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hellomynameisbisexual · 3 years

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Here's a shortlist of those who realized that I — a cis woman who'd identified as heterosexual for decades of life — was in fact actually bi, long before I realized it myself recently: my sister, all my friends, my boyfriend, and the TikTok algorithm.

On TikTok, the relationship between user and algorithm is uniquely (even sometimes uncannily) intimate. An app which seemingly contains as many multitudes of life experiences and niche communities as there are people in the world, we all start in the lowest common denominator of TikTok. Straight TikTok (as it's popularly dubbed) initially bombards your For You Page with the silly pet videos and viral teen dances that folks who don't use TikTok like to condescendingly reduce it to.

Quickly, though, TikTok begins reading your soul like some sort of divine digital oracle, prying open layers of your being never before known to your own conscious mind. The more you use it, the more tailored its content becomes to your deepest specificities, to the point where you get stuff that's so relatable that it can feel like a personal attack (in the best way) or (more dangerously) even a harmful trigger from lifelong traumas.

For example: I don't know what dark magic (read: privacy violations) immediately clued TikTok into the fact that I was half-Brazilian, but within days of first using it, Straight TikTok gave way to at first Portuguese-speaking then broader Latin TikTok. Feeling oddly seen (being white-passing and mostly American-raised, my Brazilian identity isn't often validated), I was liberal with the likes, knowing that engagement was the surefire way to go deeper down this identity-affirming corner of the social app.

TikTok made lots of assumptions from there, throwing me right down the boundless, beautiful, and oddest multiplicities of Alt TikTok, a counter to Straight TikTok's milquetoast mainstreamness.

Home to a wide spectrum of marginalized groups, I was giving out likes on my FYP like Oprah, smashing that heart button on every type of video: from TikTokers with disabilities, Black and Indigenous creators, political activists, body-stigma-busting fat women, and every glittering shade of the LGBTQ cornucopia. The faves were genuine, but also a way to support and help offset what I knew about the discriminatory biases in TikTok's algorithm.

My diverse range of likes started to get more specific by the minute, though. I wasn't just on general Black TikTok anymore, but Alt Cottagecore Middle-Class Black Girl TikTok (an actual label one creator gave her page's vibes). Then it was Queer Latina Roller Skating Girl TikTok, Women With Non-Hyperactive ADHD TikTok, and then a double whammy of Women Loving Women (WLW) TikTok alternating between beautiful lesbian couples and baby bisexuals.

Looking back at my history of likes, the transition from queer “ally” to “salivating simp” is almost imperceptible.

There was no one precise "aha" moment. I started getting "put a finger down" challenges that wouldn't reveal what you were putting a finger down for until the end. Then, 9-fingers deep (winkwink), I'd be congratulated for being 100% bisexual. Somewhere along the path of getting served multiple WLW Disney cosplays in a single day and even dom lesbian KinkTok roleplay — or whatever the fuck Bisexual Pirate TikTok is — deductive reasoning kind of spoke for itself.

But I will never forget the one video that was such a heat-seeking missile of a targeted attack that I was moved to finally text it to my group chat of WLW friends with a, "Wait, am I bi?" To which the overwhelming consensus was, "Magic 8 Ball says, 'Highly Likely.'"

Serendipitously posted during Pride Month, the video shows a girl shaking her head at the caption above her head, calling out confused and/or closeted queers who say shit like, "I think everyone is a LITTLE bisexual," to the tune of "Closer" by The Chainsmokers. When the lyrics land on the word "you," she points straight at the screen — at me — her finger and inquisitive look piercing my hopelessly bisexual soul like Cupid's goddamn arrow.

Oh no, the voice inside my head said, I have just been mercilessly perceived.

As someone who had, in fact, done feminist studies at a tiny liberal arts college with a gender gap of about 70 percent women, I'd of course dabbled. I've always been quick to bring up the Kinsey scale, to champion a true spectrum of sexuality, and to even declare (on multiple occasions) that I was, "straight, but would totally fuck that girl!"

Oh no, the voice inside my head returned, I've literally just been using extra words to say I was bi.

After consulting the expertise of my WLW friend group (whose mere existence, in retrospect, also should've clued me in on the flashing neon pink, purple, and blue flag of my raging bisexuality), I ran to my boyfriend to inform him of the "news."

"Yeah, baby, I know. We all know," he said kindly.

"How?!" I demanded.

Well for one, he pointed out, every time we came across a video of a hot girl while scrolling TikTok together, I'd without fail watch the whole way through, often more than once, regardless of content. (Apparently, straight girls do not tend to do this?) For another, I always breathlessly pointed out when we'd pass by a woman I found beautiful, often finding a way to send a compliment her way. ("I'm just a flirt!" I used to rationalize with a hand wave, "Obvs, I'm not actually sexually attracted to them!") Then, I guess, there were the TED Talk-like rants I'd subject him to about the thinly veiled queer relationship in Adventure Time between Princess Bubblegum and Marcelyne the Vampire Queen — which the cowards at Cartoon Network forced creators to keep as subtext!

And, well, when you lay it all out like that...

But my TikTok-fueled bisexual awakening might actually speak less to the omnipotence of the app's algorithm, and more to how heteronormativity is truly one helluva drug.

Sure, TikTok bombarded me with the thirst traps of my exact type of domineering masc lady queers, who reduced me to a puddle of drool I could no longer deny. But I also recalled a pivotal moment in college when I briefly questioned my heterosexuality, only to have a lesbian friend roll her eyes and chastise me for being one of those straight girls who leads Actual Queer Women on. I figured she must know better. So I never pursued any of my lady crushes in college, which meant I never experimented much sexually, which made me conclude that I couldn't call myself bisexual if I'd never had actual sex with a woman. I also didn't really enjoy lesbian porn much, though the fact that I'd often find myself fixating on the woman during heterosexual porn should've clued me into that probably coming more from how mainstream lesbian porn is designed for straight men.

The ubiquity of heterormativity, even when unwittingly perpetrated by members of the queer community, is such an effective self-sustaining cycle. Aside from being met with queer-gating (something I've since learned bi folks often experience), I had a hard time identifying my attraction to women as genuine attraction, simply because it felt different to how I was attracted to men.

Heteronormativity is truly one helluva drug.

So much of women's sexuality — of my sexuality — can feel defined by that carnivorous kind of validation you get from men. I met no societal resistance in fully embodying and exploring my desire for men, either (which, to be clear, was and is insatiable slut levels of wanting that peen.) But in retrospect, I wonder how many men I slept with not because I was truly attracted to them, but because I got off on how much they wanted me.

My attraction to women comes with a different texture of eroticism. With women (and bare with a baby bi, here), the attraction feels more shared, more mutual, more tender rather than possessive. It's no less raw or hot or all-consuming, don't get me wrong. But for me at least, it comes more from a place of equality rather than just power play. I love the way women seem to see right through me, to know me, without us really needing to say a word.

I am still, as it turns out, a sexual submissive through-and-through, regardless of what gender my would-be partner is. But, ignorantly and unknowingly, I'd been limiting my concept of who could embody dominant sexual personas to cis men. But when TikTok sent me down that glorious rabbit hole of masc women (who know exactly what they're doing, btw), I realized my attraction was not to men, but a certain type of masculinity. It didn't matter which body or genitalia that presentation came with.

There is something about TikTok that feels particularly suited to these journeys of sexual self-discovery and, in the case of women loving women, I don't think it's just the prescient algorithm. The short-form video format lends itself to lightning bolt-like jolts of soul-bearing nakedness, with the POV camera angles bucking conventions of the male gaze, which entrenches the language of film and TV in heterosexual male desire.

In fairness to me, I'm far from the only one who missed their inner gay for a long time — only to have her pop out like a queer jack-in-the-box throughout a near year-long quarantine that led many of us to join TikTok. There was the baby bi mom, and scores of others who no longer had to publicly perform their heterosexuality during lockdown — only to realize that, hey, maybe I'm not heterosexual at all?

Flooded with video after video affirming my suspicions, reflecting my exact experiences as they happened to others, the change in my sexual identity was so normalized on TikTok that I didn't even feel like I needed to formally "come out." I thought this safe home I'd found to foster my baby bisexuality online would extend into the real world.

But I was in for a rude awakening.

Testing out my bisexuality on other platforms, casually referring to it on Twitter, posting pictures of myself decked out in a rainbow skate outfit (which I bought before realizing I was queer), I received nothing but unquestioning support and validation. Eventually, I realized I should probably let some members of my family know before they learned through one of these posts, though.

Daunted by the idea of trying to tell my Latina Catholic mother and Swiss Army veteran father (who's had a crass running joke about me being a "lesbian" ever since I first declared myself a feminist at age 12), I chose the sibling closest to me. Seeing as how gender studies was one of her majors in college too, I thought it was a shoo-in. I sent an off-handed, joke-y but serious, "btw I'm bi now!" text, believing that's all that would be needed to receive the same nonchalant acceptance I found online.

It was not.

I didn't receive a response for two days. Hurt and panicked by what was potentially my first mild experience of homophobia, I called them out. They responded by insisting we need to have a phone call for such "serious" conversations. As I calmly tried to express my hurt on said call, I was told my text had been enough to make this sibling worry about my mental wellbeing. They said I should be more understanding of why it'd be hard for them to (and I'm paraphrasing) "think you were one way for twenty-eight years" before having to contend with me deciding I was now "something else."

But I wasn't "something else," I tried to explain, voice shaking. I hadn't knowingly been deceiving or hiding this part of me. I'd simply discovered a more appropriate label. But it was like we were speaking different languages. Other family members were more accepting, thankfully. There are many ways I'm exceptionally lucky, my IRL environment as supportive as Baby Bi TikTok. Namely, I'm in a loving relationship with a man who never once mistook any of it as a threat, instead giving me all the space in the world to understand this new facet of my sexuality.

I don't have it all figured out yet. But at least when someone asks if I listen to Girl in Red on social media, I know to answer with a resounding, "Yes," even though I've never listened to a single one of her songs. And for now, that's enough.

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orangeoctopi7 · 3 years

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It’s Fine (It’s not fine)

@forduary week 1 is Hurt/Comfort. The one’s definitely more on the hurt side of things, but I promise there’s some comfort at the end!

Stanford Pines is six years old. He’s in his bedroom, reading quietly. He’s just getting to the climax of the adventure story he’s reading when his brother Stanley crashes into the room. It wouldn't normally be a problem, Ford is really good at tuning out the world around him while he reads, but Stan is complaining loudly.

“I’m booooooard!” The boy moans, grabbing onto the post of their bunk-bed and dangling off it dramatically.

“Whaddaya want me to do about it?” Ford asks in irritation, not looking up from his book.

“Let’s go play on the beach! Or go to the comic store! Or… or something!” Stan suggests. “Anything but just sit around here doin’ nothin’!”

It was a hot summer afternoon. Ford didn’t want to go down to the beach or the comic store when he knew for certain anywhere they went today was bound to be crowded with people. He just wanted to sit and read in his room and enjoy some time to himself.

“Can’t you go by yourself?”

“Are you kiddin’? Ma would throw a fit!”

Ford heaves a long-suffering sigh, places a bookmark to hold his place, and snaps his book shut before thumping it down on his bed.

“Well we don’t hafta go if ya don’t wanna.” Stan says lamely.

“It’s fine.” Ford assures him.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is ten years old. He’s at recess, trying to lie low. Stan got held back for the whole half-hour because he’d been caught trying to sneak the class pet, a newt, into his backpack. This of course leaves Ford at the mercy of Crampelter and his thugs, who have little to no mercy on any given day.

“C’mon freak, fight back!” The towheaded bully taunts him, holding Ford back by the forehead as he tries to struggle past the blocking arm for his backpack, held just out of reach. “I know I seen you taking boxing lessons back at Mel’s Gym!”

“It’s ‘I saw’ or ‘I have seen’, and just b‘cuz I’m taking lessons doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to pick a fight I know I can’t win!” Ford protests.

“Pfft, you’re no fun.” Crampelter scoffs, before grabbing onto one of Ford’s hands while he continues to reach vainly for his backpack. “But y’know what does sound fun?”

“Let go of me!”

“Seeing how flexible your extra fingers are!” Crampelter starts to push Ford’s pinky finger back with his thumb, stretching it to its limit.

“Stop it! That hurts!”

But Crampelter just keeps pushing and pushing until Ford is sure some tendons are going to pop, when a shrill whistle echoes across the playground.

“Hey! Crampelter! Drop the freak!” The teacher on recess watch commands.

The bully finally lets go, and Ford stumbles to the ground, holding his injured hand close to his body.

“Here, lemme look at that.” the teacher pulls Ford’s hand away to check it. “Eh, ‘snot bleeding or broken, you’re fine.”

As they walk back from school that afternoon, Stan rants over and over that Crampelter Will Not Get Away With This, plotting various methods of revenge, most of them too fanciful to ever come to fruition.

Ford is silent the whole time, his gaze turned towards his shoes.

“Hey.” Stan suddenly stops his ranting and places a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

“It’s fine.” Ford mumbles.

“I promise I’ll try not to get held in for recess again.”

“I said it’s fine.” Ford assures him, knowing that hoping Stan won’t get held back from recess again is like hoping it won’t snow in January. Technically possible, but highly unlikely.

* * *

Stanford Pines is fourteen years old. He’s a freshman in highschool, and he and his brother are in detention after he was caught letting Stan look off his algebra test.

It’s not that Ford has anything against sharing his answers with his brother. It’s not like he has any sort of moral high-ground here. It’s just that Stan is always so carelessly obvious about it!

“I said I was sorry, alright!” Stan hisses at him, trying not to draw the teacher’s attention.

“We’re not in middle school anymore, these things actually go on our record now!” Ford hisses back. “You have to be more careful!”

“Well maybe if you would actually slip me your paper instead of making me crane my neck over your desk! Nobody’s gonna notice if you hand your test in two minutes before everyone else instead of five!”

“That’d be even more obvious! Maybe if you wore your glasses for once!”

