okay, now you're just buttering me up."

With a laugh, he rested one arm at his side, the other on the middle compartment, hand dangling by the shifter, "just say thanks, Scully."

"Thanks, Mulder."

He was feeling a bit mischievous but held off until they had been on the road for a few minutes. From his position, he could tell no one else was on the quiet country road and in a fairly nonchalant way, he made like he was turning on the radio but instead, pushed the shifter forward into neutral.

The engine revved, Scully looked around in panic, then saw Mulder's hand beside the stick, "what the hell?" Shoving it back in drive, she swung and hit him near full force in the chest, "are you insane?"

Now for the fun part.

Wincing, he curled his arms to his chest, pretending the blow had actually hurt him, "damn. I was just gonna turn the radio on. I bumped it on accident." Plastering an appropriate grimace on his face, "there's less painful ways to kill me, you know."

Her face scrunching in honest apology, "I'm so sorry. I thought you did it on purpose. I … I'm sorry."

Rubbing his chest for good measure, "remind me to ask before moving next time." The urge to laugh nearly won but he held it in, "I feel extremely sorry for any suspects on the receiving end of your fist."

Automatically reaching over, she wrapped her hand around his forearm, "I'm sorry."

"S'okay." Wondering how long she'd keep her hand there, "was kind of funny though, wasn't it?"

She shrugged, "maybe it will be later but right now, I just feel bad."

"No harm, no foul, right?"

Keeping her hand on him with no sign of letting go, "right."

&&&&&&&&&

They switched places a few hours later, Scully beginning to yawn and stretch to keep herself awake. Mulder, who'd managed a nap, readjusted the seat and mirrors before looking over at her, "all set?" Head already lolling on the seat and eyes closed, she only nodded.  As always amused by the swiftness she could fall asleep, he pulled the car out of the gas station and back on the freeway.She slept for about a half-hour, then woke again when he hit a bump in the road, "sorry."

Shaking the cobwebs from her brain, "no, it's okay." After re-positioning the seat back, she stared out the window for a minute before, "where are we, anyway?"

When he turned to look around, she swiftly reached over, flipping a small switch on the dash, "we're about 10 miles from the middle of nowhere."

"That's specific."

He gave her a lopsided grin before looking back through the windshield.

She wondered how long it would take for him to notice.

Not long, she soon discovered.

Taking a cursory glance at the speedometer, he slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forward slightly, "what the hell?" When he had looked, he saw in horror that he was doing 120. Still talking to himself, "there's no way in hell I was doing 120."

Playing along, "what?! You're going 120? I don't need to die tonight, Mulder."

"I didn't realize …"

"Just slow the hell down!!"

He shrank into the seat and heart pounding, he brought his speed back to 75 but when looking out the window, he would swear they were nearly crawling. She then watched him look from the speedometer to the road to the speedometer once again, then to the smile she couldn't contain, "why the hell are all the gauges in metrics now?"

Reaching over, she re-flipped the switch, turning everything back to normal, "did you really think I'd let the neutral thing go unanswered?"

Instead of being annoyed, he looked at her admirably, "nice."

&&&&&&&&&

She was sound asleep again an hour later when Mulder discovered he was contemplating how long he could shut his eyes before it got dangerous. Poking his finger into Scully's thigh, "hey, you awake?"

When she only mumbled, he knew they were both done for the night but with only an hour left to go, he debated pushing it.

Until he heard his tires running on the rumble strip.

Yeah, it was time to stop.

Especially when he saw it … a bright beacon of hope in the distance.

Wal-Mart.

24-hour, anyone can sleep in the damn parking lot, beautiful, shiny Wal-Mart.

He pulled off the exit ramp and soon, he stopped the car in the center of a vast expanse of parking lot. Cracking the windows so they wouldn’t suffocate, he put his seat back, stretched and promptly fell asleep.

A blissful sleep that lasted almost a full two hours, until, “what the hell?”

The sound of her voice jolted him upright and his hand caught the horn, beeping it obnoxiously as he blinked against the painfully bright light in his eyes, “huh?”

By now, she was rolling down the window and being the least polite he’d ever heard her, “what!?”

The flashlight lowered but all Mulder could see was the spot it had burned into his retinas. The spot spoke in a low, male voice, “evenin’ folks.”

Again, Scully rolled off with, “what!?!”

“Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He could feel Scully building rapidly towards some other, more improper phrases and heading her off with a hand on her arm, “we were tired and thought we’d take a nap instead of wrapping ourselves around a telephone pole.” As the spot began to fade, he could make out an older gentleman behind the lowered flashlight, “I thought people could park and sleep here for the night?”

“RVs can park but ya’ll aren’t in an RV so I thought maybe you were havin’ some trouble.”

Hearing Scully sigh resignedly through her nose, he spoke again, “no trouble, sir. Just tired.”

“Well, ya’ll be careful.”

As he turned and walked away, Mulder looked at her irate expression, “hi.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

Unbuckling her belt, “I have to go to the bathroom and you’re coming with me.”

Opening his door, “why are you pissed at me? I didn’t scare the shit out of you with a flashlight.”

“Just come on.”

She stalked across the parking lot, Mulder trotting to catch up, then settling into an easy gait until they got to the store entrance, “are you gonna make me come in with you or do I get to wait outside the door?”

With eyes narrowed, she left him in the entryway and disappeared into the ladies room. Deciding to go himself, he still beat her back and was leaning on the wall when she came out drying her hands on her jeans. She seemed calmer and leaning next to him, “I’m hungry.”

Gesturing through the doors that led to the actual store, “I bet there’s something in there, if you’re willing to risk it.”

“Lead the way, partner.” Both were shocked by the amount of people in the store, “what time is it anyway?”

Finding her wrist with his hand, he twisted her watch around until he could read it, “um, 1:15.”

“Why are all these people here? Don’t they have homes and beds?”

“Insomniacs make the best shoppers.”

She let a small chuckle escape her nose, “just find me something to eat.”

Well, she should have known not to A) shop when she was hungry and 2) shop with Mulder. She should have also put her foot down when he suggested getting a cart.

An hour later, they were finally through the checkout.

Scully had found some sandwiches, drinks and chips for them both, then stupidly gave Mulder control of the cart. He immediately steered towards the entertainment section and was soon pawing through the $3.99 DVD bin.

That killed a half-hour right there. Damn those bins and their B-movie classics.

After he’d found several handfuls of movies, he veered through men’s clothing for socks, housewares for a new shower curtain (which Scully silently thanked God about), hardware to replace the two flashlights he’d left in their hotel rooms, back to menswear  for the underwear he’d forgot on the first trip (black boxer briefs, much to Scully’s amusement), then finally through women’s clothing, where he stopped in front of a rack of slogan t-shirts.

Standing for a moment, he studied them, then picked one up with an alien beside a spaceship who was pointing out and stating, “maybe WE don’t believe in you.” Holding it against her for a second, he tossed it in the cart and finally moved to the check-out.

She followed, dumbfounded by the last hour of her life, “Mulder … why …?”

“Shhhh, it’s too late to argue and too early to win.”

Whatever the hell that meant, she graciously allowed him to pay for their food, along with the industrial size Payday bar she tossed in at the last minute.

&&&&&&&&&&&

As they ate their makeshift dinner sitting in the car, “why did you buy me that t-shirt? Do you really think I’m gonna wear it?”

Grinning with a mouthful of half-chewed turkey, “you will. You’ll be getting dressed for something and you’ll just get the urge to put it on. So you will and you’ll realize you like it and that’ll be that.”

“Is this how you get your shopping done because I can see why your cupboards are bare.”

“Never ask about a man’s shopping habits.”

“Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“Trade you sandwiches?”

He handed the rest of his sandwich to her immediately, taking her partially eaten roast beef in its place, “no dressing?”

“Nope.”

“So much to teach you, grasshopper.”

&&&&&&&&&

“I’ll drive if you want me to.”

Scully shook her head, “naw, I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not tired now so I’ll keep you awake.”

With a grin in his direction, “God help me.”

“God’s probably asleep Scully. All you got is me.”

“Again, God help me.”

&&&&&&&&&&

They were finally navigating Washington’s outskirts by 3:30. He watched her staring ahead and fought the demon lurking inside him.

He really shouldn’t.

He really, really shouldn’t.

It would be evil and wrong and cruel and more than likely funny as all hell … if she didn’t kill him afterwards.

 …

He’d risk it.

Waiting another minute or so, he spied a light blinking in the distance and as they approached it, he braced his feet against the floor. Once they were about 10 feet away, he yelled, gripping the dashboard and the doorframe, “blinking yellow!!!”

She locked up the brakes, as expected, and bought the car to a screeching halt. The stop flung both forward, then back against their seats, with Scully screaming in his ear, “son of a bitch … it’s yellow Mulder! I don’t have to stop for a blinking yellow!”

Looking at her with as much seriousness as he could muster, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“Then why the hell did you yell ‘blinking yellow’ in my ear!?”

“I didn’t know if you saw it.”

He had never witnessed her nostrils flaring before and though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, she looked kind of cute doing it but … “are you trying to get us killed?”

He was now smiling despite the fact she had steam shooting out her ears, “there was no one behind us. I checked.”

Another nostril flare came his way before she turned the car off, still sitting in the middle of the intersection, got out and moving to his side of the car, pulled open the door, “drive.”

Still grinning, he scrambled over the gearshift, Scully sliding smoothly into his seat, putting her head back and closing her eyes.

Silence, he had not expected. Yelling, hitting, yes but not quiet. Quiet from Scully meant planning, concocting, calculating, organizing … quiet meant bad things … quiet meant very deep piles of shit with him underneath.

“Scully …”

“Home.”

Suddenly sober, he restarted the car, “I was just playing.”

“Home,” she repeated, then, instead of returning to sleep, she dug some gum from the glove compartment and proceeded to chew a wad of it, very loudly.

Now, he could take bullets, he could take slime, he could take beratement of the highest degree and, as demonstrated, he could even take bile but he absolutely despised the cud-chewing noises she was making. He withstood it for a long as humanly possible before, “could you please get rid of that? You sound like a damn cow.”

“You want me to get rid of the gum?”

“Yes!”

“Where do you want me to put it?”

His mistake was answering too quickly, “anywhere. I don’t care. Just stop chewing it.”

“Okay then.” Undoing her seatbelt, she twisted so she faced him, and in a gracefully disgusting move, she rolled the gum in her fingers, then proceeded to push it up his nose.

He knew something was coming and completely powerless to stop it, he just sat there as a thumb-size chunk of grape Hubba-Bubba was fitted into his right nostril.

She then calmly sat back down and re-buckled herself in.

He left the gum there as he turned to her, “Scully?”

“Yes, Mulder.”

“I believe we’re even now.”

Her belly laugh echoed off the windows and he began laughing as well, slipping the gum from his nose and putting it in his mouth.

Through her laughter, she grimaced, “eww, that’s disgusting.”

“But it’s grape.”

&&&&&&&&&

They finally made it to Mulder’s apartment and since her brain had drifted completely, she didn’t really notice where they were until he stopped the car, “why are we here?”

“Literally or existentially because I don’t think I can take a metaphysical discussion at the moment?”

“Literal.”

“You drove. You drop me off then drive yourself home.”

“Where’s your car, Mulder?”

Pointing to where he always parked, he saw an empty spot, “your house.” His head dropped to the steering wheel, “damn.” Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, “I’ll take you home.”

“No. I want out of the damn car and I want to go to sleep. Right now.”

“Then grab the bags from the store … I’ll get the suitcases.” They managed to make it in his door before dropping everything simultaneously. Mulder then re-picked up her bag and set it in his bedroom, “I’ll take the couch.”

“No, I will. I shoved gum up your nose.”

“And I yelled ‘blinking yellow’.”

Contemplating for a half second, “you’re right.”

He gave her a grin, “just help me change the sheets first.” Nodding, she had the bed stripped by the time he came back with a clean set. They finished in no time and he stepped back, nodding his head, “two people make that way faster.”

“Anytime Mulder but for now, I’m using your bathroom then going to bed.”

“Aye, aye captain.”

Meeting him in the hall on the way back from the bathroom, “g’night, Mulder.”

“’Morning, Scully.”

Before going to the bedroom, she grabbed one last thing, then changed, crawled under the clean sheets and was out before her head hit the pillow.

&&&&&&&&&&

He woke up leisurely. The phone hadn’t rung, no one had knocked on his door, obnoxious garbage men hadn’t rattled the dumpsters … he had woken up because he had finally caught up on his sleep. Marveling at the idea, he stood and moved silently towards his bedroom to check to see if she was awake yet.

Finding her spread eagle on her stomach, covers twisted around her and bare leg sticking out, foot hanging off the side of the bed, he nearly laughed when he saw her wearing the neon green t-shirt he’d bought the night before.

Deciding to let her sleep, he went to the bathroom, then made himself a bowl of cereal. By the time he’d sat down with his second helping, he heard the creak of his bedroom door. Looking up, he saw her standing there, hair tousled, eyes partially open, wearing only the t-shirt, which fell to mid-thigh. Swallowing the frogs in her throat, “’morning.”

After a glance at the DVD player’s clock, “afternoon.” Without comment, she padded across the cool floor and dropped down next to him, curling her legs underneath her. Covering them with his blanket, she reached over, took the spoon and helped herself to a large spoonful of cereal. Shaking the milk off, she had it nearly to her mouth when he finally spoke, “I thought you said you’d never wear that shirt?”

As the cereal entered her mouth, her lips quivered in the slightest of smiles, “shut up, Mulder.”

[kitkat1003]

Where the Sea Meets Earth

Ao3 Link

Summary: 

Tang's life has fallen into a steady, comfortable routine, one he feels no need to change.  

So he doesn’t.

Until he has to.

Note: Hi!  Lowkey used an idea from @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off  when it came to Pigsy's rival.  They make great content, give them a look!  As always, shout out to my beta reader, @imnotcameraready, the most kind and patient editor out there.  She edited this all in one night, the mad lad.  Send love her way!!  She goes by UncrownedKing on Ao3, check out her stuff!  Anyway, have fun!

Tang’s routine is simple.  Get up, watch Pigsy make breakfast.  Steal an egg or two that Pigsy definitely didn’t make in preparation for such thievery.  Follow Pigsy around as the noodle shop is set up for the morning.  Listen to the hiss of oil in a hot wok, water bubbling in a tall pot, knife against the wooden cutting board, each slice precise with practice.  

Admire the way Pigsy’s arms bulge with muscle as he lifts heavy boxes of spices, meat and vegetables.  Watch the sweat on his brow build up as he tosses the ingredients in the wok, stirs the broth, sticks a pinkie in before pulling it out to taste the concoction, tilting his head to the side in thought every time before reaching for a different spice—

Chuckle when MK scrambles down the stairs, a second before being late.  Wave back when MK greets him enthusiastically.  Listen to Pigsy bark orders.  Watch MK vanish out the store door, listen to the sound of the delivery cart starting up.  Wait for the customers to come in.

Sometimes, between the breakfast and lunch rush, he will vanish into the town.  He’ll peruse the shelves of a bookstore, maybe get a book or two.  Then, he’ll come back to the restaurant and watch Pigsy work until closing, with the occasional interruption from MK or Mei.  Pigsy will make dinner, and they’ll eat while watching TV before ending the night, asleep next to each other.

It’s a steady routine, one Tang feels no need to change.  

So he doesn’t.

Routines are brought on by repeated motions and consistent action.  He finds himself considering them more and more, these days. Tang follows the lines back, through time, to trace where each routine began, as Pigsy yells at MK to get going.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He lives off a trust fund from his late parents, as well as a few checks from his work in historic preservation.  His family has passed down the stories of old for years, and he knows them well and by heart, because at 18 his memories had come flooding in, and suddenly he was older than time itself and yet just old enough to have sake enough that creating books and speaking on historical inaccuracies is easy to turn into a living.  

A few years ago, he gave it up because it hadn’t seemed important to bother anymore after his parents died.  The next year he’d wasted time coasting through town after town, sharing random tales for a meal, trying to forget that he was alone, until….

Two years ago, he watched Pigsy throw a customer out of his shop, threatening the unruly guest within an inch of his life, and thought Well then.  Something interesting.

Tang had actually gone to the rival noodle shop first. It seemed a bit more inviting.  Pigsy, for all his culinary achievements, is still very closed off, and his shop certainly reflects that.  Sometimes, Tang wonders if Pigsy would get more customers if he’d change his attitude, but he never brings it up, because what would Pigsy’s Noodles be without Pigsy?

He watches from afar a few days, until the Pigsy’s rival shop owner not so subtly nudges him over, and the moment he walks in, he’s knocked to the ground by a very exuberant noodle delivery boy.

“Oh my gosh!  I’m so sorry—are you alright?” Tang sits himself upright to the sound of frantic apologies, seeing a kid no older than 18 fretting over him as if he’d been stabbed instead of simply knocked over.  

“It’s fine,” he starts, a little annoyed but not rude enough to make the boy more panicked than he already looks to be.

“MK, what did you do?!” Comes the familiar gruff voice from the kitchen, and the boy—MK, Tang has gathered—helps him stand as the chef walks out of the kitchen, hands on his hips.

“I didn’t notice him coming in—I just knocked into him—it was an accident!” Tang worries, then, because MK seems scared, but those worries are swept away when the chef takes a deep breath and slowly, his stance relaxes.

“It’s fine, kid, just get those deliveries out, ‘kay?” his voice is so gentle, Tang remembers now he was taken aback. Now it feels so natural for Pigsy’s voice to be gentle.  “I’ll take care of this.”

MK nods to that, jittery and anxious, and walks out with a forced slowness that Tang can tell is from worry and guilt.  Once he’s left, Tang turns back to Pigsy, who lets out a breath and mutters something about how ‘this kid is gonna be the death of me’ before looking up at Tang with what Tang later learned is his customer service expression.

“Alright, c’mon in.  Welcome to Pigsy’s Noodles, home of the longest noodles.” 

At that, Tang has to snort.  He saunters over to the barstools and sits as Pigsy goes back behind the counter, into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if long is the metric you want to brag about,” he snarks, settling easily.

Pigsy grunts in reply, already back to cooking.

Two minutes later, Tang gets a bowl of noodles placed in front of him.

“On the house,” Pigsy grouches, before Tang even thinks to reach into his coin purse.  “For the trouble.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Tang laughs, taking a sip of the broth after it cools a little.  

It was the best he had ever tasted.

“Don’t get any ideas about it.” Pigsy fidgets with his chef’s hat, face settling into a scowl, and yet Tang can tell it was all bluster with no substance.

He pulls a pair of chopsticks out of the free container, snaps them apart, and eats as customers flit in and out of the shop.

Despite the fact that he never stays in one place for too long, Tang finds himself sticking around more than just a few weeks, trailing through the streets and eventually finding himself back at the noodle shop.  The noodles are delicious, cheap, and he finds the company of the chef a comfortable one.

Things get far more interesting when the delivery boy, MK, comes down late and gets an earful for it.

“Sorry—I stayed up late drawing the autobiography of Monkey King and I missed my alarm!” MK bows in apology, frantic, and Pigsy runs a hand over his face, pointing MK to a dirty table to clean.  

MK gets to work quickly, but Tang turns to him with a curious expression.

“You like Monkey King?” he asks, and he hears Pigsy groan from the kitchen.

“Here we go,” Pigsy mutters, but he does nothing to stop MK from turning to face Tang with a wide, blinding smile on his face.

“Do I!  He’s so cool, and strong, and handsome, and interesting!  I’ve watched the animated series like, fifteen times!” he rushes up to Tang, pushing a very worn, bound together book.

Tang flips through it, more out of politeness than anything else, and finds himself pleasantly surprised by the intricacy of the sketches, the love poured into pages, notes on the stories themselves scrawled out next to the drawings.

“This is...surprisingly accurate,” He glances over at MK, who preens at the praise.

“Thanks!  I’ve been drawing these, since, like, forever!  It’s going to be Monkey King’s autobiography.  Uh, unofficially, anyway,” MK rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.  Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so interested in history,” Tang grins with pride as he adds,  “You know, I know essentially every Monkey King story.  I even wrote an academic paper on them.  Published.”

He watches MK’s excitement grow. “Really?!  Oh my gosh, that’s so cool!  Can you tell me one?  Pretty please?!” He’s bouncing on his toes, and Tang can’t help but chuckle.

“I could tell you a tale or two,” he starts, watching as the shine in MK’s eyes grow.  “But I need something in return.  A bowl of noodles, perhaps?”

MK’s smile drops, and he fidgets.

“I don’t know if I have the money…” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and then he turns to Pigsy, a question in his eyes.

“No,” Pigsy says, immediately. 

Tang has never seen someone use puppy dog eyes like a weapon before, but MK pulls them off like a pro.

MK’s hands are clasped together. “Please?”

“I got bills to pay, kid!  I can’t be giving free meals to strangers!”

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger,” Tang teases, smile widening when Pigsy reddens.  “We met yesterday, remember~?”

“Shut yer yap,” Pigsy grinds out, but Tang has seen Pigsy far angrier, from his reconnaissance days at the shop across the street, so he isn’t worried.

Pigsy turns back to MK, mouth clearly open to rebuff the kid, but MK’s puppy dog eyes have been turned up past 100%.  Tang watches as Pigsy crumbles beneath their gaze.