“Maybe I would, if you could hold your own in a fight!”

“What does that even have to do with anything!?”

“You don’t wear glasses in a fight, genius! That’s just asking for them to get broken! And I know I’m always having to step in and save your skin, so why would I even bother wearing them in the first place?”

“Hey!” The teacher overseeing detention snaps at them. “No talking!”

The boys shut their yapps and go back to studying, or at least pretending to study.

“I’m sorry.” Stan murmurs, once he’s sure the teacher is no longer paying attention to them.

“It’s fine.” Ford grunts back.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 17 years old. He is begrudgingly walking down to the beach with his brother.

“C’mon Ford, it’s October, there’s only a few more days of weather nice enough to work on her left! And the dumb science fair isn’t until April!”

“I still have so much research to do before I can even start!” Ford complains. “Not to mention procuring parts, testing different models--”

“That all sounds like stuff you can do once it gets cold.”

“I should be in the building phase by then!”

“Alright, look,” Stan jabs a finger in his brother’s direction. “If you wanna spend the last few warm days of the year cooped up in the library, that’s your problem. But I’m gonna enjoy the sunshine and the beach, and finish fixin’ up the Stan’o’war. We’re so close, I can practically taste the treasure and babes!”

“...Fine.” Ford grumbles.

“No, no. You go do your nerd thing. I’ll put the finishing touches on this thing we’ve been working on together since we were pipsqueaks.”

“I said it’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is 17 years old. He’s just come back from the most humiliating moment of his life (thus far). He confronts his brother, the offending evidence crinkling in his clenched fist. Stan tries to play it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he expects his brother to say It’s Fine.

It is most definitely not fine.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 20 years old. He’s showing his new roommate around their humble apartment.

“I really ‘preciate this, Stanford.” Fiddleford McGucket tells him for the sixth time that day. “Most folks wouldn’t offer to put their TA up in their apartment, ‘specially not when you’re lucky ‘nough to get yer own place!”

“Well, I’ll be starting the Doctorate program myself, next year! That makes us equals, in my mind.” Ford says proudly. “And I’m happy for the company! The only reason I have the apartment to myself is because my last roommate and I parted over… differences.”

“Heh, you too, eh?” McGucket chuckles. “Least you weren’t kicked out, like I was!”

“Why were you kicked out?”

“Oh, several reasons. I think the robot in the kitchen was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Ford laughs. “Well, I for one would love to have a robot that does our dishes and cleans the counters.”

McGucket grins and leans against the table.. “See, I knew we’d make great roommates!”

Unfortunately, McGucket’s leaning is more than the wobbly table can take, and it tips over on its side, scattering textbooks and papers everywhere. The two friends begin cleaning up the mess, McGucket apologizing profusely.

They’ve almost finished putting everything back onto the table when Fiddleford picks up an old photo of two little boys standing before a derelict little boat.

“Well bless my soul! Is this you, Ford?”

Ford’s heart skips a beat. He hadn’t realized he left that photo lying on the table!

“Ah, yes, that’s me. That was the day I decided I wanted to be a researcher--”

“And lookit this little fellah next to ya!” Fiddleford interrupts Ford’s soliloquy. “He looks just like you! I can’t believe I’ve known you for three years, and you never told me you had a twin!”

“Er… it just-- it never came up.”

“How in tarnation does yer own twin brother never come up?” Fiddleford asks incredulously. “So, what’s his name?”

“Stanley and I are not on speaking terms.” Ford says stiffly. “I haven’t spoken to him since I was a teenager.”

A multitude of expressions dance across Fiddleford’s face before Ford can hope to interpret any of them. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He finally says.

“It’s fine.” Ford says tersely, snatching the photo back.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 21 years old. He’s trying to get a good night sleep before his first dissertation tomorrow.

Trying being the operative word.

The past year rooming with Fiddleford McGucket has been great, for the most part. Ford loves spending time with an intellectual equal. McGucket accepts all of Ford’s idiosyncrasies, and Ford accepts all those of his friend.

Well, almost all of them.

It didn’t take long after they started rooming together for Ford to realize one of the several reasons McGucket had been evicted from his last apartment had nothing to do with his penchant for robotics, and everything to do with his penchant for late-night banjo playing. As much as it cut into Ford’s sleep schedule, he didn’t have the heart to complain to his roommate about it. He knew he had plenty of his own bad habits that were difficult to deal with, like his coffee addiction, his antisocial behavior, his tendency to start a project and just leave it laying wherever he was around the apartment, and his few dozen subscriptions to cryptozoological newsletters.

The digital clock on Ford’s bedside table reads 2:20 AM when the music finally, thankfully stops. He sighs and turns over in his bed, hoping to finally fall asleep.

When he wakes in the morning, groggy as a hung-over sailor, Fiddleford at least has the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry, did I keep ya up last night? I kinda got lost in the music an’ lost track of time.”

“It’s fine.” Ford mutters as he pours himself a large mug of the strongest coffee he can brew. This is the first roommate he’s gotten along with since… since he started college. He can put up with this.

“Well, if’n ya need me to, I can start headin’ up to the practice rooms in the assembly hall fer my jam sessions--”

“It’s fine.”

* * *

Stanford Pines is 31 years old. He’s spreading thick globs of slimy aloe vera on his hands. He’s been letting his muse take control of his body while he sleeps for about a week now. Bill says he’s not used to the limits of a physical human body. He’s injured Ford’s body just about every night so far, but last night, when he picked up the hot coffee pot by the pot instead of by the handle, was the worst by far.

“This keeps on happening, Bill. You need to be more careful.” He gently chides his muse.

“WELL HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT’D HAPPEN? WHY DIDN’T THE IDIOT WHO DESIGNED THAT THING INSULATE THE WHOLE CONTAINER INSTEAD OF JUST THE HANDLE? YOU COULD DESIGN A COFFEE POT WAY MORE EFFICIENT THAN THAT!”

Ford smiles, blushing. “Perhaps I’ll get around to modifying it someday. But for now, as I was saying, could you please be more careful with my body at night?”

“HEY, YOU’RE ACTUALLY LUCKY THIS HAPPENED. IF I HADN’T DROPPED THAT POT, I WOULD’VE TRIED DRINKING IT THE SAME WAY I DO IN MY NORMAL FORM, AND THEN YOU’D PROBABLY BE BLIND. SO WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, YOU SHOULD BE THANKING ME!”

Ford pales. “Er, perhaps I should help you practice using my body first, just to decrease the risk of that sort of thing.”

“OH, I’M SORRY! DO YOU NOT WANT MY HELP? DO YOU NOT WANT TO ACHIEVE GREATNESS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE?”

“No! No of course not! That’s not what I meant!”

“DON’T FORGET, I’M DOING THIS FOR YOU, SIXER! I’M AN AGELESS BEING OF PURE ENERGY! THE ONLY REASON I’M HELPING YOU SPEED UP THE PROCESS ON BUILDING THE PORTAL IS BECAUSE I KNOW HOW PATHETICALLY SHORT YOUR MORTAL LIFE IS. YOU’RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO TRUST ME. OR ARE A FEW BUMPS AND BRUISES TOO MUCH FOR YOU TO HANDLE?”

“Of course not! It’s fine! I’m fine!” Ford insists, finishing bandaging his burns.

* * *

Stanford Pines is… probably 45? He’s not quite sure. He’s lost track of time after traveling the multiverse for so long, especially after the Do-Over Dimension.

He’s making his way through a crowded alien market, hoping to find something he’ll be able to use in his Quantum Destabilizer, and also hoping not to be recognized by any bounty hunters. It’s annoying, having to wear a hood and goggles and mask everywhere he goes, but that’s just the way it has to be now.

It’s fine.

It’s only until he can complete the Quantum Destabilizer. After that… it didn’t matter what happened after that.

It’s fine.

* * *

Stanford Pines is 62 years old. He’s sitting in a hospital bed. Despite what that may suggest, his life has finally taken a turn for the better. Bill is gone, Weirdmaggeddon is over, and, miraculously, no one died. Stanley was going to be ok. The kids didn’t hate him. He’s achieved his goal of destroying Bill Cipher, and survived! He’s fine. They’re all incredibly, wonderfully, fine.

The doctor is giving his vitals one last check before officially discharging him from the hospital. It’s obvious that under normal circumstances, Ford would not be leaving the hospital any time soon, but thanks to the incredibly persistent insistence of his family, and the fact that the hospital is already absolutely filled to the brim with people who were injured during Weirdmageddon, and the fact that Stanford was instrumental in stopping Bill, they’re making an exception.

“Alright, you’re free to go!” The doctor finally says, handing his clipboard over to Ford to sign.

“Hooray!” Mabel cheers as her uncle signs his exit papers. “Now you’ll be able to help us set up for our birthday party!” She slings an arm around his neck to hug him, completely forgetting about the thin layer of bandages around his neck. Ford can’t suppress a yelp of pain.

Mabel reels back, hands flying to her mouth. “Ohmigosh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Ford forces a smile.

“I wasn’t thinking!”

“Mabel, really, it’s fine.”

“Ford.” Stan says firmly. Ford recognizes the expression on his face from the last few days. It’s the look he gets on his face when he’s remembering something painful. “You gotta stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He asks, confused.

“Saying ‘It’s fine’ when it’s not.”

Ford raises an eyebrow. “Stanley, it was just an accident. It really is fine.”

“Oh, yeah, of course this was…” Stan stammers, apparently coming back to the moment. “Mabel’s not-- this was just an honest mistake. But you say… uh, or at least, you used to say that a lot. Even when I could tell it wasn’t really fine. You gotta stop that.”

Ford shifted in his bed uncomfortably. “I’m just being polite.”

“There are ways to say things aren’t fine while still being polite.” Dipper points out.

Ford can feel himself flush. “I’m not good at that. I always come off as rude… or angry.” Saying it’s fine is just easier. He can just move on and forget about it. Control his emotions. Remove them from the equation for the time being, process them later when he’s alone, so nobody gets hurt.

Stan takes a deep breath before he speaks again. “You just gotta trust us, that we’re not gonna leave you just ‘cuz you get angry sometimes.”

Is that really what he’s been afraid of this whole time? That certainly seems to be a part of it, but not the whole. All the same, he does at least feel that he can trust his family. And he can try to be more honest with them when something is bothering him.

“I think I can do that.” he says as he gets up from the hospital bed, ready to go home.

#Gravity Falls #Stanford Pines #Fanfiction #My Writing

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countessofbiscuit · 3 years

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thank you for the reply to the codywan ask! I've been a long time admirer of your fics and the way you write, and i adore the way you engage with sw lore, characters and relationships. i'd love to pick your brain about something - how do you write and see characters with all their flaws without being "turned off" by it? i recently read meridian, and was fascinated by your exploration in the power dynamics btw ahsoka and rex, but also discomfited because ahsoka is one of my favourite characters1/

Hey there — you’re very welcome and it’s always an honor to shepherd someone into the Rexsoka fold ♥ There’s a lot of meaty stuff here and I’m kinda hungover from Christmas Adam, but I’ll pitch in a little on what I think are your two main questions:

1. How do you write and see characters with all their flaws without being "turned off" by it? . . . . I frequently am turned off by it — if by ‘turned off’ you mean, that I feel my instinct to stan diminish. It’s almost bound to happen when one stops privileging their POV by exploring them from the perspective of somebody else, especially when said character is privileged in and by the narrative, too. And I don’t think transforming and complicating one’s relationship with the source material in that way is a bad thing; it makes for stronger writing and more empathetic stories. It’s interesting that you mention Ahsoka, though, because where I used to enjoy her pretty easily as a character with flaws, in the sense that she was written as being real (and therefore, relatably human), I have struggled to reconcile myself to her as a character who now seems flawed by inconsistent writing — or perhaps I should say, inconsistent framing. There’s a dissonance (imo) between how she’s elevated by the Powers That Be, and what her late actions in canon beg us to believe about her. There’s a chasm in the treatment of her character that I’ve felt somewhat compelled to fill with fic (as I am sure others have), while at the same time, I’m sitting under a disappointment that’s not very inspiring, lol.

(n.b. Interestingly, Bo-Katan has lately been subject to a similar inconsistent treatment from On High; but as she’s never been practically deified by the creators or the fandom, I don’t find the discordance so jarring, since I’m used to admiring her as a difficult anti-hero with dips into villainy.)

2. Escapism vs Critical Engagement: There’s a doozy. Let’s just say we contain multitudes, and acknowledging that as individuals is hard enough sometimes, let alone when people come together to enjoy (or not) A Thing (especially A Thing as big as Star Wars). I don’t have the answers on how to make it less unsettling when someone critiques or criticizes something that you (general ‘you’ here) just want to casually imbibe for the feel-good factor, except to allow yourself to be comfortable with being unsettled. It’s a popular adage in fandom that people come to the table for different things: some folks want a five-course meal complete with palate cleansers and wine pairings, some folks want a bowl of Easy Mac, and other folks want a rigidly healthy Paleo plate; as long as we’re all sitting down and engaging in good faith with each other about our choices, knowing when to leave the table or just swap seats or try something new, all to the good. The problem comes when one person demands that everyone should have what they’re having (usually the Paleo person, lbr), and lashes out when they meet opposition. We understand this pretty well in day-to-day life, yet when it comes to something as intensely personal as consumption and production of fictional material, everybody’s got an opinion about how others are doing it wrong — undoubtedly because, for so many of us in fandom, our identity and self-worth are so wrapped up in it. I catch myself doing this all the time; to reference Codywan again, I feel my lip curl when people write it with no reference to the ~reality~ of those characters’ situations as I see it (as I am sure plenty of people recoil at ships that I like) … but then, I recognize this feeling as irrational and selfish and I just channel my frustration into doing my own thing instead and hope it touches somebody else who feels the same.