“Fine,” he grits it out between clenched teeth.  “But this is a one time thing!  I don’t have time for freeloaders around here.  And not now!  I got ten orders to make, that you have to take out,” he points to MK, who is nodding his head so quickly his face becomes a blur.

“Okay!  So, in like an hour, okay Mr.Tang?” he turns to Tang, who grins, calm as ever.

“I’ll be here,” he responds, voice even, and MK busies himself with cleaning up the tables before Pigsy hands him the orders.

When MK disappears, Pigsy sighs.

“You know, pretty sure it’s rude to use kids to get free food,” he says, and Tang can only chuckle again.

“I’m not sure what you mean.  I’ve used my knowledge to score many a meal before, this is no different.  You’d be surprised what people will give for an interesting story.”

Pigsy snorts, at that, and rolls his eyes.“You a good storyteller, at least?” he asks, and Tang puffs out his chest proudly.

“The best.” After all, his papers got him a pretty good amount of wealth, so he’d hope he’s good enough to earn that.

Pigsy turns back to his prep work, shaking his head, but Tang sees the barest hint of a smile, before Pigsy turns away.

Despite protests from Pigsy, Tang comes back the next day with another story and receives the same free bowl of noodles.  He doesn’t get noodles every day, not stupid enough to think that Pigsy could afford to give him one daily, but he appears at the noodle shop every day regardless, if only to watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch Pigsy work.

Pigsy works with practiced motions, not a single measuring cup or spoon appearing in his hand.  Pinches, handfuls of colorful spices thrown in with fresh vegetables.  Tang watches him string out the noodles from fresh made dough, dropping them in the broth, stirring, always test tasting, constantly adding something else, another pinch of spice, until he’s only somewhat satisfied.

It’s a familiar feeling.  The need to constantly make better, the chase for perfection.  Is it any wonder, then, that Pigsy’s shop thrives?  Customers learn that deliveries are often better than eating in, because Pigsy’s attitude is abrasive and he’s loud in the kitchen. Regardless, he runs a big enough business and makes good money, enough to keep MK as an employee despite MK’s many missteps.

Tang learns, through snippets of conversations, that MK lives upstairs.  Pigsy gave him the job and the room.  MK doesn’t talk of his parents, or any of his family really, but he has a friend, Mei.

Mei is as loud as MK is, and she’s familiar in the same way Pigsy.  These people he meets at the noodle shop who come for company just like he does, lives slotting into each other with ease.  Talking to them is like picking up a conversation left off a thousand years ago, stumbling only for a second before falling into the familiar groove.

Tang slowly learns the group dynamic, learns that MK’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he was kicked out, that Mei stays as far away from her home as she can for as long as possible, that Pigsy has nothing to his name besides his shop and himself.

Sees the family, the foundation, centered around the little hole in the wall restaurant, and keeps himself rooted, just for a little while.

The shop is closed every third Sunday of the month.  That is the only day that it is consistently closed.  Pigsy works seven days a week, twelve hours a day, without fail, except for that third Sunday.  Tang forgets, one month, and catches Pigsy heading out in the early morning.

“What, forgot you can’t steal food today?” Pigsy greets him with a frown that softens into something like a smile.

“Maybe I don’t come for the food,” is Tang’s snappy reply, and he watches with satisfaction as Pigsy pauses, thinks, and then turns a dusty rose color.

Turns out, Pigsy’s ears blush with his cheeks.  “Anyway, going on a walk?  I might join you,” he turns.

Pigsy stares at him, as if he can’t tell if Tang is serious or not, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking.  “I’m going shopping.  Don’t get in my way,” is the response, and Tang takes it for the acceptance of the company that it is, and catches up to Pigsy with ease, stepping in time with him.

The perks of having long legs.

Tang watches as Pigsy charges his way into the market, eyes sharp for the best ingredients, the ripest vegetables—or, the vegetables soon to be ripe, to save for the later weeks.  He gets a practiced amount for every ingredient that goes into his food.

“Have to get the meat weekly, but the produce can last if I make it,” Pigsy explains, and Tang nods.

“That makes sense.  I never notice a drop in quality, regardless of the week,” he comments.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure anything tastes great to a freeloader,” he grumbles.

“I’ll have you know I have a refined palette,” Tang huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pigsy laughs then, raucous and loud, a sound Tang has never heard from him before.  His heart pitter-patters quickly in his chest, and he thanks everything that his scarf hides his face and that Pigsy is short enough to not be able to spot his blush.

“Okay, wise guy,” Pigsy’s voice draws him back in.  “You ever cooked yourself a meal before, then?” He elbows Tang gently, or as gentle as Pigsy is able to be, and Tang stumbles a bit before replying.

“Well…,” his voice alludes to the obvious answer, and Pigsy laughs at him all over again.

Tang decides he likes the sound.

A few months after Tang has cemented his spot at the noodle bar, Pigsy goes to usher him out of the shop one evening as he closes for the night and stops, right before heading up the stairs. He turns to Tang with an unplacable look.

“Where are you even staying?” Pigsy asks.  “Not a resident, I think I’d’ve noticed a newcomer that was moving in.”

Tang shrugs at the thought. “Wherever.” 

Typically, he’ll head out to a busy bar and ingratiate himself to someone, convince them to let him join their party, and sleep on a random couch.  He’s always gone before anyone wakes up, to be sure he misses the questions that would come from the house’s inhabitants.  If he can’t manage that, well, he’s not above sleeping on a bench somewhere.  It isn’t cold out yet, so he doesn’t worry about it.

Tang very well could get an apartment, with the amount of money he has saved.  He could, but then he’d be trapped.

He’d have to say that he’s settling down, that a place is going to become home.  And no place has really been home, not since his parents died and he walked through empty hallways and empty rooms that once meant something and now meant nothing to anyone besides himself.  He’d sold the house, stored the memories away, burned the rest and ran before the smoke cleared.

How could he stay, when there was nothing left? He’d settled in for the long hall, cemented himself as something soft like the earth, and then it had been ripped away from him like roots, tearing up the soil and leaving a mess in its wake.

So he became stone, and left without a word.

Pigsy stares at him, something almost like concern on his face.  Tang watches Pigsy’s eyes glance up towards the stairs, and then back to him.  Deliberating.  Tang tilts his head to the side, ever curious about the concern.  He knows Pigsy cares, and he knows Pigsy, beyond the gruff exterior, is pretty soft, but he’s surprised by this development.  He didn’t think that care would be extended to, in Pigsy’s words, a freeloader.

Then, Pigsy sighs.

“I’ve got a couch, if you’re interested,” he says, and Tang

Tang just follows Pigsy up to his apartment.  There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door they pass by that Tang can hear pop music playing in.

“MK’s place,” Pigsy says, before Tang can ever ask the question.

They reach Pigsy’s apartment door, at the end of the hall, and head in.

It’s a cluttered space.  Well, everything save for the kitchen is cluttered.  The kitchen is pristine, so much so that the rest of the apartment pales in comparison.  It’s not dirty, there’s no trash or dishes left out, but there are just random items, magazines, cookbooks strewn about the rest of the living space.

“Sorry about the mess.” Pigsy says as he pulls off his chef’s hat and coat, hanging it up by the door. He takes off his dress shoes, and pulls out a pair of slippers from a bin, putting them to walk on the carpet.  He glances back at Tang expectantly.  Tang pulls off his scarf and hangs it up.

“It’s no problem.  I wasn’t an expected guest, I’m guessing?”

Tang takes off his shoes and pulls a pair of slippers from the bin.  He isn’t surprised by the kitchen being clean, but he is a bit confused by the clutter.  Pigsy takes care to keep his work space pristine, scrubbing it to sparking at the end of each work day.  Perhaps this is a product of that, and Pigsy just is too tired to care as much in a space that is more his than it is his profession.

Somehow, that makes Tang concerned.  He can’t pinpoint why.

Pigsy pulls off the random items from the couch, throwing them aside but scattering them further.  He grunts in response to the rhetorical question.

“I’m gonna get a pillow and blanket.  Don’t break anything.”  Pigsy trudges off, and Tang looks at the clutter, and then at the perfectly good, half empty bookshelf.

By the time Pigsy gets back, Tang is sliding the last book onto the shelf.  There’s still the other items that are less easy to categorize, but Tang would be remiss if he left perfectly good reading material to collect dust on the floor.

Pigsy opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly closes it.  He tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Uh...bathroom’s down the hall on your left.  Night.” 

Then, he vanishes into his room.

Tang finishes cleaning, and then goes to bed himself.

It becomes part of the routine.  Pigsy never demands he come upstairs, but he never shuts the door on Tang, either, and Tang will never shoot down a free place to stay.  Pigsy gets used to him, even.  Sees Tang sitting on the couch, makes dinner, hands Tang a plate whatever it is and drops down on the couch to watch TV.

If it isn’t making fun of trash TV, Pigsy screams at cooking shows.

“You can’t just throw onion in it and expect it to work out!” he shouts.

Tang laughs.  “Very bold from the guy who only serves one type of dish.”

Pigsy turns red.  “I can make other food!” The argument is sound.

“I know,” Tang assures him, taking a bite of the steak salad Pigsy prepared.  It’s the best he’s ever tasted.  “You just choose not to, which I don’t understand.  Why only noodles?”

The question throws Pigsy off guard, and Tang waits patiently for him to collect his thoughts.  Finally, Pigsy sighs.

“They’re what I like to eat, I guess.  Besides, if I made a full scale restaurant, I’d hafta get more cooks, hire waiters, ugh,” Pigsy looks disgusted just thinking about it.  “The kitchen’s my place, I don’t trust any two bit cook to get it.  I mean, just look at the ones on TV!” 

He gestures to the television, as if Tang hasn’t been watching. Tang nods, glances at the screen anyway.  “I like how the shop is.  It’s small, but it’s good.  Bigger doesn’t mean better.” 

At that, Tang has to laugh.  “You would think that,” he responds, and at Pigsy’s confused look, he gestures to Pigsy’s stature.

“Shut up,” Pigsy says with a blush. Tang can’t stop laughing, and Pigsy cracks a smile.

Living with Pigsy, Tang finds out, means dealing with all of Pigsy.  This includes the moments where Pigsy can no longer keep a lid on his already hair-thin temper.

The clutter of the house suddenly makes sense when he comes up to the apartment to see Pigsy throwing books around the room, raging face red and pained and furious in a way Tang has never seen before.

“Bastards!” Pigsy shouts, voice hoarse.  

He’s been clearly shouting for a while.  His knuckles are bruised, and Tang spots a few dents in the wall.  

“I’ll kill em!  I-,” He freezes, upon seeing Tang standing by the door.  

Tang watches as Pigsy reigns in his rage, somehow, forcing his shoulders to drop, standing up straight, letting out a breath.  It looks painful.

“I see something’s bothering you,” Tang comments, direct and gentle as one can be when trying to talk to someone on the precipice of blind rage, as Pigsy breathes heavily.

“Leave.” Pigsy spits it out with a vitriol that is not aimed at Tang, but at something Tang isn’t a part of.  

Tang knows this, and he won’t let Pigsy drown in it.  He stands still, as the storm rages in blue eyes.

“No,” he is stone, hands clasped together.  Pigsy grits his teeth, clenches his fists.  The wave rises and crashes down.

“GET OUT!”

It’s loud enough to make Tang wince, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

At that, Pigsy goes boneless, slumping down on himself.  Tang steps forward, carefully, quietly, and directs Pigsy to the untouched couch.

Untouched because it’s Tang’s bed, Tang’s space.  Because Pigsy would only destroy himself and his things, would only rage at the things he deems worthy, and Tang wonders, why does Pigsy think himself worthy of this hatred, the anger that sits in Pigsy’s heart?

Pigsy sinks into the cushions.  Tang takes his bruised hands and holds them, letting Pigsy breathe.

“MK’s folks,” Pigsy finally spits out.  “They found out the kid’s got a good job and an okay place, and now they want a cut of his earnings.”

The tone of Pigsy’s voice is nothing short of derisive, and Tang understands the fury now.  It’s funny, that he knows Pigsy enough to tell the difference between rage that’s performative and fury that’s real, but it’s not that hard for him.  

Fury like this comes from care, and there is no one Pigsy cares more about than MK.  MK, the boy with the sunshine smile who likes Monkey King and drawing and will work himself to death for anyone’s approval.

“I’d have told em to shove it, but MK’s got a soft heart, and they told him it was paying back for all the trouble they had raising him.” Pigsy laughs, and it’s very, very bitter.  “Like they raised him.  Mei probably was a better parent than they were, and she’s his age.  Bastards.”

Tang swallows the information, takes a deep breath.  He wouldn’t consider himself easily angered, but this?  This makes him furious.  He doesn’t express his fury like Pigsy does, isn’t destructive, is cold and quiet and deadly.  But he saves that for later, for when he can look up MK’s parents and figure out how to ruin them when it comes to their jobs, their social standings, their lives.

“Technically, that could be charged as harassment,” he suggests. 

Pigsy snorts at that, at least.

“Yeah, but MK’s only 17.  He’s turning 18 in a few months, but until then they could drag him back, charge me with kidnapping, ruin his whole life just because he isn’t their fucking lap dog,” The rage returns, and Tang watches as Pigsy carefully clenches his fists, as if he were too quick about it he could hurt Tang. 

It strikes Tang, then, that he has never been afraid that Pigsy would hit him.  It never crossed his mind.  Because how could it?

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Pigsy mutters.  

Tang snickers.  “I’ll drive,” he responds.  

Pigsy looks up at him, and Tang hopes the expression on his face bleeds the sincerity he feels.

“As if I’d let you anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” Pigsy smirks as he says it, and he relaxes a bit more, the anger draining out of him like water through a sieve.

Tang wasn’t aware that he was tense himself, but he relaxes a bit, too.

“But you’ll get blood on the steering wheel.  And besides, it’s no fun not having a criminal record.  I ought to start it sometime, right?”

“You don’t know anything about me, if you think this’ll be the beginning of my record,” Pigsy half laughs.

Tang shrugs. “You’re right.  But, I’d like to.” 

Pigsy looks up at him, then, the red in his face smoothing to something dusty and rosy and beautiful.  Tang looks away first.  “But, first, you need some ice and bandages for your hands.”  He gets up to grab it.

When he comes back, Pigsy tells him all about the boy who would come in with exact change for the cheapest bowl of noodles, once a week every Friday.  How the boy would ramble on and on about everything, and Pigsy would listen out of politeness, and somehow that turned to a fondness he couldn’t shake.  How that boy came rushing in, half soaked in the rain, hiding out just for the moment before he was going to keep running. How Pigsy had thrown caution to the wind and moved mountains to get the kid to stay.

Tang listens, disinfecting the areas on Pigsy’s knuckles that are cut instead of just being bruised.  He wraps them, gentle, and places ice on both.  Even then, he doesn’t let go of the hands, lets them settle in his grip like they’d always belonged there.

“You’re a kind person, you know,” he says, when Pigsy is done.  And he means it, too, thinking of MK alone on the streets, thinking of MK turning out like he did but without the funds to support him, a drifter with nothing and no one.  It makes his stomach churn.

“Nah,” Pigsy shrugs his shoulders.  “Just had a lot of time to get into practice with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate.  Tang lets the conversation end, and turns on the TV.  He cleans up the room when Pigsy falls asleep.

Pigsy makes him noodles the next day, without comment.  Tang smiles and eats.

A lot of people miscategorize Pigsy as fire.  Tang would like to propose a different point of view.

When he sees Pigsy, he sees the sea.

The ocean is never calm, but it can fall into a rhythm.  Small waves, rippling waters.  Crashing against the obstacle that is land, constantly pushing, constantly trying, constantly moving.

Pigsy will rage like a storm, he will shine like water in the sun, and he will fall into a rhythm as he works.  He will push back against the rock that is indifference, and, like the ocean, he surrounds anything and everything, connecting every person he comes into contact with, as if they were the continents themselves. He ebbs and flows, forcing himself into the issues that plagues those he cares about, and yet pulls back and gives them space, never demanding anything other than their time, if they could give it.

The ocean is not harsh, nor is it merciful, but it is a force of nature all the same.  And, if you weather its storms, it will carry you wherever you need to go.

And Tang sees a man who gives MK a reason to stick around when all MK wanted to do is run, Tang sees a man who never lets Mei skip a meal regardless of her status and wealth, Tang sees a man that makes sure Tang has a warm and safe place to stay, and sees the ocean carrying battered ships to shore.

Learning about MK’s family has opened up certain topics.  Tang knows it’s only a matter of time before Pigsy asks about his life.  That doesn’t stop him from stiffening, from going stone faced, when Pigsy finally brings it up.

“I don’t hear you talk about your folks,” Pigsy mentions offhandedly.

When he turns around and sees the expression on Tang’s face, he frowns.

“No,” Tang responds. 

He says nothing else.  Pigsy doesn’t press.  Just turns back to making dinner.  And Tang stares at his reflection in the teacup.  He takes a sip.  It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t feel it.  

“They died.  Nearly two years, now,” he finally says, and it’s like dropping a weight off of his shoulders.  

Pigsy grunts in acknowledgment.  Doesn’t give him the sad stare, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, he just glances back with something softer than pity and closer to empathy.

Somehow, it lessens the dull ache in his chest.

“They good ones?” Pigsy asks.

Tang smiles, just a little.  “Yes,” he breathes, and it hitches, thinking about how they pushed him forward, how they never demanded but always encouraged.  Tang wasn’t good at making friends, not close ones anyway.  But that never mattered, because his parents were there.

And now…

“Mine are gone too,” Pigsy says, after some time and mostly as an afterthought.  “It ain’t easy, dealing with it.”

Tang huffs a wet laugh, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.“No, it isn’t,” He responds.

Pigsy slides a bowl yanduxian soup, with some some skewers of meat, and sugar coated haws for dessert.  Quite the array of a meal.  Pigsy sits across from him, and starts in on his own meal.

Tang eats.  It’s the best he’s ever tasted, as always.

Looking up at Pigsy, something in his chest warms.  He thinks about his parents and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

“I think they’d have liked you, if you’d met them,” he says, softer than he feels, because he’s never said anything about love but this is as close as he can get.

Pigsy looks up, cheeks glowing, and he smiles and Tang melts, just a little. 

The apartment becomes lived in.  During one of their shopping trips, Pigsy gets Tang a different outfit, muttering something about Tang needing something to wear when his clothes are being washed.  Two outfits becomes three, becomes four, all hung up right beside Pigsy’s sleep shirts and chef coats.  Tang gets his own toothbrush.

He buys himself books and they fill up the empty space on the bookshelves.  He buys alcohol, stores it in Pigsy’s fridge and laughs off the comments about his poor taste in baijiu.  He was never one to settle in, he never thought he could again, but slowly Pigsy’s apartment becomes their apartment and the change in his mind as he thinks of it leaves him wide eyed and spiraling.

Pigsy takes it all in stride, greeting Tang in the morning with something on his face that looks...pleased?  Tang doesn’t understand it, and yet it makes his face feel warm when he thinks about it.

The winter months roll in, because while they have a weather tower to regulate weather it does not mean that they can ignore the need for seasons, and the apartment becomes colder.

“Do you not have A/C?” he curls up tight, beneath his blanket, and still shivers.

Pigsy rolls his eyes.  “Maybe if you didn’t freeload all the time, I could afford to use it!”

Later, Tang will find this all as a facade.  He knows Pigsy would never blame him for being without the funds to pay for heating.  In fact, the noodle shop does better in the winter months, because of the desire for warm, filling food to combat the chill.  He will later find out that Pigsy forgoes the A/C in his apartment to save up money to give MK a yearly Christmas bonus, both as a present and so MK can heat up his room.

In the moment, however, he just turns away with a huff.

Pigsy sighs.  “The bed’s warmer,” he says. 

Tang stares, blankly, until it finally hits him what Pigsy is suggesting.  “Why, you cad!  Trying to bed me when we’ve barely courted!” He leans back on the couch dramatically.

“Shut up!” Pigsy looks very flustered, and Tang grins, leading Pigsy to snap some more.  “You were the one complaining about being cold!”

Tang sips his tea, and shrugs.  Pigsy turns back to dinner to hide his blushing face.

That night, he moves to sleep in Pigsy’s bed.  It’s a pretty large one, it isn’t as if there isn’t room for the both of them.  The move is purely practical, after all.

Pigsy sleeps in a tank top and boxers.  Tang wonders if the tank top is for his sake.  They both get in the bed very stiff, neither wanting to acknowledge what’s happening. Tang curls up under covers, back to Pigsy.  The bedroom is indeed warmer.  Tang imagines the small heater sitting in the corner is likely the reason.

He turns his head.  Pigsy is already asleep, trails of light from the outside signs segmenting his face.  He’s snoring.  He looks calm.

Tang stares for longer than he thinks he should, before he lets his eyes slide shut.

It becomes routine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As whole, as Tang reminisces on the moments bringing him to his position, he’s quite glad he decided to stick around.  It’s a strange place, this city, full of danger and mystery, now that MK is the monkie kid, now that the demons are free, but at the same time little has changed, and that is something Tang can appreciate.  Every morning he settles at the noodle shop and lets life continue, predictable, comfortable.

And maybe that’s his mistake.  That he thinks he can coast forever.  The sea is many things, but predictable is not one of them.  

The downfall starts when Mei mentions that one of her aunts has been trying speed dating.