To bring this back round: “Let people enjoy things” and “think critically” should be able co-exist, and beyond saying that yeah, it’s difficult and takes maturity, I’m hesitant to add any other sort of proviso to that statement (“should be able to co-exist, so long as X Y Z” &c.). Do I think people have to performatively genuflect in the direction of all the ~problems~ with something before they are allowed to engage casually with it? No. Do I think acknowledging war crimes in a google doc about a some cartoon space siege will stop actual war crimes? No. Do I personally appreciate when even casual engagement displays some element of critical thought, and do I find myself drawn to those creators in particular? Yes and yes. Everyone’s escapism looks different.

But if I can make one random value judgement statement about critical engagement here, without equivocating: the anti preoccupation with defanging sex and interpersonal romantic relationships in fiction, to the exclusion of other topics concerning humanity and the myriad ways it can be shitty, as part of some progressive movement is so bizarre to me; not only do the goalposts constantly change for what’s “pure” between two or more people, but it’s a very myopic way to regard characters who exist in the complex round, and, imo, a really privileged Western mindset. Also, it’s boring as fuck. I like intellectually playing in the dirt; someone who tells me to wash my hands while I’m sitting ass-deep in mud just makes themselves look supremely dense.

Not sure I really answered anything here, but I did appreciate the chance to noodle over your thoughts. It’s always a good exercise. And thank you for taking the time to engage with my writing : )

#asks #fandom

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whimsicalsesquipedalian · 3 years

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Modern-day witch.

In Salem there were witches. Or there were women who old, bitter men said were witches. We all know they weren’t witches. Not really. Witches aren’t real. Well, at least not the kind the fairy tales tell you about. But there was something. Something about those women. Something that said “I don’t fit”, “I’m different”, something that said: “my deviancy is worth killing me over.”

Gretel didn’t believe in witches. ‘Patriarchal bullshit designed to police womens’ behaviour’, is what she told her father as they watched a Netflix special on the trials, ‘just another way the male agenda enacts violence on womens’ bodies and identities.’ Her father remains silent, probably wanting to avoid an accusation of complacency or even compliance with the patriarchal machine. Her brother isn’t in the room. Her “mother” is away on a business trip. She misses these times when it’s just them, her and her father. No annoying younger brother with his neanderthal behaviours. No bitch in heels and lipstick pretending to be her mother. Just them. Sometimes, she thinks, this is the only part of my life that isn’t just bullshit. ‘I think I would have been killed for being a witch,’ she says, long after the television has gone silent. Her father simply hums. ‘The men back then would have been way too intimidated by a woman like me.’ Her father stares, taking in his daughter. She narrows her eyes, turns down her lips, rolls back her shoulders and puffs out her chest. A less than convincing picture of the “deviant woman” when the canvas is a nineteen-year-old girl who’s never left her hometown. Her father nods, ‘I suppose you would.’

Six months later Gretel sits alone in the dark on a street corner in a city all too large and all too loud, and a perfect fucking example of why the capitalist regime should be torn down by a new and glorious revolution. The marxist group at the local community college ran a seminar on the dangers of capitalism last week. It’s the first time since she arrived here that something in this city hasn’t felt like complete bullshit. ‘We at the Marxist Alternative don’t cater to the capitalist pigs draining you of all individuality or expression,’ she was too caught up in the moment to notice the inherent irony in the statement, ‘the wealthy conservative scum are the true bane of our society. Eat the rich and destroy their legacies.’ She nodded along, caught in the fervour, already seeing a face in her mind.

She had left home. That bitch in heels and lipstick ran her out. She doesn’t need a trail of breadcrumbs to return; she knows the way. That doesn’t mean she will. Not when it’s all bullshit. Not when no-one understands her. Not when the father that should have loved her more than anything chose the bitch in heels and lipstick over her. Over her plain face, her bad hair, her short, uneven nails. Why couldn’t he see that she was the only authentic thing in the white-picket life he had built for himself? It’s cold on the street corner. The owners returned to the place she was squatting in. Policemen, cold blue light, and a station that smelled of piss, all because she had decided to take something back from the Wall Street bastards who took something from her first. A court date on Monday feels like a fucking hatecrime, she thinks. All cops are bastards, or whatever the saying is.

‘Can I help you, baby?’

The woman stands there, under the streetlamp, looking down at Gretel. The wild afro around her head glows like a halo, and frames a dark-skinned face with eyes the colour of coal. Tension runs down Gretel’s spine. Immediately replaced by shame crawling in her gut at her initial reaction. Immediately replaced by the projection of a false sense of comfort so as to appear that she is not one of the racist dicks Twitter seems so keen on calling out lately. ‘I need somewhere to sleep, do you know if there are any shelters nearby?’ She keeps her voice light and her expression blank. It’s only polite, she figures. ‘No baby, no shelters around here.’ The woman looks sorry, looks sympathetic, looks almost pitiful. ‘You got any friends or family? I can call you a cab.’ Gretel shakes her head. There is something authentic about the street corner she has found herself on. Something the bitch in heels and lipstick could never understand. She wasn’t going to compromise that by going home now. ‘I don’t normally do this, but I’ve got a spare mattress. You can come home with me, if you need to.’ The woman looks kind and the night looks dark. It’s still cold. Gretel follows her. I would have followed home a white woman, she thinks.

‘Come in, make yourself at home.’

Dirty floors, mould on the walls, and a dampness in the air that seems to draw the light and warmth right out of the room.

‘I know it’s not much, but I hope it’s alright for tonight.’

Low ceiling, concrete walls, bars on the only window and a stain on the floor that could easily be blood.

‘I’ll heat some food up for you. Skinny white girl like you, you could use a proper meal.’

No light comes on in the fridge. The food looks more than a few days old. The woman’s hands move over the container and suddenly it’s not so certain what Gretel is being served.

‘Put your stuff anywhere, baby. It doesn’t bother me.’

Piles of clutter and mess. Bags of clothes that are far too small for the woman at the kitchen bench. Backpacks and shoes that look as though they once belonged to young children. Another stain on the floor. The smell of rot.

‘Mattress is behind that curtain. Not much privacy in a one room.’

The room is too small. A bed in one corner, a kitchen in another. No bathroom she can see, and a table worn with use. A shower curtain draws over one corner. A mattress that would look at home in a dumpster lies behind it. More stains, more stink. The curtain rustles.

‘Don’t mind the smell. Landlord found rats in the building. Exterminator came, but I think some got stuck in the walls. Hard to have an appetite when the place smells like death.’

The smell hits her harder now. Not just rot, but rotting flesh. An almost sickly sweetness to it, like pus or dead flowers. It fills her nostrils and makes her head spin. The floor is still stained brown.

‘You don’t mind if I lock the door do you? We get some interesting folks in this neighbourhood. I’d rather be safe.’

The lock clicks behind her. The room is suddenly stifling. The food sits on the table, but it smells like everything else in this place. Death in every bite. Her stomach turns.

‘So you haven’t got anyone then, baby? No-one waiting for you to come home? Young girl like you, you shouldn’t be all by yourself. Not in these parts.’

The words send shivers down her spine. The questions a red flag warning her to hold her secrets close. The door is still locked. The food is still warm. The air is still acrid. The woman is still staring. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she stutters. ‘I’ll just find a shelter,’ the words hang empty in the stale air. ‘It’s really not worth causing you all this trouble...’ The excuses fly past her lips as she edges towards the door. Her phone is in one hand and her bag in the other. There’s a baseball bat by the door, she realises. ‘Are you sure, baby? I really don’t mind.’ The woman takes a step forward and Gretel runs.

‘Hello. Yes, police. I’d like to report an attempted abduction. I got away but it looks like the woman has done this before. Yeah. Blood on the floor. Clothes in bags. Shoes for like 10 different kids. The whole place smelt like there was something dead there. Yeah, I have the address. Please, she just grabbed me off the street. Wanted to know if anyone would come looking for me. I think she tried to drug me. Everything happened so fast...’

It is on the news two weeks later. A black woman in her early forties, shot by police officers when they entered her home on belief of suspicious activity. No one is sure if they had a warrant. No one was wearing body cameras. Apparently she was aggressive. Pulled a weapon. The officer in question had no choice. Six shots for one woman. At five foot two and 160 pounds it must have been some weapon she was carrying. Gretel watches it all play out from the couch of the friend she’s crashing with, counting down the minutes before she has to go start her court mandated community service. 30 hours. It speaks to how broken the fucking justice system is, she thinks.

Twitter and a multitude of news channels host a trial for the woman, post-mortem. Alternating constantly between prosecution and defense; the masses providing a widespread jury incapable of forming consensus. The prosecution opens: ‘The woman was a suspected kidnapper, possibly a child molester. There had been evidence to suggest she was at least a drug user. Weed under a mattress. You know the type.’ The defense rebuts: ‘The woman volunteered for her church’s thrift store, the clothes and shoes were donations that needed to be sorted. She suffered from a chronic condition, the drugs were prescribed to help her manage the pain. The supposed weapon the police keep talking about was a baseball bat she reached for when the door was broken down. She thought it was a home invasion.’ The masses lay their verdict; a hung jury. ‘Blue lives matter.’ ‘Justice for Lucretia Jones.’ ‘He was just doing his job.’ ‘Defund the police.’ The trial is complete and the sentence is hollow. No matter which way the decision falls the witch already lays dead. Burned before trial. Killed without mercy. The cycle continues, it is just the victims that change. Gretel turns off the news and keeps on living. ‘I’m a modern day witch,’ she says, as she drops more tinder onto the pyre.

#writing #my writing #hansel and gretel #fairy tale retelling #going to start posting my weekly writing tasks #just to track my progress

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wewillwriteyou · 4 years

Text

Crazy Little Thing Called Love || Chapter 6

A few elements from the main plot: A fine line falls between fiction and reality: what starts as a musical slowly becomes a game-changer. Tables will turn and it will get clear as the sun that the only unstoppable power in life … is love.

Summary Chapter 6: It’s time to admit the truth. How more can Ben trust his bottled feelings for Alex to stay bottled? How more can Liz blame her nerves for the way she is acting with the people she loves? Sometimes there just come a time you can’t keep it in any longer.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Angst is still around, folks. Some kissing and hints of sexual scenarios but nothing specifically graphic. Safe territory for everyone ✌🏼😏

A/N: This chapter is a rollercoaster of emotions and, more importantly, it’s essential for what’s to come in the future of our characters. Trust us, folks, don’t miss this one ✨💞

Sunday, 24 November 2019

As the rain started to fall from the sky, the princess stepped outside the castle and let the cold water wash away her thoughts. “Poor little girl – whispered the Sorceress looking at her from far away – if only she knew there is still no remedy for the love filter. Yet.”

“Please, wait!” Alex shouted, waving her hand in the air trying to stop the bus from departing.

She was clumsily running while a multitude of bags full of stage costumes was dangling from her arms.

As if she was invisible, the bus sped off leaving a disappointed Alex in the middle of the street.

“Breath in. Breath out” Alex repeated to herself, trying to calm down while a few raindrops started to fall from the grey clouds gathered in the sky.

She abandoned everything on the sidewalk and searched for the phone in her purse.

Whom to call?

She knew she had missed the last bus headed to campus and she was perfectly aware that her parents were out of town that weekend because her father had in program one of his concerts.

Her finger almost pressed Joe’s name. After all, she was there stuck in the city centre at almost 6pm because she had promised him a favour.

However, she did not want to hear his parent-style voice ready to say I told you, after he had repeated her at least ten times that it was better to go in the morning, because on a Sunday afternoon the chances to catch a bus were rarer than eating a decent meal in the college’s cafeteria.

She scrolled in the phone book until she found the name of the only person she knew being reliable: Elizabeth.

“Please, pick up Liz” Alex whispered tapping her foot on the ground as she could feel the rain get more intense.

No reply.

She puffed and tried to call her again.

At that moment, a voice shouted her name and she snapped her head to see a smiling Ben leaned against the opened car door, just a few meters away from where she was standing.

“Are you okay? Do you need a ride back to the campus? I don’t think you’ll be able to catch another bus at this hour,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Alex, with the cell phone still pressed against her ear, looked at the deserted road, then back to Ben who was staring at her. She rolled her eyes and muttered between her teeth:

“Elizabeth you better have a great excuse when I come back”

***

The ringing of the phone echoed in the dorm room.

“Don’t you want to answer?” Gwilym lifted his head from her chest to look her in the eyes.

Elizabeth smiled a little and placed a hand on his cheek, “I thought we said we needed some alone time…”

He smiled “Yeah, but it might be important”

She gave up and shifted on her bed to reach her nightstand, where her phone had eventually stopped ringing.

“Alex,” she put the phone back and laid down again, “I’ll call her back later.”

Gwilym climbed up the bed so that he could lay his head on the pillow as well and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, dragging her closer to his chest.

He was quite afraid to speak, but he knew he’d regret it if he hadn’t.

“Are you avoiding everybody?” he blurted out.

Elizabeth shook her head, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, that was your friend calling and you purposely refused to answer, Denise is wondering why you missed Art History yesterday and you skipped rehearsal last week… Shall I go on?”

She sighed but didn’t respond, her hand tracing shapes on his sweatshirt.

“And… – Gwilym continued anyway – and you haven’t spoken to Joe in two weeks…”

She knew he would have said that. And she also knew he was completely right.

She was avoiding everyone. Well, most people.

The thing was that since the kiss with Gwil on stage and the scene Joe had caused, she had felt the need to keep a low profile for a while and sort some things out in her head.

Like, why did she have the constant feeling her life was suddenly off? She had dreamed of being with Gwil for the past two months and now that he wanted to be with her, she had… changed her mind?

What’s wrong with me?

Why couldn’t she let herself go with Gwilym? For the past two weeks every moment she hadn’t spent alone or with Alex, she had spent with him. And yet, as soon as they started making out, she would feel things weren’t right, she would get self-conscious and awkwardly break the moment.

You’re just nervous… Yeah, but it wasn’t just that.

A sense of guilt about having wrecked things with Joe was constantly sneaking into her deepest fears.

And here came the biggest question mark she couldn’t bring herself to address: why was Joe constantly on her mind?

“Liz, now you’re scaring me. You’ve never been this quite – Gwil brushed a hand on her hair and rested his head on hers – I think it’s actually the first time you shut up since I met you”

She lightly chuckled and he smiled proudly, wondering and worrying about what was going on inside her head.

Elizabeth sighed, “I keep going around that day at the auditorium and I can’t shake the feeling most of it is my fault”

“What are you talking about?” Gwilym shifted so that he could see her face.

“I knew I had a crush on you – she admitted, while staring at her hand on his stomach – and Alex even suggested I talked to you about it… but I was too scared you’d turn me down so I waited. Then it happened what it happened and Joe flipped out. Everyone at the auditorium saw the scene and a friend from Econ class told me it’s already spreading on campus. I feel too awful to even step outside and to top it all now Joe won’t even talk to me…”

She struggled with getting out of the last sentence without letting her emotional state take over her.

“And in all this mess – she continued looking up to his eyes – you’re the only good thing and I can’t even let myself enjoy it…”

Gwilym smiled sweetly and bent down to place a chaste kiss on her lips, making her smile a little as well.

“Is that what all of this is about?” he asked and she turned to him with a confused look on her face, while nodding slightly.

“I’m glad you opened up, Liz – he started, while brushing her hair again – but believe me, it’s not that big of a problem, you know? People on campus talk about all kinds of stuff but it’s a matter of what? Two, three days? A week maybe? Believe me, before we know it they won’t even remember us…”

She still looked hesitant, so he added, “Besides, it’s not like we did something horrendous, didn��t we? I mean t’was a kiss on stage during rehearsal for a play. It’s not like we were shagging in a public place…”

Elizabeth almost choked on her laughter and Gwilym chuckled seeing the redness creeping up on her cheeks.

He took a breath before continuing on a more serious tone, “The real problem now is that we have to talk to Joe… - he glanced at her and he noticed the girl nodding along, while still playing with the fabric of his sweater - but you don’t have to worry. We’ll do it together”

She looked up at him again and smiled “I like that”

He chuckled “I know you do. Now please, can you go back to being Elizabeth?”

She laughed “Fine, I’ll be back… I’m sorry I haven’t been myself lately”

“That’s okay,” he smiled again and leaned in to kiss her.

She parted her lips and deepened the kiss, while his hands roamed from her side to her back.

She perched herself to roll on top of him without breaking the kiss. With a hand she began unzipping his sweatshirt and broke the kiss when she realised she couldn’t do it with one hand. Gwilym giggled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing – he smiled. He was happy to see that she had opened up to him and it seemed to have improved their relationship as well. He continued – I like this side of you”

She frowned “What side?”

“The impulsive one. I’m glad we are where we are now”

He was smiling so sweetly, Elizabeth almost felt bad. He was charming and gentle and kind and everything anyone could ask for in a great person.

But she had that awful feeling he was not her person.

Now that her fantasies were coming true, she was starting to feel like maybe this wasn’t how things were meant to go. Maybe Gwilym wasn’t destined for her. Maybe she was keeping him from finding his destiny. Maybe he was keeping her from finding hers.

Why hadn’t this come to her before?

And why didn’t she have the guts to stop what was inevitably going to happen?

In the fraction of a second her brain elaborated this thought, she smiled and shut her thoughts in a corner of her mind, letting the irrational part take control of her actions.

She bent down to kiss him again, roaming her hands inside his sweatshirt and under his tee, slowly pulling it upwards.

Gwilym pulled back for a second “Are you sure?” he asked with his breath short.

Maybe this is the push I need to understand what I feel.

Maybe this will help me see what I need to do.

Maybe this is what is meant to happen.

Her irrational side was trying to justify why she was going along with it, but the truth was she didn’t know what she was doing. And for a change, maybe she actually even liked the idea of not knowing.

As an answer to Gwil’s question she just smiled and pressed her whole body into his, kissing him ardently.

He rolled both of them over so he could hoover her and broke the kiss for an instant to look at her in the eyes one more time, before locking her lips in another passionate kiss while pulling her jumper over her head and throwing it on the floor.

As item by item their clothes hit the floor like raindrops on a stormy summer day, the ticking of rain against the windows of the dormitory covered and hushed the sounds coming from room 896.

***

Alex’s eyes were lazily tracing the route of the raindrops on the car’s window, while inside the vehicle a pleasant warmth was hugging the air.

Ben looked at her from time to time, always swallowing the words in the back of his throat not knowing what to say.

“So – he started, and Alex reserved him one of her dry gazes – what were you doing in the city? Shopping? A date?”

“I just had to pick some things up for Joe,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“Are you his assistant now?” Ben smiled, turning in her direction for a second. Alex rolled her eyes, but a friendly grin curved her lips.

“He wishes! No, I kindly volunteered because I wanted to have a stroll in the city centre anyway. I didn’t expect the tailor to be this chatty and I somehow ended up talking with him about my role in the musical”

Ben laughed along her hushed giggles and she looked at him with the corner of her eye.

“Lucky for you I was there,” he then said.

Alex just nodded and Ben wondered if he had accidentally stepped over one of her many barriers.

“Yes, for once I have to admit you were in the right place at the right time” she replied, making Ben breath in relief. He smiled widely and Alex noticed.

He saw she was staring, so he raised his eyebrows and asked:

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Alex giggled and scrolled her head. She blushed a little, but she knew he could not notice that.

“Nothing” she shrugged and came back to stare at the road.

She would have liked to tell him the truth. To tell him that she enjoyed his company too. To tell him that, if it wasn’t for Lucy, she would have let him ask her out.

But clearly, she couldn’t tell him.

The air around them, for once, was lightweight and Ben felt as if something was finally starting to change between them.

Too bad for him that he did not stop his tongue in time.

“Oh c’mon, I know you like me,” he joked, maybe a little too cheeky.

“Excuse me, what?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. Her insides trembling a little at those words.

“I mean, deep down, you do like me”

“Not in the sense you mean”

“So you do!” Ben exclaimed, looking at her once again. The redness on Alex’s cheeks grew darker, but the worst part of her character spoke for her when she opened her mouth:

“Why are you insisting so much? How many times do I have to reject you to make you stop once and for all?” her voice showed a tiny bit of exasperation, but Alex knew she was just playing the role of the heartless one.

“Reject me? You never rej–“

Alex cut him off violently.

“Yes Ben, I have! I am doing it right now: I do not like you and I never will. You are not my type and the sooner you accept it, the better it would be for both us! For the whole damned world!”

The silence fell heavy between them, like a stone falling from the sky. The air inside the car once again became awfully quiet and Alex wanted to jump out the window and disappear.

She had hurt him. She could tell by his tensed hands on the steering wheel and the expressionless face, that she had taken his heart and threw it on the ground mercilessly.

“I’m sorry – she mumbled, fingers fidgeting and palms sweating – I didn’t mean it”

Ben chuckled. Sardonic. Cold. And Alex felt the stings of guilt burn harder inside her stomach.

“You didn’t? Really?” he asked without diverting his eyes from the road not even for a second.

Alex breathed sharply; she had to think about her words twice this time. The last thing she wanted was to worsen the whole situation. Mostly because, deep down (and not even that deep), she cared about him. Even if she would have never admitted it.

“Ben, I’m not the answer. I don't know which answers you are searching for, but trust me if I tell you that I would be just another problem in your life”

“Why do you think I’m looking for answers? Maybe what I need is questions, not answers” Ben replied, squeezing the wheel a little harder.

“Don’t talk trough enigmas: shitty philosophic words are not gonna solve … this! We need frankness and truth and –“

“Do you want the truth? – Ben thundered, cutting Alex off – is that what you want, Alex?”

She froze on her seat, looking at him with her mouth agape as if a part of herself perfectly knew where all that conversation would have ended.

“Ben, don’t say things you’ll regret”

“Fuck regrets! You asked for the truth, didn’t you? – He harshly said briefly turning his head in her direction – the truth is I am in love with you, Alex. That’s it”

“You’re not, Ben! For fuck’s sake, cut the bullshits!” Alex talked back, shouting from the top of her lungs.

Ben cursed under his breath and, with an abrupt movement, he drove away from the main road to stop the car on the edge.

He hit the brakes sharply, but Alex did not flinch. She was ready to face the storm that was about to burst out from Ben’s mouth.

He undid his seat belt and turned his whole body in her direction, but she remained impassive with her eyes fixed on the rain that was copiously falling on the windshield.

“What are you not telling me? Because honestly, I do not understand a shit of what is going on! A minute, you are friendly and giggly, the other one you are bitching me out! Why? Is it because of Allen? – Alex, who had remained still like a statue until that moment, snapped her head in his direction with furrowed eyebrows – are you guys … having a thing or something?”

“What does the fuck has Allen to do with all of this? We went out once for a coffee and, in case you did forget about it, you’re the one who is in a fucking relationship!” Alex replied, unbuckling her seat belt as well to move her body freer and look at him directly in the eyes.

“So the problem is Lucy? That’s why you act like … this with me!”

“I act like this because I respect her! I told you a million years ago: I’ve been with people like you, who cheated on me like I was nothing and do you know how does it feel? Like shit, that is how it feels!”

Before she could recompose herself, bitter tears rolled out from her eyes and before she knew, Alex was crying.

She looked away and tried to dry her face with the hem of her sweatshirt, sniffing loudly from her nose and breathing slowly to swallow the mixed emotions down her throat.

“You know, this is actually ironic. I can’t count the times I wished, just for a day, to be on the other side; to be the one my partner cheated on me with and not being the cheated one. And now, that I am in this position with you, while Lucy is somewhere on the campus thinking that her boyfriend is simply strolling around the city alone, you know how I feel? – Alex sadly asked, gazing at Ben who was speechless – like shit”

Ben sat correctly again, staring at the road ahead.

Alex copied his actions while searching for a tissue inside her bag.

The only audible sounds were the rain and their breaths. Nothing else was perceptible.

“It’s not easy for me either. I wish it was, but it isn’t” Ben then mumbled, breaking the thick silence.

“If you love me, as you said, why don’t you break up with her?” Alex questioned. Her voice had lost all its colours, sounding cold and distant.

“It’s complicated” he replied without hesitation. Alex nodded and looked out of the window to hide new tears that were blurring her sight.

“Complicated – she echoed – you could have just said you did not care enough. That would have hurt less” her merciless attitude was back.

But this time, Ben did not add a word. He simply started the engine and, after they had both buckle their seat belts up again, drove away heading towards the campus.

***

She heard her phone beeping for the third time and she tried to reach the nightstand without moving her right arm, momentarily useless since Gwilym was using her shoulder as a pillow.

“Shit” she muttered and threw herself out of the bed to reach the phone. She crouched down, feeling suddenly exposed with no blankets or clothes on.

Three messages, all from Alex.

“Crap – she said out loud and she heard Gwilym mumbling something on the verge of waking up – Gwil! Up up Gwil!”

He mumbled again while sitting up on the mattress and stretching his back, his eyes still closed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked still sleepy.

“It’s Alex. She’s coming home. She’s gonna be here any minute. Please get dressed!”

Gwilym got dressed really quick and helped Elizabeth gather all the things that were laying around.

She was too focused on tiding up to notice the grin he had from ear to ear. Or maybe she was forcing herself not to look at him in the eyes, cause she knew she’d instantly feel guilty when looking to his innocent, loving, smiley face.

When they were done however, she was forced to face him and when she did all the thoughts in her head came flushing back in.

She gave him a small, nervous smile before hiding her face in a tight hug.

She hugged him because it was the only thing she knew she could do to show him she cared about him without letting him know what was actually going on inside her head. Because when she had something going on, he could read it right on her face.

“Today was nice” he said softly inside the hug and she limited to shake her head in a nod.

“Alright, I should go now” he kissed her head and smiled again before heading to the door.

She smiled as well but the smile faded from her lips as soon as he closed the door behind him.

Her feet walked her to the bathroom and she automatically turned the shower on, gradually removed her clothes again and stepped under the hot water running.

Why didn’t she feel better? She thought she’d clear her mind but it had actually made it worse. Why did she feel like she had used Gwilym? Why did she feel like everything she did was wrong?

And yet again, why was Joe’s face always on her mind?

Was he the reason everything felt so off?

If anything, she was even more confused than a few hours before and she struggled trying not drowning in her thoughts, as she let the hot water wash away the lonely tear that had dropped from her eyelid.

***

The car stopped in a dark corner of the secondary entrance, just a few steps away from the gate that guided through the dormitory’s garden.

They both agreed that it was better to not draw attention, so Ben avoided the main parking lot in front of the Campus façade.

The rain had subsided, but a few annoying drops were still falling from the grey clouds all gathered above their heads.

Alex was putting on her coat again, under the silent gaze of Ben who did not know what to say or what to do.

“Thanks for the lift – she cold-heartedly said, collecting the bags she had put under her seat – good night”

But she waited for a second. The one last burning hope in her heart died soon after, when Ben simply nodded in her direction without saying a word. She slightly scrolled her head and opened the car door; before it closed behind her back, she was already walking away.

“Fuck! – Ben muttered, punching the steering wheel – you complete idiot!” he said to himself. He raised his head and saw her figure getting more distant by the second.

It is now or never. He thought and, without thinking about it twice, he exited the car to run after her.

In the meanwhile, Alex was walking fast, cursing the mud pools that were dirtying her shoes. The grass was soaking wet and cold splashes were coming from both, the ground and the sky, wetting Alex as well.

What she truly wanted, at that moment, was to disappear under her heavy blankets and forget about the whole world.

She even wished to go back to her hometown. She wished her father had never gotten that new job and, in particular, she wished she had woken up early that damn morning, avoiding arriving late at the auditorium.

They would have never met. She and Ben.

It would have been better. She convinced herself.

And, with this last thought, she reached the door and stopped in front of it to look for the magnetic card inside her purse.

“Alex, wait” Ben’s voice recalled her attention. Suddenly and unexpectedly. She closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to find the strength to turn around without feeling the need to punch him in the face.