“She made the mistake of signing up for the straight couple’s night.  She told me that when she realized, she left faster than the speed date itself!” Mei taps her fingers on the noodle bar, giggling along with MK at the thought.

“Speed dating doesn’t make sense.  I mean, how can you figure out if you like someone in a minute?” MK crosses his arms over his chest and ponders.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I knew I liked you in sixty seconds,” Mei boops Mk on the nose, and he laughs, before making a face.  There’s a mixture of emotions there—disgust, confusion, fear?

“Yeah, but that’s different.  We’re friends,” he stresses that last word, looking at Mei expectantly. “Just friends.”

“Well, duh!  I was just saying,” Mei rolls her eyes.

Tang watches the tension roll out of MK like a breeze.  He wonders...but will never waste an opportunity to snark, so he sets the thoughts aside for a moment and leans back on the counter.

“I’m sure I could charm anyone in sixty seconds.  Where is this happening, exactly?” he asks.

Mei gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure speed dating isn’t for people who are already taken,” she tells him, and Tang blinks, confusion painting his features.

“What do you mean?” he asks.He jumps when Pigsy’s knife slams hard against the wood of the cutting board, harder than normal.  

Tang frowns. “Pigsy, you alright?”

“Peachy,” Pigsy growls out, from the kitchen.

Tang stares, before shrugging it off.  Pigsy’s moods aren’t entirely predictable, after all, and it isn’t as if anything terrible has happened today.  Pigsy’s cooking smells as heavenly as ever.

He turns back to Mei and MK, but they’re disappearing out the door, MK with the next batch of deliveries in hand.  Tang tilts his head to the side in confusion, before shrugging.

Oh well.

Pigsy is still stilted, when they head upstairs that night.  He’s quiet during dinner, quiet after dinner, and instead of watching TV he goes back to the kitchen to make a dessert.  Tang follows, sitting at the kitchen island, watching how Pigsy shuffles about, glancing occasionally at a recipe.  Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, different ingredients come out.  The oven is preheated.

“Something’s clearly bothering you,” Tang says, finally.

Pigsy stiffens.  Runs a hand down his face.  Sighs.  

He keeps working, throws the dessert in the oven, sets a careful timer.

Tang waits, and waits.

The kitchen is silent, save for the ambience.

“What is this, Tang?” Pigsy’s voice is hard, hands resting on the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched as he finally speaks up.  He sounds exhausted, from days and days of work.  Tang frowns.  “You steal food from my shop, you sleep in my house—you live with me, for pete’s sake, you—what is this that we have?”

And Tang, Tang doesn’t know what to say.  

“Is this even something?” 

He’s basked in the freedom to be himself, with Pigsy.  A label defines, a label makes you inseparable.  Tang comes and goes as he pleases, he doesn’t get pinned down, he’s one and alone, with Pigsy by his side.

He has called himself a ‘father figure’ to MK, but that is inherently different.  There’s a degree of separation, with that label.  He can still leave, and MK will not be too bereft.  MK has others, Tang is just one.  Pigsy wants more than that, he doesn’t want the separation, and Tang is always unsure.

“I just—” And there’s something quiet and breaking in Pigsy’s voice.  

Tang says nothing.

“Whatever you want from me, Tang, you have it.  I’ll-I’ll give you everything, just—” 

Blue eyes, like the constant tide of the ocean, meet earth in Tang’s brown ones.  

Tang is afraid he could erode.

If he stayed.  

What would he become, if he shifted his foundation?  

“Is there a point to this?” Pigsy asks.  “Or am I just something you keep around?  To say you have one?”

Tang knows that he is a man of words, of stories, knows he is Triptaka, is Tang Sanzang, and myriad others placed in the body of a single man, knows he has more knowledge in an inch of his brain than most gain in their entire lives, but he has nothing to say now.  

His thoughts halt at the wounded expression on Pigsy’s face.

More than just anger and softer than just hurt, settled between an aching heart and a broken one.

“I…,” he starts, and then his mouth clicks shut, because he is, before and now, a coward eventually.  

Whether he is captured by demons or putting his foot down against others’ bad behavior, he falters.  And he is terrified, because the swell of his heart, the affection that warms him enough to burn, is too much to bear, to articulate.

So instead, he says nothing at all.

And he knows he’s erred, because Pigsy turns his back as the timer dings.

He pulls the set of mini cakes from the oven, sets them down on the counter with forced gentleness.  Tang flinches at the harsh bang of the oven closing.  Watches Pigsy’s chest rise and fall with harsh breaths that hitch with an emotion Tang can’t place, before Pigsy swallows, steels himself, stills.  Clenches his fists as if readying himself for a fight.  Tang doesn’t know what the battle is, wonders what side he’s on.

“Forget it.” He hears, finally, and Tang feels his heart jump in his throat.

The words sound like a relent, like something giving way.  It strikes him like a spear through the chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

The mini cakes cool in a few minutes, but it may as well be hours with how silent and still the kitchen is, and Pigsy sets one on a plate for Tang, placing it in front of him with a fork. Chocolate lava cake, something Tang had mentioned off handedly as an interesting dessert to try.  Of course Pigsy remembered.  Why wouldn’t he?

Pigsy vanishes into his room.  The door slams shut.  Tang eats.

It’s the best he’s ever tasted, like always.

He sleeps on the couch.  It’s cold.

Pigsy doesn’t open the shop, the next day.  Tang leaves early in the morning, before breakfast, to give him some space, and comes back from his leisurely morning walk to a closed sign hanging on the door.  Unlike the last time, MK waves at Tang, hopping down the stairs excitedly.  Pigsy gave him the day off, because Pigsy isn’t feeling well, apparently.

Tang sees the worried lines in MK’s expression and promises he will make sure Pigsy is okay.  MK runs off, to meet Mei at the arcade, and Tang heads up the stairs.  He passes MK’s apartment door and stands in front of Pigsy’s door.

He knocks.

“Pigsy?” He calls, loud enough that he can’t be missed.  “It’s me.  Can I come in?”

Silence.

Tang doesn’t know how to handle rejection, didn’t think it possible, from Pigsy.  In the two years they’ve known each other, he has never been rebuffed.  Has never been told, in no uncertain terms, to leave.  Pigsy has shouted it without heat, before, but it has never rang true.

He stands outside the door for twenty minutes, trying to swallow something akin to fear crawling up his chest, as he slowly realizes the door isn’t going to open.  He waits another ten minutes after that, processing the realization, the pain in his chest.

“Alright,” He says, finally, and he prays Pigsy doesn’t hear how his voice shakes.  “Get well soon.  I’ll see you in the shop.”

He should demand to be let in.  He should kick down the door, do something.  Be bold, be brave, courageous.

But he never was a fighter, so he turns on his heel, and leaves what is left of their relationship on the welcome mat.

He walks through the city, again, because he has nothing better to do now.  There is no comfort from stepping into the noodle shop and feeling like home.  There is no barstool with his name on it, no random bowl of noodles appearing at his seat inconspicuously, no begging for a story from MK, no fond looks from blue eyes in the kitchen.  

Tang had settled into routines and expectations.  The rug has been pulled from beneath his feet as he tries to grasp the idea that the comforts have crashed into dysfunction.  He tracks every minute of the two years he’s spent here, tries to trace the beginning of the end like a true crime investigator, and still, he can’t decipher why the equilibrium shattered.

Change is a product of existence, Comes a memory from his days as a monk.  You must let life flow like a river, accepting the directions it will take.

But Tang isn’t a monk anymore, and he is not flowing like a river or any such nonsense that sounds far more like what Sandy would say.  He is analytical, he is intelligent, he is knowledgeable.  Despite all of that, he is stumped by this situation, by what he is to do.

The answer, of course, is the simplest, but Tang is pretending not to be ignoring it, because acknowledging the solution means making a choice he can’t undo.  To decide if he wants this to be set in stone.  Can he tie himself down like this, can he make that choice to stay, forever if it comes to it?

At the same time, hasn’t he already?  Just a day without being able to go into the noodle shop leaves him aimless.  A day without Pigsy and he is lost, without much to do or see.  He has centered himself about the warm air of noodles and the gruff smile of the chef making them.

And that is so, so terrifying.  When you give everything, when someone is your everything, what happens when they leave?  He’s dealt with that enough with his parents, and to become a pair, to be a part of something, he doesn’t think he has the strength for it.

But Pigsy gives and gives, and promised Tang everything, if only Tang would stay.  And Tang is a coward, but not enough to ruin something so simple, so kind, and so honest.

He makes a decision, and heads to the bank.

The next day, the noodle shop opens.  Tang is there when it does, settling into his barstool without fanfare.  He follows Pigsy’s movements with sharp eyes, notes the rumpled form of his shirt, how his pants aren’t tucked into his dress shoes, how his feet shuffle against the tile instead of stomping with purpose.  Pigsy moves slow, turns to look at Tang and has bags under his eyes—or could they be red from crying?  Tang isn’t sure.

His heart aches, as Pigsy regards him with something like heartbreak.  Pigsy says nothing, turns back to his work, and Tang watches.

Step one.

He heads to the market between the lunch and dinner rushes, picks out the ingredients from memory.  He’s walked with Pigsy enough times to know what it is that he has to get.  He comes back to the shop with an armful of grocery bags, heading upstairs to their apartment.  Pigsy never locks it during the workday, and Tang uses that fact and knowledge to his advantage.

He has no idea how to do this, but he chops the vegetables and meat and sets the water to boil.  Brings forth the memories of two years of watching Pigsy make the same thing over and over, and maybe looks up a recipe or two on his phone for reference.

By the time Pigsy comes upstairs, when the shop closes, it’s ready.  Tang pours the servings into two bowls, and nearly jumps and drops everything when the door opens.

“Welcome home,” he says, braver than he feels.

Pigsy stares at him, at the bowl of steaming broth, and sets his chef’s hat on its hook.  He pulls off his shoes, puts up his chef’s coat, leaving him in a t-shirt and slacks.

Tang watches Pigsy’s movements instead of thinking about how to approach the situation.  He gets a little distracted, until Pigsy hops up onto one of the island chairs, pulling a bowl towards himself.  Tang sits across from him, waiting for Pigsy to take a sip.

Pigsy takes the chopsticks offered, as well as the spoon.  He takes a sip.  His face remains carefully neutral. 

Tang takes a sip a few moments after.  He promptly sputters into his bowl, and laughs.

“God, this is terrible!” he can’t stop laughing, and he can see a smile peeking at the edges of Pigsy’s mouth.  “I tried to make it like yours, but I guess I’m coming up short,” he glances at Pigsy, looks him up and down.  

Pigsy’s face is dusted with a pleased blush.  “Shaddup.  And hey, it ain’t worse than my first attempt at cooking.” 