When she glanced behind her back, she saw him there. He was standing a few steps away, in the middle of the grass while the rain was boosting again.

“What do you want now?” her voice cracked a little, showing off an inner fragility that Alex hated.

Ben took a step closer.

“I could not let you go with the conviction that I don’t care about you – he started, taking another inch towards her direction – I care more than enough about you” he admitted, shouting a little to overpower the dashing of drops against the trees’ leaves.

Alex thanked the darkness that was surrounding them; otherwise, he would have noticed the redness that had spread on her cheeks.

“I don’t know what it is, but … I can’t stay away from you,” Ben added once he was literally a step away from Alex. If he’d lowered himself, the tips of their noses would have touched against one another.

“It’s wrong. This entire situation, is wrong” she replied, but her resolute tone melted into a confused bubbling when Ben pushed away a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Alex looked up at him with widening eyes that, unfortunately for her, spoke louder than her actions. Her gaze was screaming kiss me now, asshole.

And Ben, who had the same sparkling flare in his pupils, got that silent message loud and clear.

When her gaze fell on his lips, Ben interpreted that action as the green light he was waiting for; without further hesitation, he cupped her face and pressed his mouth against hers.

Taken by the heat of the moment, he hadn’t even noticed that Alex had already put herself on her tiptoes, but once he had parted his lips and felt her warm tongue playing with his bottom lip, he understood she wanted it as much as he did.

The bags slipped away from Alex’s hands, as she stretched her arms behind Ben’s back to pull him closer. His hands squeezed her hips and kept her glued against his body.

The kiss was short but passionate. Almost desperate.

They soon parted from each other, breathless and confused. They stared into each other’s eyes for another brief and silent moment.

Then the awareness of their action hit them like a train and they both felt as if they were being run over and thrown away from the rail.

Alex gently pushed him away and, after opening her mouth uselessly because not a single sound exited her lips, she bent down to collect her stuff. Ben stepped closer to help her, as she started struggling to look once again for the card to enter the dormitory.

“Thanks,” she shyly said and turned around to open the door.

Ben remained there, looking at her ready to step inside the building. But she froze for a moment and turned her head again.

“What?” Ben asked indecisive, not to know what to expect.

Alex sighed and rolled her eyes; she put down the bags and walked closer, then, with the same attitude of someone who has no choice, she gripped the collar of his jacket and pulled him down to deposit one last chaste kiss on his lips.

When she let him go, Ben was incredulous and Alex giggled noticing the stupid grin that was curving his lips.

“This is how you kiss a lady good-night, Hardy,” she then said, a second before closing the door behind her back and disappearing inside the dormitory.

“What the fuck was that?” Ben asked himself, passing a trembling hand through his wet hair as an excited giggle escaped his lips. He gave the door one last gaze, before scrolling his head and walking – well, floating – toward his car.

“What the fuck was that!” Alex muttered, abandoning her back against the wall once she had stepped inside. She passed a hand through her wet hair and a spontaneous, unwanted giggle flew out from her lips.

She recomposed herself and, climbing the stairs to reach her room with complete chaos crowding her head, she was sure of only one thing: Ben was a damn good kisser!

Fuck!

Chapters: ⬸ previous | next ⤑

A/N: Hello folks! Did you expect this ending? What do you think of Liz’s choices? Did you tear up as well when Ben ran after Alex? Let us know in the comments below! And don’t forget to like and reblog if you’d want your friends to read this story!

Enjoy!

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kbrock9146 · 4 years

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THIS IS A LONG, LONG STORY. PLEASE READ TO THE END TO UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF WHAT HAPPENED. But it is a longgggggggg story.

Ok. Buckle up folks. Here comes some crazy content for you to enjoy during Quarantine. Shout out to @gothicmagpie for letting me know that they were interested. ❤❤❤ Here we go, it's going to be a bumpy ride, and a long story (and yes, I will answer any and all questions afterwards, no worries about offending me or anything).

First things first, here is a picture of my maternal grandparents (featuring the grandmother in question):

I do not know the date of the above picture, but my GF was born in 1895, and my GM, 1898. They were in their late 40s, early 50s in the above picture. That, I do know. My mother was born in 1941, when my GM was 42, and my GF was 45, and this picture was taken sometime after she had been born.

With me so far? Okay, good. So those wonderful people above, they are both on their second marriage by the time of that pic. My GF's first wife died in childbirth, and my GM's first husband had been killed in the coal yard he worked at when a dump truck full of coal backed up and unloaded the coal on top of him. My GF and GM were both single parents in the early 1900s - they were both struggling, and going through a multitude of situations - INCLUDING GOING TO THE MOTHER FUCKING POPE (YES, POPE!) SO THAT THEY COULD GET PERMISSION TO GET MARRIED (the reason for that is another story for ANOTHER time).

Anyhow, they get married, blend their children into one household, have three or four more, for a total of seven, my mom being the youngest. My GF dies in 1962 from damage he took at the Battle of the Argonne during World Word One (he dry-drowned in his sleep). This leaves my GM windowed, and she remains this way until her death.

**as an aside, my GF died right before my mom was to get married to my dad (she was 21, and dad 22, at the time); when my dad came over to stay with my mom's family for the funeral, my deceased GF came to my dad with a message, so this is something that just apparently happens in my family - of course, I knew none of this when I saw my GM decades later**

From my first meeting with my GM, and until her death, she looked pretty much exactly as she does in the pic above. The only thing that really changed was that after she broke her hip for the 2nd time, she was pretty much confined to a wheelchair until she died. But kindly, smiling, gentle, and always wearing basically a mumu, that was my GM until she passed away November 2nd, 1990.

That year, on November 14th, I turned 10. My birthday that year was a bit strained. My dad wasn't exactly phased by what had happened, and while my mom wasn't exactly in pieces over it - my GM had been very sick in her last years and in a nursing home - she was sad, and was trying her best to run a family while dealing with the loss. The situation was made even worse when the wife of her oldest brother (he was 30 when she was born), called and berated and shamed my mom for not coughing up more money for the funeral and burial. My mom was EXTREMELY upset. Out of her other six siblings, she was the only one with a child under 25 at that time (remember, I was 10), and money wasn't exactly free flowing. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, my dad was a Baltimore City Police Officer, and I was going to private school. We weren't rich. And my mom's sister-in-law knew this, she just didn't care. She kept calling and harassing my mom to the point of tears. My mom was miserable; she was being driven to the point of shame and madness and didn't know what to do.

That brings us to the day of the visit. I don't remember why, but I was home alone. It was late in the day, and the sun was setting. I know this because the bedrooms of my house are on the west side, and they warm up nicely as the sun goes down. Out of the three bedrooms, I found myself in the middle one that day. The back room was mine, the middle my mom's, and the front/master bedroom was my dad's. I was not allowed into his room, but the middle room had a door that was shared with the master bedroom. That door was open and there was a noise coming from the bedroom, like someone walking around. I sat at the desk, looking towards the noise and the door, and just waited.

I can't say that I was scared exactly, but I was certainly curious. I cleared my throat, closed up the desk, and swiveled in the chair so that I was looking straight at that shared door. The movement continued, but there was no shadow being cast. I grew kind of bored just waiting, so I remember looking away out of the main bedroom door and then looking back.....

When I looked back, there stood my GM in the shared doorway. She was standing there, unaided, no wheelchair, but still rocking a mumu like a champ, and as solid as any living person. I remember her looking bemused and smiling at me before she said, "Hello."; I was more confused than anything at this point, so I mumbled some sort of greeting, and stood up to walk over towards her. I don't know why that was my first thought, but it was. Anyway, as I was walking over, I could hear that someome else was moving around in the room behind her as well, although I couldn't see who it was at that point.

Before I could get any closer, my GM said that she was here because she wanted to see my mom, and asked if I could go get her. I told her that my mom was out, and her smile faltered for a brief moment before she refocused onto me and asked if I could promise to relay a message. I told her of course I could, and waited for what she had to say. She glanced behind her and into the room for a moment, towards where the noise was coming from, and then looked back at me. She began to tell me that she was happy, and that it was VERY important for me to tell my mom that she was happy. Other things were said, like not to worry about what John's wife was saying in regards to the funeral and burial, she missed us, and a few other things that I honestly can't remember. At the end, noise was still being made in the room behind her, and she could see that I was not really paying attention to her (can you imagine the hubris of not paying attention to a dead relative that has come back with a message from beyond because you're concerned about the noises coming from another room?!?!?! My life has been wild.), so she called the person over who had apparently been making all the noise, and introduced him to me.

So now I have two very solid, very elderly-looking deceased people in my house. And this man, keep in mind I've had three grandfather's, this man is someone I have NEVER seen in my life, but my GM is just TICKLED with this guy. She introduces me to him, and he has the HUGEST smile I have ever seen a person have, and he nods his head in my direction, then looks back at my GM, and reaches out to hold her hand.

From this point on I do not remember any words that were said because I was laser focused on trying to figure out WHO this guy was. When I say in the above paragraph that my GM "introduced" me to him, she did, but the name was literally foreign, and having never heard this man's name before, I couldn't clearly make it out. The only thing I knew at the time was that this guy was NOT either of my grandfather's, I had NEVER seen him before, and this is going to sound crazy (oh, yeah, okay Kim, *THIS* is going to sound crazy.... *THIS* part coming up is going to sound "crazy"..... ok, Kim), but he just *looked* Italian. I didn't recognize his name or his face, but looking at him, I just remember thinking that this dude was Italian. And that made me really, really confused because my mom's side of the family and my dad's side of the family both came over together from Germany - they settled on the same street, for goodness sakes, so I had NO IDEA where this Italian guy came from. But I could tell that they made each other really happy in whatever afterlife they were in.

Then my mind started wandering even more because I was thinking to myself that if my GM and this random dude are having a blast in the afterlife, where are my grandfathers? Who are they with? What does this mean? Are there soul mates? When is my mom comimg home? What's going to happen when I die? WHO IS THIS GUY? Why are they in my dad's room? Why is anyone thinking this is okay to lay on a 10 year old? But for real, WHO IS THIS GUY? Does he speak? Why hasn't he spoken? What is going on?

About this time is when either my GM could tell that I was about done, or she herself had done all she could in this plane of existence, because I remember her saying, "Now, you'll tell her won't you?" And I let out a humourless laugh because we all knew that at that point in my mom's life, she didn't believe in ghosts or anything paranormal. So, I kinda laughed, and glanced away and said, "I'll remember, but she's not going to believe me." As I glanced back, they were gone, and the house was silent.

Many weeks went by and I said nothing. My dad, who was very "sensitive" to that sort of thing, and had had supernatural experiences, I avoided telling him because he would have thought I was lying and hit me. He didn't like being bothered with stuff. And my mom, well, she didn't believe in the supernatural, so even though she would have listened to me and let me get the whole story out, she wouldn't have believed a word of it. So for weeks and weeks I kept this story to myself and said nothing. Not saying anything was driving me crazy, especially because I wanted to know who the guy was that had been with my GM.

It was just my mom and myself one night at dinner. And that night my mom broke down over being harrassed about the funeral/burial by her sister in law. After we had finished eating, I took a deep breath and asked my mom if we could talk. She said sure, so I gingerly brought up her mom. I could tell that it wasn't a conversation she really wanted to have, so I just jumped right to the heart of the matter......

"Mom? GM was married twice, right?"

"Yes. I told you about that."

"I know. I was just making sure."

My mom looked at me strangely, "Why would you want to 'make sure', about something like that? What even brought this up?"

Not really knowing what to do at this point, I just jumped in with both feet and started telling her the story of my GM's visit. As predicted, my mom looked thoroughly unimpressed with what I was saying.... that is, until I mentioned the Italian guy.

My mom was an olive skinned woman, but when I mentioned the Italian guy, she turned white as a sheet. She asked me to repeat myself, and then, without a word, my mom got up and left the kitchen. I heard her climb into the attic, and there she stayed for quite some time. She had been gone so long, I was starting to doubt that she was coming back, and I got scared that I had said something that upset her so badly, that she had locked herself in the attic. Just as the situation crescendoed, and I was going over how I was going to explain everything to my dad when he got home and wanted to know why my mom was barricaded in the attic, my mom returned to the kitchen, out of breath, with a very huge, very old book, that she triumphantly thumped down on the table, hard.

With a flourish, she flipped open the book reveal two tin-types. One was a young woman, fashionably dressed, and posing as per the norms at the time. My mother asked, "Do you know who that is?"

I squinted a little harder at the picture. It was my GM. Young. I had never seen her young before. Was that a fox she had around her neck? She was dressed to the NINES. As I sat admiring the tin-type of my GM, I happened to glance over at the other side of the book, at the second tin-type.

This one was a bit different.

This one was a fashionably dressed young man.

THE man.

The man that had appeared all those weeks ago with my GM.

I looked up at mom. She was looking at me expectantly. "Is that him?", she asked. I nodded. It was. Much younger, but the eyes, the nose.... very much the same.

"Who is this?" I asked. My mom started to explain to me as she bade me to continue looking through the book. Before my GF, before my GM's first husband, there was this gentleman, my GM's Italian lover.

The book was full of letters, mementos, fabric, flowers, pictures, just about anything that they had sent back and forth to each other. My GM not only spoke German and English, but Italian too! Their handwritten letters were intermingled with the keepsakes within this book.

No one else in the family knew about my GM's Italian lover. The only reason my mom knew is because as my GM's caretaker towards the end, she had found this and asked her mom about it. Apparently my GM and this Italian gentleman had been together for a very long time. Something happened that forced him to return to Italy - I'm not sure of it was Visa related, or if someone had taken ill - but he had asked my GM to come to Italy with him, and she had declined.

Throughout the book, there were more letters from him after he had gone back to Italy, wherein he was trying to figure out different ways for my GM and him to be together, but eventually the letters stopped (probably because my GM refused to go to Italy). Shortly thereafter, my GM married her first husband, a fellow German by the name of Walter. And the rest is, as they say, history.

So, what did I learn from all this? I learned that once you die, you don't necessarily end up with who you were with while you were alive; you can make house calls to your grandchildren and leave messages for your own, grown children. And being on a different plane of existence will not stop a person from throwing shade when it's justified because the living are acting a fool.

Ah, the mysteries of the supernatural.

#personal #maternal grandmother #grandmother #mom #dad #supernatural #04/26/20 #italian #german #surprise #10 year old me needs counseling

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brokenmusicboxwolfe · 4 years

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Sorry about this rant. I wrote this early on today, saved it to go do something, then never got back to it. I’m posting it because I hate deleting after wasting time writing it.

In case you are wondering, the day did not get better. I ended up cutting brush (something “useful”) instead of going to the woods. The flies would have gotten me either way....

So you wanna know what kind of day it is?

It’s a day where after just three hours of sleep you start discovering new things you need to worry about, things start breaking, and even tiny things go wrong. All the bites, injuries, and other physical aggravations are, um, aggravated. You discover that the power company cutting trees near powerlines did some damage, which isn’t technically “a problem” but is upsetting. Even your pets are in a grumpy mood. And then, when you try to call the one person you have to vent to, they are too busy to talk today, but you end up discovering new reasons to worry.

Obviously the thing to do now is to take a walk in the woods and temporarily escape all the troubles.....

Except the deer flies are swarming. Step out of the house and get eaten alive.

***sigh***

I’d wish I’d stayed in bed if I had the luxury of actually doing that.

No, seriously, anyone that can spend a day being non-functional I envy. It must be lovely to know you have someone that will check you are still alive and temporarily take on some of your responsibilities if you are starting to crack.

Even in the old days, I never got to stay in bed all day when I was sick. If you want to eat, you’d have to go get it. If you can stand to do something, you’d do it. If you were really bad off you could rest, but the only way you did that all day was if you were at death’s door. It’s just the way we always were. We’d help each other, but everyone expected to keep going until we dropped. You do as much as you can take, and you push it as far as you can.

The day after a wreck that gave me a concussion, broken ribs, and smashed elbows I was home alone, but I didn’t rest. I spent my day feeling horrible, but still, gently as I could, unloading a trailer full of stuff that had been in the wrecked pickup, cooking a meal, dragging a small boat up the driveway, and so forth. No one was making me do it, but I knew these things needed doing, and technically I could. Resting felt lazy and neglecting what needed doing, and that’s knowing that my folks would be back that evening.

But now there are no folks to get things done if I can’t. What I don’t do doesn’t get done. Back then, of course, the idea of staying in bed for emotional reasons would have been unthinkable.

The family wasn’t cruel or anything, but emotional difficulties were supposed to be ignored or contained before they got in the way of doing things. You can get over it if you just want to, you don’t have to be weak, there isn’t anything wrong with you but you aren’t trying hard enough, there is no point in giving in to your feelings... I don’t mean you couldn’t cry or rage. You could express them, but that was it. Express but don’t indulge. You didn’t have to fake being happy, but you also couldn’t stop.

I guess they were always ashamed if me, quitely, unspoken, a sad regret and exasperation with me. Oh, generally I was always a “keep going” person too, but that was with physical stuff. Chores to do, difficult tasks, problems to solve... Social things were different.

Stuff happened in kindergarten. Bad stuff. And school proved total hell. I changed in several ways, dramatically and suddenly. Critically, I’d been a fearless extrovert and and I became a frightened introvert almost overnight.

Yeah, nowadays parents would probably see my changes as something to be concerned about. They would wonder what had happened to me. But back then it was assumed to be just a shyness phase. I was being over sensitive and needed to tough up. “Obviously” I would if I just wanted to.

So I ended up the one member of the family that didn’t just “get over” emotionally upsetting things as easily as I could injuries or illnesses. I could always push past fear or pain when the problem was physical, and I’m still great at that. Anxiety around peopling, however, could stop me. I have the distinction of being the first member of my family in generations to not graduate college, but not because of any lack of intellectual capacity. My stress around people, humans being FAR more dangerous than any rattlesnake, should have been something I could defeat, but instead it defeated me.

You know, I’d sometimes say how pathetic and weak I’d been because I’d let myself be broken in elementary school. Mom would roll her eyes and say I’d never broken in my life. I could never get her to understand we were talking about different things. She was talking about my willingness to go against the crowd and defy those in power. She was thinking of the me that goes fearless when guns point at me, who insisted on giving a speech/rant about how the school system must change (did it? Hardly) instead of the expected Valedictorian glop, and nearly took on a cop for kicking a cat.

Those are the easy things. The big things. If it involves something I consider morally and ethically wrong, if it involves abuse or bullies, if it involves anyone so much as attempting to force to compromise my beliefs I forget to be afraid. Defiance and resistance are almost intoxicating actually. To confront an enemy and refuse to yield to their threats or violence can make you feel strong, even as they erode you physically. TBH, I wonder how much of what allows people to become martyrs is just the brain going “FUCK YOU” to a force that wants them to reshape their soul.

You know, it’s probably good I’m broke and live in a town of less than 500 people. I’d probably have gotten myself killed at a protest by now.

The smaller things get me. The normal things. The things others shrug off or never even notice. Send me against an army, but don’t send me into a store with no customers and an eager salesperson ready to “help”!

So as far as I am concerned I am the coward, the weak and broken one, the one that knows she should let nothing stop her but then fails. The fact I am unfliching with things others fear means nothing when things that hardly bother “normal” people terrify me.

Anyway, to get back to the point, emotionally screwy as I am, I have always tried to keep going.

Relentlessly bullied in school I’d still get up every damn morning and go to that hell hole. Once a year I’d have a sort of “break down” day in the spring, and I’d run off into to the woods and hide long enough to miss the beginning of classes. When I did that my parents never made me go, and we wouldn’t really talk about it. I’d just help Pop out in the shop the rest the day, and it would be back to school the next day with a note saying I’d been sick.

And I guess that was my equivalent of staying in bed. Well, except with out the bed or getting to not do anything. Because no matter how miserable I felt I had to get up and be useful.

Back then if I honestly couldn’t do something it would still get done. Mom or Pop would take care of my chores if I was too sick or hurt, if my ingrained sense of responsibility would allow me to let them. Theoretically, if I could shut off my instinct to do, and ignore the family expectation that I try to do, I could have stayed in bed. It’s the beauty of having people that love you.

But now I’m alone. I have to get up or the animals don’t get fed. I have a multitude if things that need repairing or taking care of, including living in a literally collapsing house (the House of Usher I call it) I have to cook my meals and do my laundry amd wash my dishes and....I really hate doing those things. Well, Iove the animals, but the rest is either overwhelming and complex or boring and tedious. No one will help me.

So now I spend a lot of time fantasizing about staying in bed all day. I dream about having someone just honestly care and offer a hand they don’t pull back when I reach for it. I daydreamed one day about someone checking on me, amd finding me sick they insist I go to bed while they feed the animals and fix me soup. I started sobbing when I thought about it, a fantasy as unrealistic for me as trying to imagine imagine how you will soend your fortune when you win the lottery.

The people that have a cushion of love, be they friends or family, don’t fuckin’ know how lucky they are. I understand, because once upon a time I had people that loved me too. Just because we tried never to use that cushion doesn’t mean it wasn’t comforting to know it was there.

#my day #bad day #stress #tired #busy #rambles

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rpdrficexchange · 4 years

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New Traditions (Sashea) - Peridot

A/N: Merry Christmas folks! I wrote this for the lovely roza @leljaaa for the @rpdrficexchange 2019! Feel free to leave any feedback here or over at @artificialperidot :) Hope you enjoy!

To Roza: Merry Christmas darling! I’ve never written Sashea before but I gave it my best shot and I actually really enjoyed it! I hope you enjoy this little coffee shop au with a festive twist, and that you appreciate the little theatre references I just had to sneak in there for you. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas angel!

Shea’s heart was in her throat.

Fingernails dug into her thigh. A strong arm was held firmly around her waist, binding her like a rope. The words he said in her ear blurred into nothing.

This was it.

This was the last straw.

She was done. She had to leave. She was going to leave, right now.

She felt a kiss on her cheek as the hand around her waist clenched tighter.

Fuck no.

Shea pushed him off and slapped him in the face, and ran away as fast as she could.

She heard him call after her.

But there was no turning back now.

***

Sasha was one of very few odd people who actually didn’t mind working on Christmas.

Now don’t get her wrong, she still loved Christmas. She loved the coloured lights, buying gifts for others, the Christmas carols, even the cold weather - it reminded her of her home in Russia. And of course she missed spending Christmas with her loved ones, but she didn’t mind waiting just one more day to open her presents and eat her turkey. After all, that meant her family had two Christmas Days, and she didn’t mind missing out on one of them.

Christmas was actually one of Sasha’s busiest working days. She owned a quaint little café in the middle of New York City, and it was usually the only place open for miles on the 25th. Her café was her pride and joy. She was so happy to be able to create a safe space for everyone who entered through the door, and let them forget about the outside world for a little while. Each detail of the café had been hand chosen by her, from the books on the shelves along the walls to the different coffees and teas they served.

She had spent a few years (and probably too much money) designing it in her own vision. Clean, white walls with bookshelves, wooden counters, glass tables, low hanging neon coloured lights, and brightly coloured chairs, in magenta and bright yellow and electric blue. She wanted to create a comfortable, welcoming space for artists in New York like her, of which Sasha knew were many.

The colourful chairs had since been wrapped in silver tinsel, and the coloured lights set to reds and golds and greens to create a warm, festive atmosphere. Besides Sasha busily working behind the counter, the café was desolate, just as she had expected. She had a few loyal employees, but she would never expect them to work on Christmas, even for double the pay. And, she never expected anyone to come into the shop on Christmas either- even those who didn’t celebrate Christmas usually didn’t want to face the snow and ice. Though, Sasha still prepared the usual cakes and pastries if any customers did decide to brave the cold, as well as some festive treats (gingerbread and shortbread and Christmas cake) which she would likely bring home to her family at the end of the day, having remained untouched.

Instead of busily serving customers from behind the counter as she usually would, Sasha had a new task on Christmas, one that made missing the day with her family all worth it. Every December 25th she would spend her morning kneading and stirring and creating the most magical Christmas desserts and cookies and cakes, complete with fondant icing and Christmas decorations. Sasha wouldn’t necessarily call herself a baker, but she was most certainly creative, and so she made use of her creative streak to invent a multitude of new sweet creations, and had received some pretty great reviews in the past. She would use up all the ingredients she had in the café making as many treats as her brain could come up with, each new addition as delicious as the next.

Whilst they were in the oven, she’d start her next task- wrapping as many shoeboxes she could. The café collected empty shoeboxes from their customers from the beginning of November, and thanks to their generosity, easily over one hundred would be donated. Then, using a combination of customer donations and her own money, Sasha would buy gifts to put in each box – warm clothes and bath products and blankets and sweets and toys for children.

Once everything was wrapped and baked, Sasha would gather each present and dessert and load them into her car, before driving down to the local homeless shelter, where she would stay until midnight. She would hand out her gifts to all of those who gathered there for a warm meal, and serve her cakes and cookies and pastries, which everyone loved. She would talk to them and sing carols with them all evening, and had formed a close friendship with the staff and the homeless people over the years for her generosity.

She wanted to make sure that everyone had a good Christmas, and give back to the community that had done so much for her over the years.

And this Christmas was no exception.

Sasha was busily kneading a lump of dough for her mince pies with her flour covered hands and absentmindedly humming to ‘Hark the Herald’, when she heard the shop door open. She jumped a little in surprise, and turned her head sharply to see who was the source of the footsteps that were headed her way.

Sasha hadn’t expected anyone to come into the café on Christmas Day.

Especially not a woman dressed as an elf.

Especially not a women dressed as an elf who was crying her eyes out.

To say that Sasha didn’t know what to do would’ve been an understatement.

She approached the counter, her running mascara staining the green collar of her shirt with black smudges.

“Uh… can I get a black coffee, p-please?” the girl muttered in a weak, shaky voice, as if she was on the verge of crying again.

Sasha stood silently for a second, eyes wide with utter bewilderment. She could’ve laughed at the sight of the poor girl – she’d never seen an elf with such little Christmas spirit. But, that wasn’t Sasha’s nature, so instead she started making the beverage, giving her time to think about what to say.

She handed over the drink and collected the girl’s money with a small smile, trying desperately to comfort her but not having a clue how to. The girl muttered a quiet “thanks” and turned to leave the store.

Sasha knew she couldn’t just let her leave.

Not on Christmas.

“Hey,” Sasha called out, “how would you like some company while you drink that? We could sit a while, talk?”

The girl wiped a tear from her eye and smiled hopefully. “Um, okay. Thanks.”

***

The pair spent the next hour or so talking to each other, losing track of time. Sasha had laid a table and made two hot chocolates with marshmallows, one for her and one just in case her new companion wanted something sweeter than her coffee. Free of charge, of course.

Sasha learned that the girl’s name was Shea, and that she was originally from Chicago, but moved to New York 3 years ago to study fashion design at college.

Sasha could’ve said how ironic this was considering her Elf costume, but she bit her tongue.

Besides, Shea still looked pretty good in it regardless.

“Then, after I graduate, I wanna design costumes for Broadway shows,” Shea continued on.

“That’s awesome! I used to do loads of theatre when I was younger,” Sasha reminisced.

“Same! I was such a theatre kid!” Shea laughed fondly. “I played Heather Chandler when we did Heathers in my senior year of high school.”

“No way! Heathers is one of my favourites!”

“Me too!” Shea exclaimed. “Fuck, I got to see Falsettos with the original Broadway cast a few years ago and it was honestly the highlight of my life.”

Sasha’s jaw dropped. “I am so jealous!”

Shea laughed and looked down, her dimples and the creases by her eyes forming a beautiful picture that Sasha never wanted to unsee.