Tang snorts at that one.  “I doubt that.  But, do tell.  I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you decided to become a cook in the first place, anyway.”

This is the start.  Tang makes Pigsy a meal, and Pigsy tells him a story.

That night, he sleeps next Pigsy, like usual, and traces the way the moonlight sets upon Pigsy’s face.  He needs to do more.  He needs to be more, and he’s pretty sure financial support would be somewhat helpful, so he schemes.

Step two.

A few days later, as the air between them settles into something like normal, he appears one afternoon, change in his pocket and bills in his wallet.

“A bowl of noodles, please.” He sets the money on the counter.  It’s enough for at least three bowls of noodles, but that’s by design.  

“Keep the change.” He evene winks, like it’s a joke

Pigsy eyes the money and then gets the most offended look on his face, as expected. Before he can make a move to either argue or even respond, Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and explains.

“Didn’t you know?  This month is my charity month.  I go to different establishments and pay to keep them afloat.”

Pigsy rolls his eyes.  “Pshh, I don’t need your charity to keep this place runnin’!  Pigsy’s Noodles is a thriving establishment,” he rebuffs.

“So you’re refusing my service?” Tang responds, like a challenge.

He raises a brow, and watches as Pigsy gets redder and redder.

“One bowl of noodles, coming right up,” Pigsy manages through gritted teeth.

Tang hides a laugh behind his hand as Pigsy scoops up the money and grumbles, shoving two of the bills into the cash register and one into the tip jar.

Because MK had been bemoaning a lack of sketchbook paper, a lack of money for replacing such, and just like every time MK talks about something he wants, off handed or to complain because that’s how he deals, Pigsy will take some of the money that should go to the shop into the tip jar when MK doesn’t look, smiling to himself when MK excitedly realizes that, thanks to the tip jar, he can get what it was he thought he couldn’t—

Because Pigsy gives and gives and gives, pieces of himself scattered across and holding together the people he’s chosen to keep close, regardless if Pigsy is the one who ends up falling apart in the end, and Tang wants to fill up the spaces that Pigsy has lost from his generosity.

Tang takes his bowl of noodles and smirks, like he’s won.  That night, when they’re sitting on the couch and watching TV, Pigsy leans his head on Tang’s shoulder.

“You coulda just said you wanted to start payin’ rent,” he mutters.

Tang snickers.  “Where’s the fun in that?  You got so red, I thought you were going to become a tomato.”

At that, Pigsy sits up.

“I’ll show you a tomato—c’mere!”

Maybe it’s a bit dangerous to challenge someone who knows all of your ticklish spots.  Tang laughs until he cries, and concedes to Pigsy’s victory. 

Step three doesn’t really register.  He doesn’t think about it, because the first two steps have brought him back into that comfortable routine.  Maybe he might have fallen into the same bad habits, if not for his hyperawareness of Pigsy’s moods in the following weeks.  He doesn’t want to miss something, like he did before.  He wants to be attentive, be kind.

He wants Pigsy to never again think of or ask the questions he did, that night.  He wants Pigsy to know, immediately, what they are.  Even if Tang is afraid to define it.

It’s a typical day at the shop, but Pigsy is a bit more tired than normal.  Some days, this happens.  Pigsy would never hire another chef, even though he has enough business to afford it, and being the only cook in a bustling restaurant means little breaks and consistent exhaustion.

Tang still makes them dinner, most nights.  He tries a new recipe each day, because why not?  Pigsy takes to each one like a food critic, and his descriptions have Tang in stitches every time—

“I never thought you could turn broccoli into soup.”

“Okay, so I cooked it too long!”

“You liquified a vegetable!  Without blending!  That’s like...did you use magic on this?  Tang, did you use magic on this.”

—He’s not a very good cook, yet, but Pigsy eats anything he makes anyway.

Today, Pigsy is already tired, and he clearly doesn’t have the energy to deal with an annoying customer.

He has to anyways.

“This isn’t what I ordered last time!  I ordered your original noodle bowl two weeks ago, and it tasted far better than this!” The irate woman slams her empty bowl on the counter.

Tang wonders if she understands the irony of complaining about a meal she finished.

“Ma’am, I make every bowl of noodles the same.  I’m the only cook here.  You either ordered somethin’ else, or your taste buds changed in two weeks.” Pigsy isn’t polite to customers like these, but Tang has to commend him for holding back, for still calling her ‘Ma’am’.  Tang has a few different names he’d call her.

“I know what I ordered, and my tastebuds didn’t change.  You clearly made it wrong!  I demand a refund immediately!” She shouts in his face.

Pigsy goes from pink to red.  “Look, lady, you finished your meal.  I ain’t giving you back the money for shit you ate.” He spits, and she leans back, aghast.

“The nerve!” She leans back, aghast.  “I don’t know what I expected from a pig—” 

She freezes as a pair of chopsticks sticks its way between the two angry faces.

“Excuse me,” Tang starts.  

His glasses flash, and he doesn’t bother standing.  His arm divides the space, as he leans back in his chair with a bowl in his free hand.  He pushes her back, ignores the look of confusion on Pigsy’s face.  “I suggest you get over yourself.  This behavior certainly isn’t doing anything for your looks.”

The woman leans back, crosses her arms.

“And you are?” She hisses.

“I’m his partner,” Tang says, and surprises himself with how easily the title falls out of his mouth.  “And you don’t get to talk to him that way.  If anyone is acting in poor taste, it’s you.”

Pigsy’s face is slack, his eyes are wide, and the red of anger on his face has given way to the dusty rose Tang has come to expect as Pigsy’s blush.

The woman opens her mouth, finger raised.  Tang raises his eyebrow in waiting.  But then she huffs, turns on her heel, and leaves.

Tang doesn’t give her a second thought, turning back to his own bowl of noodles—which have tasted the same in the two years he’s been eating here, so she’s full of it, clearly—before glancing over at Pigsy, who is staring at him with eyes full of something.

He has never seen Pigsy’s eyes shine like that before.

His face warms, and he buries it in his scarf and bowl.  Pigsy smiles, and turns back to work.

That night, they’re sitting on the couch after eating another concoction that could barely be called food— “You’re getting better at this.”  “You don’t have to lie to me.”  “Bold of you to assume I would spare your feelings when it comes to your cooking skills.”—and Pigsy’s hand slides away from his lap and rests on top of Tang’s.  Casual.

“My partner, huh?” Pigsy says over the buzz of the television.  

Tang flushes. “It seemed an appropriate word to use.”

“Sure.”

Pigsy’s voice holds a laugh, and Tang could leave it here, he could.   It would be far too easy to settle, to let it fall complacent.

But Tang has let the ocean lap at his heels, and now all he wants to do is dive.

“Hey,” he turns Pigsy’s face towards his, and—

Pigsy’s lips are warm.

Pigsy’s eyes are blown wide, and Tang closes his quickly, worried about the response, worried about Pigsy’s reaction.

Dimly, in the back of his head, he thinks ‘It’s the best he’s ever tasted’ and he has to squash the laugh that bubbles up his throat, because it isn’t appropriate right now.  Pigsy's snout practically crushes his nose, and the sharp hairs on his face prickle Tang's skin. 

He breaks away.  Pigsy’s smile is blinding, a rare event.  His face is flushed, both of them are flushed and Tang fidgets with his glasses.  There’s a beat of silence, as they stare at each other, before they both turn back to the TV to avoid the ever so awkward eye contact.

They watch whatever’s on, for a minute of crushing silence.

“Alright,” Pigsy finally sighs, long sufferingly fond, and he leans against Tang as if tang were his rock.  The ocean crashes against the sea, and the rock stays steady.  “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Tang inclines his head so it’s resting on top of Pigsy’s.  The rock erodes, and becomes something new.  Moves with the ocean, given enough time.

“Where else would I get free food?”

Pigsy laughs.

[amateurasstrologer]

THE PLANETS #3 MERCURY (IN THE HOUSES)

Sweet Mercury. Our baby celestial, dying to be understood. There’s more to little Mercury than meets the eye, so listen up.

If you take only one thing away from this shit, let it be this: Mercury represents an internal process - where Mercury falls points towards where you’re using your brain. Bullshit Astrology will try to convince you that Mercury shows how you communicate and how you express yourself. Yes, but also no. Don’t succumb to this basic ass understanding, people!! Mercury is deeper than this - literally. Mercury gathers up the goods and sets up shop inside your mf brain. Yes, communication and your ability to small talk stem from your thought process, but all that shit is secondary. Stick to the primary source you little history babies.

The best way to think about Mercury is to think about Venus. These two are peas in a damn pod. Why? They’re both judgemental. But. While Venus is your typical mean girl, Mercury just sticks to the fucking facts.

For example, take this given: the sky is blue. Mercury looks at the situation and says: okay, the sky is blue, the sky is not green. Venus looks at the sky and says: I love the color blue, green is fucking ugly good thing the sky isn’t green. They’re both making a judgement call, but Mercury’s call is a purely objective understanding, and Venus’s is based on a personal preference. Mercury sits in your brain and helps you differentiate between this and that; Venus sits wherever tf she sits and helps you respond emotionally to shit that you value.

Put another way: why does Mercury rule Gemini and Virgo? Judgement calls. Gemini is all about you discovering yourself. The Mercury influence there helps you differentiate between “you” and “not you” - Gemini goes out and does all these things to figure out who it even is and Mercury is behind the curtain going, “yes, you hit on something real there,” and “no, that wasn’t really you bitch, drop the act.” Same shit is happening with Virgo. Virgo is all about self-improvement - we need Mercury behind the scenes, making the “yes, this will move us forward” or “no, this will set us back” decision or else we aren’t improving shit. A Mercury judgement is objective - it takes in all the facts and makes a call. It’s not personal, it’s all business.

Mercury represents how we understand the world, mentally. Mercury is the sweet little computer in our brain that’s taking stock and running metrics and not giving a fuck because there are no feelings involved in Mercury’s process. Mercury is black and white, yes and no, this and that. No in-between. The only time Mercury goes from “right on” to “completely wrong,” is when it trades in objective analysis for personal taste. Stop. Leave the feelings to Venus. Mercury works best when it’s calm, cool and collected.

As always, particulars for the party people:

MERCURY IN THE FIRST (1) YES: these sweet freaks are unleashing the beast on their inner life - every thing that has ever happened to them getting analyzed to the point of no return; they believe they’re different than everyone else and they are gonna prove it. NO: one day decided all facts were irrelevant and took up permanent residence inside their own mind, made it their job to feel intellectually superior to everyone else.

MERCURY IN THE SECOND (2) YES: these sweet freaks are testing out every belief system and mental approach ever used to solve a problem, choosing the most effective ones, and thinking their way through every challenge they come into contact with without even breaking a sweat. NO: fucking rude, totally intolerant of everyone around them, deep-throating Traditional Thinking & Outdated Values’ dick for no reason - get over it.