And there wasn’t a single tear in her eyes anymore. Shea’s sadness seemed to be forgotten, at least for now.

Sasha tried to convince herself that she was looking for traces of teardrops in Shea’s eyes, but who was she kidding. Shea has the most warm, welcoming eyes Sasha had ever seen, eyes that drew her in and sparkled under the Christmas tree lights and allowed Sasha to catch a glimpse of the fiery soul that lay behind them.

She couldn’t help but stare. Although she had just met Shea, she was sure that she wanted to stare into those eyes for more than just an hour.

Sasha shook herself back into reality, now quite aware that she had been staring for a little too long. Embarrassed, she quickly tried to draw attention away from her staring.

“So, Uh, what stopped you from pursuing the whole acting thing?”

Shea shrugged. “I don’t know… I always wanted to do it, but people kept telling me it was unrealistic.”

“People like…”

“Mainly my boyfriend,” Shea mumbled. “I mean, my ex-boyfriend now.”

“Ex-boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I…. I left him today, actually.”

“Is that you were upset earlier?” Sasha asked.

Shea bit her lip.“Sorta… I just felt bad doing it on Christmas.”

“Don’t feel bad! I’m sure he probably deserved it anyway,” Sasha said, shaking her head.

“Trust me, he did,” Shea scoffed. “He was a dickhead.”

Sasha smiled and met Shea’s eyes for a second, before she quickly glanced away. “Um, can I ask why? It’s totally okay if you don’t wanna talk about it and I get it if you-“

“No, no it’s fine, I’ll tell you, don’t worry,” Shea replied, a sad sort of smile forming on her lips. “In all honesty… he was a jerk. He would, um, try and control my life, and what I wore, and what I did and stuff. Even today he was being a control freak. We both work part time jobs at Macy’s, as Santa’s helpers, and I had booked the day off to spend Christmas with my family, and he was still working and he, uh, he wasn’t too pleased about me leaving him on Christmas. So, uh, he changed my work schedule to make sure I was working on Christmas and didn’t tell me.”

Sasha felt her heart rate quickening. Oh my God. “Fuck, really?”

“Yeah. At first I thought he just didn’t wanna spend Christmas without me, but really, he just wanted to show off to his friends who took their kids to see Santa Claus. He didn’t even get me a gift.”

“Shit,” Sasha said in disbelief. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s fine, I guess. I’m so done with him now though,” Shea said through gritted teeth. “I tried to talk to him earlier, to tell him how I was feeling, but he didn’t listen. He just started flirting, playing it off as if it was nothing. And then he was grabbing me, and I slapped him and ran off.”

“Fuck, Shea.” Sasha furrowed her brow and bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Shea pursed her lips and inhaled sharply. “I know, it was really fucking bad, Sasha. I’m never going back. I don’t wanna see him ever again.”

Sasha genuinely couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This girl had been through hell and back, and yet was still able to articulate everything so perfectly, and Sasha felt priveleged that she trusted her enough to tell her story.

Sasha wished she knew the right words to say. She wished she could rewind time, reverse what happened to Shea. She wished that she could make sure that it would never happen again. “You’re so brave for leaving him. So brave. I’m so proud of you.”

She saw tears start to well in Shea’s eyes, before her face crumpled and she allowed her emotions to come out. Sasha grabbed the girl’s hand across the table, squeezing it tightly and trying to show her how loved she was, how she didn’t deserve any of this shit.

Shea allowed the tears to flow, each wave of emotion overflowing her senses, until she calmed down and started to feel okay. She wasn’t sure why she had allowed herself to be so vulnerable in front of Sasha. Something about her made her feel safe.

Sasha’s fingers remained interlocked with hers as her breathing began to slow, and she saw a smile creep back her Shea’s face.

“Sorry,” Shea eventually murmured, “for getting upset and shit.”

“Don’t say sorry. Emotions are healthy,” Sasha smiled sympathetically.

A weak smile appeared on Shea’s face as her rising chest settled and she was back in control.

“Well, I guess if that shit never happened I never would’ve ended up coming here,” Shea chuckled, the final tear rolling silently down her cheek before being flicked away. “You’re the only place open on Christmas for miles. Except McDonald’s.”

“McDonald’s doesn’t count,” Sasha scoffed, a sarcastic eyebrow raised making Shea giggle.

“Shhh, Ronald will hear you!” Shea exclaimed, before the two found themselves in fits of laughter.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you came in,” Sasha smiled.

“I am too. I’m really glad I met you, Sasha.” Shea beamed, the twinkle of sadness in her eye fading to a spark of hope. Sasha stared for a little longer than she probably should have. It was so easy to lose herself in her kind eyes.

Snapping back to reality, Sasha quickly glanced down and cleared her throat. Damn it. Shea must have noticed her staring that time. She’d need to be more careful about that.

When she dared to glance back up, Shea’s eyes were waiting, staring back into hers. Fuck. There was something so special about this girl.

No. Sasha had only just met this girl, they barely knew each other, and she had just broken up with her boyfriend for Christ’s sake.

This wasn’t happening.

This was crazy.

But maybe, Sasha liked crazy.

Maybe it was the fire in Shea’s eyes, or her fingers still interlocked with Sasha’s, or even her dumb elf costume that gave Sasha the confidence to say what she said next.

“So, uh, if you have no plans for Christmas anymore, then maybe you could stick around and help me with a few things.”

Shea smiled. “I’d like that.”

***

The next few hours blurred into clouds of flour and the sweet smell of gingerbread, as if Shea had stepped into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory for the first time. Sasha was grateful for the extra pair of hands around the café to help her prepare for the evening, but even more grateful for the company. Being with Shea was always exciting, always fun, and Sasha somehow felt at ease around her. The empty café was now renewed with a sense of Christmas spirit, with a cacophony of laughter and Christmas music and the whirring of whisks filling the air around the two. Shea’s terrible Christmas had been long forgotten, and instead filled with candy canes and sugar and sweetness.

Shea didn’t have a clue how to bake, so whilst Sasha handled the difficult parts, Shea was set the task of decorating the gingerbread men, which she did with glee – she gave each biscuit a name and a different outfit and told Sasha made-up stories about each cookie character, making the smaller girl giggle. There was something infectious about Sasha’s laughter. God, she was adorable.

Once Sasha had seemed their collection of baked goods satisfactory, they began on their next task - wrapping. Shea felt more in her element here, given her experience with fabric, and so set off on a mission to show Sasha how amazing her wrapping was. She covered her first shoebox with glittery gold paper and streams of ribbons and bows, as if the present was fit for Broadway itself. She proudly handed it over to Sasha with a nod, before glancing over at Sasha’s gifts. Each one was precisely wrapped with crisp, neat folds, tied up with a flourish of ribbon. Not to mention the fact that she had wrapped 7 boxes in the time it had taken Shea to wrap one.

Upon noticing Shea’s gawking, Sasha laughed time herself. “It’s all in the math. Wrapping is essentially geometry,” she said, curling a length of ribbon with her scissors. “I like your wrapping more though. It’s more fun!”

Shea smirked. Damn. Smart and nice? Did Sasha know how perfect she was?

Shea knew alright.

***

The sound of a chorus of voices singing ‘jingle bells’ poured out from the homeless shelter, which was buzzing with life and activity. It had been decorated in rainbow-coloured fairy lights, a beacon of hope and magic in an otherwise dark and cold December night.

The two girls walked through the double doors side by side, arms bundled with seemingly endless wrapped boxes and silver tins of desserts. They were greeted by friendly faces and handshakes and hugs from volunteers and homeless people alike, thanking them for contributing to their Christmas.

Shea was sure she hadn’t understood the meaning of Christmas until now.

They began handing out the gifts along each row, Sasha offering hugs to those she had gotten to know over the past few years. Seeing the genuine, heartfelt reactions of those who appreciated such simple gestures as shoeboxes and cakes made Shea’s heart soar. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive.

Maybe it was Sasha who made her feel alive.

She couldn’t really tell.

After an evening spent singing carols and eating Sasha’s Christmas desserts, the two left arm in arm.

“Hey Sasha,” Shea said. “Thank you for all of this. For saving me.”

Sasha beamed. “You make it so easy.”

And thus began Sasha’s brand new Christmas tradition.

She would still go down to the homeless shelter and bring her desserts and her gifts. Of course.

But now, she would bring Shea with her too.

And now, they both dressed as elves on Christmas.

#rpdr fic exchange #rpdr fanfiction #peridot #for roza #sashea #sasha velour #shea coulee #lesbian au #christmas au #coffee shop au #fluff #angst #TW mentions of abusive behaviour #submission #Posted Fics

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a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan · 5 years

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LinkedUniverse Fanfiction Ch. 15: Painting the Town

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name–Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story–I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 17: To Sell a Butterfly (Pendant).

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

It’s finally here! Wow! ... If you thought the long wait would end with a chapter the scale of “Fire,” you’ll be sorely disappointed. Sorry, folks. Still, now we finally get to see more of Selggog and the Links’ quest. When we’re talking my fan narrative, what can beat the hijinx of the Heroes of Wind and Twilight? Word Count: 1576

“So why’d you come with me, instead?” Wind asked.

Twilight looked down to his friend and shrugged. “I didn’t want to sit around waiting for Wild to find weapons he liked. Potion shopping beats that, at least.”

Wind glanced upward at passing shop signs as they walked down one of Selggog’s many busy streets. The others sent them to resupply on potions. Hyrule had finished the last of their stock following their skirmish with the Hinox. The two of them had been searching for an apothecary for the past half hour.

The elder of them sighed. “We should ask someone.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?” Wind countered. He was jovially bouncing about on the balls of his feet with each step. “Having absolutely no idea where you’re going makes it a little adventure!”

“Aren’t we already on an adventure?”

Wind frowned. He clasped his hands behind his head and looked up. White, fluffy clouds dotted the otherwise clear sky. “Yeah, I guess,” he said somewhat dejectedly. Then, more chipper than before, “Well, it can be a side quest. How about that?”

“’Side quest?’ Kind of a silly name for it.”

“Yeah? Well… I like it.”

Twilight let out a bark of laughter. “Maybe it’ll stick.”

Some passersby knocked shoulders with the Links as the streets became busier. “Ack!” Wind grunted. “You know,” he called out to someone ahead who had rammed into him, “wouldn’t kill you to say sorry!”

“Shhh,” Twilight hushed sharply. “We don’t want—“ he was cut off by someone bashing his shoulder—"unneeded attention.”

Wind rubbed his shoulder and looked up to his friend. “You think they’re always this in a rush?”

“Dunno. I’m not used to city life.”

“Yeah,” Wind said. He thought back to Windfall Island, which he used to think of as a metropolis. “Gotta say this place is a bit bigger than I’m used to.”

Twilight patted his pockets. Satisfied everything was where it should be, he glanced at his partner. “Just make sure no one filches anything. You have your wallet, right?”

With a pffft, Wind checked his own pockets over. “Of course I d—”

A pause. “Wind?” Twilight asked. He stopped walking.

The youngest hero looked up at his friend with a sheepish smile. He raised his arms in a guilty sort of half-shrug. “Wind,” Twilight said slowly, “Don’t tell me you—”

“Yep.”

“By Ordona…” he cursed, smacking his forehead. He thought that over. Why did I just hurt myself? I didn’t do anything wrong. He promptly smacked Wind on the back of the head.

“Ow! What the heck?”

“What did we tell you?!”

“To watch out for pickpockets…” Wind admitted with his head hung, kicking at a pebble on the road.

“And did you?!”

Wind looked up. His wide eyes seemed to burn with anger Twilight had never seen. “No, Twi!” he shouted back. “I didn’t! So can you stop yelling at me and making me feel like crap so we can go find it?!”

Twilight was about to fire back, then paused. For all Wind had been through, he was still just a kid. He sighed and looked around. Some people had stopped and were staring at them. “Well?” he called out to them.

They shrugged and went back to bustling down the street on their errands. When Twilight turned back to his friend, he found him breathing deeply with his eyes closed. “Hey,” he began, “I didn’t mean t—”

“Stop,” Wind interrupted. He opened his eyes and met Twilight’s gaze. “Just because I’m cheery most of the time,” he whispered. Twilight could barely hear him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings like everybody else.”

“I—”

“Just remember that.”

Twilight had never seen the youngest Link upset enough to yell. He really had struck a nerve. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

Wind’s expression softened. “Thank you. Now let’s find my wallet. What’re we gonna do?”

“I would suggest we ask Sky to borrow the Master Sword for its dowsing ability.” He considered this. “But even if it was willing to help, there are so many wallets in this town that it probably couldn’t pick yours out of the crowd.”

A thought struck Wind. “What about your wolf sense?”

Twilight looked around. The streets were packed with people going about their business. He remembered how the residents of Castle Town reacted to seeing his beastly form. “No. I don’t want to scare all these people.”

“Fair,” Wind replied. “But what else can we do?”

“Uh…” he muttered, wracking his brains. “I… I don’t know.”

Wind’s jolted to attention as if shocked by a yellow ChuChu. The sudden movement made his partner flinch. “What if I just earn back all the money that was stolen?” Wind suggested, thrusting his arms down, palms up, as if pointing out something totally obvious.

Twilight’s brow furrowed. “That might actually work…” he admitted pensively. “How much was in there?”

Silence. Well, at least between the two heroes. The townspeople were loud and rowdy as ever. “Um…” Wind said, clearly stalling. “Not too much.”

“Don’t dick around with me. How much?”

“About two-fifty?”

“That’s a lot of smashed pots,” Twilight joked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms. “How do you plan on earning that much?”

The young seafarer dug in his pouch and pulled out a necklace. “I’ve got some treasures I can sell. How many people here would buy a chintzy necklace with a butterfly pendant?”

“With this many people, hopefully at least a couple.”

“How much should we charge?”

“How many do you have?”

“Seven.”

Twilight nodded. “Anything else?”

Wind shook his head. “Some trinkets, feathers, a lot of junk.”

“Right. Well, let’s get started.”