MERCURY IN THE THIRD (3) YES: these sweet freaks are seeing straight though your shit, because they can find patterns in everything. When they’re not fixing every problem in their vicinity with practical solutions they’re adjusting to their environment like a damn chameleon good Lord where are they are they even still here? NO: using their mega-rationality to justify gross behavior, taking zero responsibility for their actions, denial level 10000.

MERCURY IN THE FOURTH (4) YES: these sweet freaks are getting in touch with their values, and once they do look out because they will not deviate from what they feel is Right. These deep, creative minds are hot-wired to find connections between all people, places and things. NO: too scared to figure it out, falling back on thinking that’s culturally/ socially/ religiously narrow-minded, RIP to their sense of self.

MERCURY IN THE FIFTH (5) YES: these sweet freaks are getting their fucking feelings out and everyone is loving it. Their sweet little brains are made to create and they are ready to relate, no one can express themselves like these bitches. It’s just the truth. NO: can’t just have a regular fucking experience because they’re too busy thinking about how they’re gonna sell that shit later, overly self-conscious, stop it you’re doing way too much.

MERCURY IN THE SIXTH (6) YES: these sweet freaks are a whole new kinda leader - their brains are totally focused on dealing with personal changes and social issues, crystal clear thinking let’s these babies soar through emotional shit with clarity and an organized plan. NO: True Life: Living Without A Backbone, self-sabotage level 10000, lacking the inner-strength to look at their shit objectively - get it together dammit you should be fixing the world.

MERCURY IN THE SEVENTH (7) YES: these sweet freaks just have a really strong mental approach to life, they’re lookin at all kinds of shit without getting in their feelings about it, they’re out here chatting it up, down to participate in life and always open to learning from other people’s experiences. NO: took it way too far, fucked around and isolated themselves in a sweet mind prison, one day decided different viewpoints were useless and totally lost sight of reality.

MERCURY IN THE EIGHTH (8) YES: these sweet freaks fucking love relationships (of any kind, don’t have to be human-to-human) - their brains are locked in on seeing past surface level shit and into the core of their connections, working through relationship issues is their favorite pastime. NO: one day decided you weren’t trying to cooperate with them and got fucking ruthless on your ass and/or completely lack the sense of self to apply their resolution abilities, let everything go to shit, then blamed you for it.

MERCURY IN THE NINTH (9) YES: these sweet freaks worship clear thinking and objectivity, they’re fucking ready to plan and discuss their goals, your goals - all the goals all of the plans all of the values - these bitches are going to write about them, sing about them, whatever. It’s going to be real and it’s going to be good. NO: the most closed-minded to ever live, picked the wrong hill to die on, bleeding out over some shit they don’t even understand, lost in the sauce.

MERCURY IN THE TENTH (10) YES: these sweet freaks can focus (I mean, for real, they will not be deterred) and focus they will on solving complex social problems and adjusting to meet the intellectual needs of their crew. These babies are quick as a whip and got serious intellectual versatility. NO: second-guessing every decision they’ve ever made, zero accountability for their social position, completely emotionally repressed mess. 

MERCURY IN THE ELEVENTH (11) YES: these sweet freaks got intellect and they are not afraid to use it (to work through all kinds of cultural issues), on the look out for other smarties to check out all those beautiful, imaginary-but-hopefully-not-for-long horizons and ponder progressive ideals with. NO: never focused a day in their life, acting clever laughing everything off but actually dying inside and refusing to do anything about it.

MERCURY IN THE TWELFTH (12) YES: these sweet freaks are flipping the script and revamping every outdated collective ideal that crosses their mind - a healthy level of seclusion let’s these babies speculate way out into the future, so that they can formulate fresh social attitudes and actions. NO: Academy Award for Victim of Their Own Self-Created Loneliness, "what’s the use” oh my God shut up already and just try to change. Just try it.

Happy Charting, bitches. Unleash your brains.

XO BULLSHIT FREE ASTROLOGY

[duhragonball]

The Completist

This tweet is making the rounds, which is really just a transparent attempt to promote this article by Rupert Hawksley, which I couldn’t read on mobile, but it seems to work okay on my laptop.  The main point of the article is that sometimes reading is a slog, but it can be worthwhile to stick with a book even if you don’t enjoy it right off the bat.  

From what I’ve seen, “Lit Twitter” is mostly arguing with Hawksley’s title, pointing out that they’re under no obligations to start or finish any book, and the author’s feelings are irrelevant.   I feel that misses the article’s point, but that’s on Hawksley for burying his message under an outrage-inducing headline.   Or maybe he did that on purpose to prove his point.   Anyone wringing their hands over the “insult to the author” statement is admitting that they never bothered to read any further.   I did, but I’m responding to the article on tumblr, so I’m not sure that helps his metrics.

We’ll start with the idea that quitting a book is an insult to the author.   That’s dumb, because the author probably doesn’t know whether you finished it or not.  I see a bunch of dopes on Twitter patting themselves on the back for figuring that out, like it’s some grand revelation.   “It’s okay, everybody!  The Independent got it all wrong, you don’t have to read books all the way through!  It’s just like walking out of a movie theater!   Plus a lot of writers are dead, so Ernest Hemingway probably won’t even find out!”  Thanks, guy on Twitter, I don’t know what I’d do without you.

One Twitter response suggested that, if readers are under an obligation to finish every book they start, then they would feel obligated to only try out books that they know for certain that they would enjoy, which would severely limit their ability to try new things.  That’s a fair point.   On the flip side, I saw a guy say that the author deserves to be insulted, because any book he didn’t finish sucks.   I could take that to the logical extreme and say that this means any book you haven’t read must suck by default.    I mean, you can’t finish the ones you don’t start, right?

I think the entire conversation is distracted from the real topic: Sometimes reading is a pain in the ass, and you gotta force yourself to do it.   Sometimes it’s just not worth the trouble, and other times it is worth it, and everyone has to make that call.   I think what Rupert Hawksley was trying to say was that you’re better off seeing books through, because the decision to start one is something of a commitment in itself.    Not for the sake of the author’s feelings, despite what he put in the title of his article, but for your own enrichment.

I don’t read as much as I probably should.   I write a lot, so that probably has something to do with it, and I’m very picky about choosing reading material, and I also don’t like having a big backlog of books to read.   I bought a book on chess a few years ago, and I’m only halfway through it, and yet I bought a second book on chess recently.   I try to avoid doing this sort of thing, because I don’t want to buy a bunch of books and never read them.   But sometimes I succumb to the “retail therapy” temptation.   I do plan to finish both of these chess books, but I don’t want to get bogged down in anything else in the meantime.   So I try to look at reading like this limited resource, because I can only devote so much focus to it at a time.   Each new book is a commitment.   “Am I really going to read this?” is the question I always ask myself, and usually the honest answer is no.  

So when the answer is yes, I feel like I have an obligation to see that through.  I had to leave a lot of other books at the store, so the one I chose needs to be duly considered.  If it’s bad, I could throw it in the trash, sure, but I don’t like loose ends.  I don’t like wondering what might have happened if I had seen it through.  

I’ve never walked out of a movie before.    I considered it a few times, but my morbid curiosity keeps my butt in the seat.   One of the worst movies I’ve ever seen was The Proposal, starring Ryan Renyolds and Sandra Bullock.   It is fucking awful, and I couldn’t look away from it because (a) I was on a date, and (b) it just kept getting worse, like a trainwreck colliding with a second trainwreck.   I had to know what depths the movie would stoop to.   Maybe I’m sick in the head that way, but at least I have an amusing anecdote to show for it.   Let’s face it, the only positive experience from watching The Proposal is getting to tell people how shitty it was, and I’d rather be able to say I watched the whole thing instead of just half of it.   “I chickened out after the scene where the eagle stole her phone.”   That’s weak.

On the other side of the coin, I was trying to learn more about Film Noir last month, so I came up with some movies to watch for research, and they all started out dreadfully slow.   I don’t know if that’s just a feature of the genre, like to build tension, or the filmmakers just expected their audiences to have longer attention spans.   I just know that I kept pausing and restarting each movie, checking the timestamp to measure my progress, and so on.   Because I’m not in a theater for these, I’m just watching them at home, on my computer.    And I only stuck with them because I wanted to learn something, but it was a real chore to get through the whole thing.   And yet, those movies were mostly pretty good.    In particular, Double Indemnity is very good.   It just takes a while to really get going, but it does reward you for the time you invested.

I guess reading is a lot like watching a movie on YouTube, because you’re alone, and you can start and stop at any time, so it takes some mental discipline to get through it and ignore distractions.   It’s fine to say that a book should grab your attention in the first 20 pages, but what if you get bored on page 19?  7?   1?  In my experience, most of my reading experiences feel like a thermodynamic diagram.  

Lots of processes resemble the energy plot on this chart.   Imagine you’re rolling a big stone over a hill shaped like this red line.    It takes a lot of effort to roll it up the hill, and then once it gets over the summit, it rolls down easily.   A lot of chemical reactions operate on a similar principle.   Fire, for example.   You need a decent amount of energy to get a fire started--picture rubbing two sticks together--and once they’re hot enough to ignite, the fire can become self-sustaining.   Not every reaction works this way, with an energy hump that you have to clear, but a lot of them do, and a lot of my reading experiences have a similar “interest hump” that I have to clear.   Once I’m far enough in, it’s easier to commit to the rest.   The trick is to get far enough in to clear that hump. 

I think that’s what Rupert Hawksley was trying to communicate, but he muddied the waters by talking about “insults”.  If I rub two sticks together and quit before they ignite, that’s not an insult to combustion.    And some sticks just aren’t worth rubbing together, and sometimes you don’t want to start a fire in the first place.  But if you went to the trouble to gather sticks for the sake of starting a fire, then you’ve probably settled on a course of action, and you need to be realistic about whether to see it through.  

For my part, I tend to look for big things that I can sink my teeth into.   Currently, I’m reading through a large selection of Fantastic Four comics.  A few years ago, I got into JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure.  I watched the first couple of episodes and stopped for a while, because they didn’t grab my interest that firmly, at least not enough for me to put off finishing the last season of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.  But I didn’t start a big long thing like JJBA just to abandon it on Episode 3.   That’s ridiculous.  I wanted to know what the deal was with the hat guy.  So I got back on the horse and I just finished reading Part 8 a while back.  

Sometimes there’s more to reading or watching a show than pure entertainment.  Sometimes it’s about exploring a phenomenon, or learning something new.   And when it’s like that, you have to be willing to push yourself through an experience so that you can, well, experience it.   It’s not always worth the trouble, but you have to be willing to risk wasting some time on things that aren’t worth it, because otherwise you’ll miss out on a lot of cool things that are worthwhile.   

[crazynekochan]

Dangan Persona AU

Palace #7

Ruled by Makoto Naegi.

Captive is Mukuro Ikusaba (held captive in cell; will be executed for her crimes in the alternate reality if not rescued in time; picked very much the worst day to dress as Junko).

Shadow manifests as Makoto but wearing a creepy long black cloak, like he is the judge, jury and executioner (which he is), who turns into a 4-armed angel, one wielding a shield, the other a huge revolver (like truth bullets), and the 2nd pair holding up the weight of the world’s hope on his shoulders as a shining globe that seems to get heavier as the battle progresses. It’s also immune to Curse skills, which is rather unfortunate because that’s what everyone was betting on it having since Lincoln (and therefore Makoto)’s weak to Curse skills.

Palace is Hope’s Peak as ala the first game but much more pastel, with the walls instead draped in soft silk, light shining down in jarring contrast to the giant metal plates over the windows. It gives everyone the creeps, especially when the 2nd half starts with much more blood and gore appearing on the pristine sheets and floors.

As a little peep to the next palace, this is also where they get a glimpse of a Shadow Nagito. The original had gotten curious and just barely went a bit into the Metaverse. He managed to get out right away, but not before causing his shadow to be spotted tending to a strange memorial garden of class 78 before vanishing.

Finally after frankly too many puzzles, they arrive at the midway point of Mukuro’s show trial at a near exact replica of the red door to the trial grounds. They open up and find the elevator, but what is much more relevant is the metric fuckton of Junko photos and Monokuma memorabilia all over the room, almost all of them horrifically destroyed in rage, aimed at the faces in particular. Since Mukuro was dressed as Junko the day she got abducted (Junko had a scheduling issue and made Mukuro dress as her for class, even though no one else really bought it), this makes everyone rightfully very nervous and reluctantly head down, despite the sick feelings roiling in everyone’s stomachs, because they’re not gonna like this. And nope, they didn’t like it at all.

They came out to see the trial already underway, 2 large stands loaded with masked figures to the sides of the room and a high circle of 15 podiums surrounding Mukuro, chained into a kneeling position as the Judges gazed down upon her. The party looks up to see them, and finds something rather strange. On one side are 9 funerary portraits on raised poles, with the 6 judges in black robes in front of them, all focused on Mukuro. The Judges are cognitive versions of the DR1 survivors, all looking much worse for wear (cognitive Hiro looks exhausted, cognitive Hina is silently sobbing with a funerary portrait of Sakura in her hands, even cognitive Kyoko looks like she was in mourning), with Shadow Makoto in the center as the chief Justice. It’s right at the ending of the trial, and Mukuro is declared guilty for conspiracy to end the world, to the disgust and horror of the crowd.

Mukuro tries to argue, saying that this must be a mistake, they have the wrong person. Shadow Makoto tells her that no, they know full well who she is, Mukuro Ikusaba (full name, no honorifics). He continues, telling her, in no uncertain terms, all of the crimes he knows of from the alternate timeline committed by the Ultimate Despair. “And to prevent that from occurring, we must tear the despair out, root and stem. Junko would be nothing without her little cronies, after all. What better way to end this right now than by her dearest sister’s death, leaving her powerless?” Then the Shadow has her trapped inside of a cage and sent down to the dungeons to await her execution, before the party can help her.

The rest of the palace works in a similar way to the first half, but everything goes into straight up horror movie territory. Like they were creeped out before, but now it was fucking all sorts of terrifying. It’s pretty much an amalgamation of all of Makoto from the other timeline’s trauma and survivors guilt from the first game. This part of the palace also has a bunches of minibosses that they have to fight through in the second half because holy crap, those things are fucking horrific. The minibosses are all the souls lost to the killing school life and it is very much not pretty. Sayaka covered in blood impaled with knives; Leon tied to a pole, pummeled to a pulp, chucking bloody baseballs; Chihiro with his head bashed in, using a mess of cables and screens to interact with the world; Mondo as a hellish biker that seems to be melting; Taka the terrifying sergeant with his head bleeding; Hifumi with his head bashed in as well, using his horrific Junji Ito-style magical girl drawings for attacks; a thing so burnt and smashed up that they could only identify her as Celeste because of the twin drills; Sakura as a silent warrior, constantly coughing up poison and blood. Even a makeshift “Mukuro”, hardly able to move from all the spears through her body. Holy crap, did that freak everyone out and make them very glad when they next saw their friends again at dinner because they’re alive!

The time limit this time is because Shadow Makoto, while being a twisted mess of repressed anger, sadness, and misery, is also fundamentally a good person and doesn’t want to kill Mukuro before she had even done anything, even though he knows that she’s guilty as sin of conspiring to destroy the world and everything in it (in the canon timeline). That’s actually where the party comes in, because by the time they clear the palace, the Shadow had finally decided that it was now or never and he needed to do this now. When they rush in to stop him, that’s when the boss fight starts.

The fight is genuinely hard as hell and the Shadow isn’t holding back. The attacks are all similar to the various minigames from DR1, just with a Persona flair. Makoto’s providing as much support as he can without being able to control his own persona, with the Shadow lashing out every time that Makoto offers his emotional support. Eventually, they notice that the giant ball of hope is getting heavier to the point of nearly crushing Makoto, who’s holding up the globe like Atlas holding the sky. His Shadow’s about ready to cry, begging the others to stop as Makoto encourages them all to keeping fighting and to not give up now. The battle only stops when they finally get Makoto to confess that he’s not always the bright ball of sunshine that they think he is and that even he needs help sometimes. With that resolved, the shadow returns to being Makoto’s persona, now instead of Lincoln, he is Logos (basically the closest to Jesus as I can get without making an even bigger mess in the MegaTen universe)

[Holy shit, I feel like I wrote a whole novel here! I’m ending this here, good night!}

---

Mod: The design for Makot's shadow is so flipping awesome. It’s so fitting for Makoto considering that he’s the main speaker during the class trials (cause MC and all) and this is literally a trial his shadow is holding, with the shields and revolver in each hand. Though my favourite is him holding up the worlds hope like Atlas with the sky, cause it’s still my favourite part of his character development that he admits in the DR3 anime that he’s sometimes really overwhelmed with always having to be positive as the Ultimate Hope but still keeps it up for ever (and as entertaining the anime was, it was one of the only good things it did story wise, but that’s a different topic altogether...)

The palace must be so disturbing for the party, cause up until now every palace was basically a fantasy place representing something of the person’s life/personality. But now they are in a twisted and later on gory version of their own school, and still don’t know anything of the past timeline. But things are starting to get unravelled now. Though most disturbing must be the memorial garden for their very much alive friends. The fact that the survivors, who were not among the memorial photos, are the judges who look like they experiences something very awful and traumatic. Not to mention the tons of destroyed Junko photos

That the minibosses are the victims in an all horror like fashion, where I’m imagining something along the lines of DR3 anime with Makoto’s despair hallucination, must be so brutal cause these are literally the “corpses” of their friends that are attacking them, who are in this timeline alive and happy

I can only imagine how hard it must have been for everyone to see how Makoto’s shadow actually is, which is basically being overwhelmed with all the support he has to give all the time. Cause everyone does lean a lot on Makoto (not that leaning on people is bad, but there is a limit how much one person can handle, even for Makoto)

[novamm66]

I need to tell you about my weekend. I want to share my story, one for myself, and also for anyone else who may be struggling with life.

Let me start by saying how sorry I am that I have been so quiet lately. I have barely been making it day it day and while I have managed to go to work almost everyday, I have barely had energy left for any else.

I would also like to give a trigger warning. I am going to talk about my own suicidal thoughts as well as some pretty dangerous things (I am fine but it was awfully close). I don’t want to cause distress for anyone so read with caution.

Recap: my partner of 20 years, married for 15walked out on me in December.

So this past Friday I received an email from him, 3 months after he left, giving me the explanation I had asked for when he went. His explanation was simply confirming what I already suspected. It was the last paragraph that really kicked me in the teeth. He confirmed that he was going public with a new relationship, someone that he had known for years and I had suspected for months.

The fact that this, finding someone else, was his solution. While he claimed that I was not to blame (and I’m not, his depression made him do it) but his actions spook louder to me.

By Friday evening I was ready to die again. My demons were having a holiday and everyone was invited. I was ready for any way out. Now, I have been here before, many many times, and I reached out. I have amazing friends, and one of the best, got me to her place and sat with me through the worst of the storm.

I regained enough of my footing that I got myself through Saturday, couldn’t get off my couch but I promised to go to another friend’s place for an afternoon of sun and bonfire. Which we did, and it was amazing.

Now comes the scary part. The drive home is about 45 minutes on the highway. Our speeds here are 110 km/hr. About 10 minutes into the drive I was passing an 18-wheeler when it hit an air pocket and the driver lost control. I found myself between 24 metric ton truck and the cement wall of an overpass.

I was sure I was dead. I thought, “Shit, I’m dead,” then I did everything I possibly could to stay alive. The goddess was looking out for me because the truck drive knew his stuff and didn’t panic. He regained control of his truck and only hit me with the back end of his load. I drove with the hit and keep my wheels on the asphalt (barely). My car was not pushed onto the gravel and into the barrier. If it had, my car would have flipped straight into the overpass. I would not be writing this, I would have just disappeared, to be forgotten except my art and writing would remain.

I cleared the overpass and pulled over onto the median turned off the car and got out. Sat my ass in the dirt and put my head between my knees for a moment. Then dealt with the realities of having an accident on the highway. (I live in Nova Scotia, Canada so I had rescuers at my car with in 60 seconds of stopping. A paramedic on her way to work was first. And the truck driver arrived back at my car, he felt so bad, my heat went out to him. Then it was cops and damage assessment and roadside paperwork.)

I can also say that I am a tough bitch. After all of this I got back in my car and drove home. Where I promptly poured myself a very generous drink of my 12-year-old aged tequila and thanked all my guardians by name.

Now I come to the point of my rambling story. That moment, knowing I was dead but fighting like fuck to stay alive, in the midst of a depressive, suicidal episode, really put things in perspective for me. While I know my demons will get the upper hand again, I also now have the knowledge that when the chips are down, everything in me, including my demons, fought to stay alive. That gives me power over them, in a way I. have never had before.

My new life has been easier this past week, I have gotten the damage to my car repaired and the truck driver is covering the cost (we are avoiding insurance for reasons). There has been no delayed injury to myself, I didn’t think there would be but you never know, and emotionally I have been more stable then I have been in months. I got to look my ex in the eye and say what I wanted to say, perform the ritual that ended out union in my heart, mind, and soul. Waiting for the year is just paperwork now.

I have gone the the beach every other day to give thanks to the goddess for her protection and strength and she has graced me with her gifts, the best is pictured above. She gave me a heart to hold on to until I can mend the broken pieces of mine back together.

 Thanks for listening Universe. Love you.