“Hoi!” Wind called out to the crowd. “Beautiful butterfly necklaces here! Twenty-five rupees apiece!”

No one walked over to them. The crowds just kept moving by. Undeterred, Wind repeated his sales call even louder. This turned some heads, but nobody came. He tried once more. The second-floor shutters of a nearby building slammed open. A disheveled old man in a sleeping cap poked his head out. “Quit yer yapping!” he shouted down to the Links. “People are trying to sleep!”

The two heroes glanced at each other, paused a moment, then shrugged in unison. Wind hooked his thumbs on his belt and shifted his weight to one leg. “Guess that’s out the window,” he said.

Twilight let out a frustrated sigh. If he had just been more careful, we’d have potions by now, he thought bitterly. No, stay focused. We need to figure this o—

“Oh!” Wind exclaimed, again startling his friend. “Let’s find a shop that will buy some of my stuff!”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure most shops won’t buy off strangers. They’re trying to sell their junk, not buy yours. Think how fast they’d go bankrupt.”

Wind shook his head. “No no no, I mean a treasure teller! Someone who deals in treasures. There was one on one of the islands I sailed to. I’m sure there’s one around here.”

“Alright,” Twilight said, “how are we gonna find one? Search every street? That didn’t quite work for the apothecary.”

“Look for a sign with a rupee on it,” Wind replied, scanning the street for such a sign. “There’s gotta be one aro—OH! Look!”

Wind pointed out to the building directly across the street from them. Sure enough, the storefront had a multitude of rupees painted all over it. Twilight sighed in relief. “That was easier than expected.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited. We have no idea what they’ll offer for my stuff. These guys can be fickle.”

“Right.”

The two heroes crossed the street and entered the store. The walls were covered in a bizarre wallpaper filled with celestial bodies and distorted floral patterns. The shelves immediately drew their eyes. Treasures and spoils lined the perimeter of the store. Everything from golden statuettes to fine china to jewelry to precious stones rested upon the shelves. A beaded curtain hung in the doorway between the store and some back room.

While Wind marveled over the treasures, Twilight strode to the ornately-decorated counter. It was adorned with an equally beautiful silver bell. He gently tapped its button. A soft, pleasing ding rang out. No one came after a few seconds, so he rang it again, a little harder this time. He strained to hear any movement in the back room but was left wanting.

By now, Wind had refocused and walked up beside his friend. They glanced at each other. A look of confusion and mild annoyance passed between their eyes. Wind shrugged. “Hello?” he called slightly louder than the second bell ring. Nothing.

“Oh, come on,” he grumbled with a huff. He hooked his thumbs in his belt again. “Maybe no one is here?”

Twilight shook his head. “With this kind of merchandise, the door would have been locked tight.”

“So why the heck is no one coming?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Alright, here goes,” Wind said with resignation lacing his voice. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hoi!” he yelled. “Is anybody here?!”

Nothing. The hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stood on end. His eyes narrowed. Honing his wolf senses had carried over somewhat to his Hylian form. Something didn’t sit right with him. “Quiet down. This doesn’t feel right.”

Just then, a drawling whisper came from directly behind the young heroes. “No need to be afraid, dearies…”

#linkeduniverse fanfiction #linkeduniverse #my own #my writing #painting the town #I'm back bitches

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thesportssoundoff · 4 years

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“Conor McGregor is back! Excitement may vary. Excitement in this card may vary! Excitement is really yours to have and hold, folks” The UFC 246 Fight Preview

Joey

January 13th, 2020

The UFC kicks off its 2019 schedule after a few long weeks off with a card that will, with very little sarcasm in play, play a hefty part in defining the way 2020 rolls out deep into the year. UFC 246 from Las Vegas, Nevada is a weird card on paper but it's also very significant and significance can sometimes create card quality/card quantity. Conor McGregor vs Donald Cerrone is a significant fight, one that figures to ask and answer a lot of questions for both men. For better or worse, the future of two divisions could be mapped out in one night depending on the results of one which fight which again parlays to its perceived significance. The PPV main card is "fine" although it clearly lacks a significant co-main event and the televised prelims are actually respectably spiffy as they're essentially four well put together "prospect of note vs proven veteran" fights with some good early ESPN+ prelim action too. Again I don't know if this card is good or bad---just that it's a significant card of fights and by the time Friday comes along, that long term delay in high level MMA is going to be eating at us SO we'll be all in on this one.

2020 Stat-O-Matic:

Debuting Fighters (): Ode Osbourne, Aleksa Camur Main Event Exemption:

Short Notice Fighters (): Main Event Exemption:

Second Fight (): Askar Askarov Main Event Exemption: Vs Debutantes:

Cage Corrosion (Fighters who have not fought within a year of the date of the fight) (): Conor McGregor, Brian Kelleher Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor

Undefeated Fighters (): Aleksa Camur, Maycee Barber Main Event Exemption:

Fighters with at least four fights in the UFC with 0 wins over competition still in the organization (): Alexey Oleinik, Justin Ledet Main Event Exemption:

Weight Class Jumpers (Fighters competing outside of the weight class of their last fight even if they’re returning BACK to their “normal weight class”) (): Donald Cerrone, Conor McGregor Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor, Donald Cerrone

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- So what necessarily is the end game here for Conor McGregor? As has been the case since he broke out onto the scene and KO'd Jose Aldo, much of Conor's "plans" feel less like plans and more like thoughts he forces into existence. The good stuff like being a double champ and finagling a big money Floyd fight and the bad stuff like the Khabib lead up or believing he could just beat Nate Diaz up 15 lbs because it seemed like fun all feel like the decisions of a guy who sort of just decides he's going to do something and then does it regardless of the long term impact. Conor had the chance to fight Justin Gaethje and instead pushed for Frankie Edgar fight, ultimately leading us to the here and now where he'll draw Donald Cerrone up a weight class after a year plus layoff. In the time between Conor's LAST fight and this one, he's been arrested, accused of sexual assault, accused of fathering a child out of his marriage and feel free to fill me in on anything I may have missed. What sort of made Conor McGregor a superstar was that he flirted with the concept of being a character completely in control of everything he did and 2019 at the very exposed him as somebody lacking any semblance of control within his life. Either way, it's hard to say what the future holds for McGregor with a win. We know a loss means it's over as four losses in his last five pro fights (I'm counting Floyd here for completionist sake) would probably kill whatever credibility he had and whatever legitimacy he garnered over the course of three years running through the UFC ranks. A win? It's hard to say with a guy who when he's right has the ability to dictate what he opts to do next. A win? Conor McGregor would fight Jorge Masvidal in a big money fight, a third Diaz fight, a GSP fight where both fighters can cash out or go and chase down Khabib. If one truly wishes to get stupid, I suppose fights with Pacquaio, Floyd or Paulie Malignaggi exist out there as well. The first step isn't so much winning this fight but winning this fight and getting back to what made this whole act work to begin with.

2- This is historically the sort of fight Cerrone doesn't show up for and gets forced out of his element but there's some things here I think that do tilt the scales slightly in his favor. For starters, I DO believe in ring rust and Conor hasn't fought in over a year and has fought just twice since the end of 2016. You can argue that wear and tear means Cerrone is shop worn but I feel as though he fights better the MORE he fights and the more active he is. For a fighter like Conor who lives or dies based upon how sharp his timing is, I think it's fair to wonder if the long layoff is going to shake him. We saw him struggle with his timing vs Khabib and while Khabib is on a whole different galaxy than Cerrone, I'd argue it's worse to be slightly off vs a dude like Cerrone who does have the starch in his strikes to do more than flash KD you. Also Cerrone is probably the first guy since Jose Aldo that Conor's had to be mindful of walking into smoke with the legs. Also Cerrone's been campaigning at 170 lbs on and off since 2016 and so you have to assume if this is about being comfortable at the weight class, he's got the nod over Conor.

3- Under normal circumstances, I'd say "I think Conor's defensive wrestling is somewhat understated and the idea that anybody can take him down and sub him is a fallacy" but I also have ZERO idea if he's actually done any serious grappling training or if he's just hoping Cerrone's going to play nice and strike with him for a bit.

4- Which fight is more undesirable for Amanda Nunes; a Holly Holm rematch where she can't realistically top what she did in the first fight or a Rocky Pennington rematch where she'll be tasked with trying to sell/expand upon one of her most boring fights ever?

5- I wonder who is more broken in theory between Holm and Pennington. Rocky looked to be on the verge of going from solid WMMA fighter to a damn good top 5-ish woman at 135 lbs after dominating Meisha Tate but she broke her leg, took a lot of time off, followed that up with a dud vs Amanda Nunes and then got stalled out by Germaine de Randamie. She rebounded with a win over Irene Aldana which almost felt more about Aldana being a putz and less about any sort of sign of a rebound for Rocky. It's worth remembering that the fight vs Holm was the one that got sort of signified that Rocky was better than people realized but it required her to pressure for fifteen minutes and that's sort of gone away for her recently. As for Holm? She's fought Rousey, Cyborg, Tate, Shevchenko and Nunes. She's pushing 40. She had an extensive boxing history that suggests she's taken plenty of damage. She just got KO'd for the first time in her UFC run the last time out and at this point it's fair to ask if Holm's durability is going to be shot. This fight is why Aspen Ladd figuring shit out is really important for this division.

6- Maurice Green and Alexey Olenik being on this main card is curious until you realize that this main card has two WMMA fights and a fight at lightweight on it. Sometimes beef gets called in to "bulk" up the main card.

7- Anthony Pettis sure picked a fine week to announce a UFC lawsuit, am I right?

8- Let's talk about how great these prelims are for a second. Sodiq Yusuff vs Andre Fili is a battle of exciting prospect and proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Nasrat Haqparast vs Drew Dober is a battle of exciting prospect vs proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Maycee Barber vs Roxanne Modafferi almost feels like the potential crowning of Maycee as a 125 lb contender by taking on a former title contender who STYLISTICALLY will at least give us a reason to double check her ability to do things such as defend takedowns and deal with pressure. Lastly I REALLY do love this fight between Chas Skelly and Grant Dawson as Dawson has slowly gone from somewhat awkward wrestling savant to a more well rounded pressure fighter while Chas Skelly is one of those ultimate gatekeeper types for young fighters. These are all great fights worthy of going out of your way to see on ESPN.

9- We're four years now into the Alexa Grasso project and I still don't know if she has the fight smarts to ever take the next step in her career. A good test vs a declining Claudia Gadelha who still has something to offer.

10- How much ya wanna bet Maurice Green allows Olenik to pull him down on top of him?

11- Justin Ledet's run at 205 lbs has been weird as his lack of athleticism for the weight class plus what feels like an odd lack of strength (How he was burly enough to fight at HW but gets chucked around at 205 lbs is a mystery to me) has made him go 0-2 in the division. After a lengthy lay off, he's back at 205 lbs against Aleksa Camur. Camus is a training partner of Stipe Miocic and he got in here off the Contenders Series where he had a crazy fight that exposed him to be a) wacky as all hell and b) a bit too raw for my liking in the UFC. This feels pretty winnable for Spirit of Truth lookalike Ledet.

12- Ode Osbourne vs Brian Kelleher is an early FOTY candidate to me.

#MMA #UFC #McGregor #Cerrone #Pettis #CDF #Holm #Pennington #Prospects

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fasterthanmydemons · 4 years

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I'm so sorry you lost a loved one but let me tell you that what you do deserves so much admiration; you managed to turn your pain into something to improve your writing and understanding of the twins if they lost the other. Turning tragic events of one's own life into something that can help you be better at something takes a tremendous amount of strength and you deserve so much credit for it! I also headcanon Pietro as the "weaker" one I just want to protect him. I think Mantis could help him.

{out of breath} Thank you, I really appreciate you saying that. I just thought I would offer some of my own perspective, since I’ve gotten comments over the course of writing Wanda that I make her too emotional, all she thinks about is Pietro, she cries too much, things like that. And I hadn’t realized until people complained about that sort of stuff that I was just going off of my own experiences since the MCU provided me with absolutely nothing to indicate Wanda’s actual grieving process. But like her, I am an intuitive, empathetic, emotional individual, and so I figure well, she might feel and do similar things when processing her grief.

I’m three years out from the death of my loved one, and I can say that I still have nightmares about being with them when they died, I still cry at random references in movies and songs to people losing a loved one in a similar way, and even random things like people on news broadcasts crying about loved ones they lost suddenly for whatever reason will make me cry. Sometimes I have really lucid dreams where I can clearly hear my loved one’s voice, see their face, feel them hug me, smell their shampoo or other things they used to use, they say things they used to say to me... and it seems so incredibly real. And those dreams are either happy or I’m like sobbing in the dream and begging them to stay with me. But either way when I wake up, reality hits me in the face and I just wish I could go back to the dream world. Like I’d rather be there with them than here alone, heh.

It sounds stupid, but things like this happen on a regular basis for me, three years out from their death. On a daily basis people will say something that will remind me of them, or a song will come on the radio that they loved, or just any number of the multitudes of things we used to share and love together... and it’s just either complete rage that they’re gone too soon or sudden grief that hits me so hard I can’t not cry. I hate it when it happens when I’m driving because then I have to pull the car over, heh.

But my point is... that’s the reality of being very emotionally attached and even emotionally dependent on a person and losing them unexpectedly. Three years after they’re gone, your life still revolves around the way they used to be in your life. I still, even after this long, have that feeling of just waiting for my life to stop being so strange and go back to normal. So imagine now, Wanda... three days out from Pietro dying. Or three months. She is not going to be okay. Civil War took place what, less than a year after Ultron? And the Avengers cleared her to be in the field on an actual mission? I think that was very irresponsible of them.

And I’m not by any means mad at or trying to call out people who kinda complain that my Wanda is different than in the movies. She is, heh. That’s why I say canon-divergent on her blog. But really, it just goes to show that like... people that don’t know Wanda from the comics and don’t know how emotional she can get, and people who don’t have writer’s brains who are constantly filling in the blanks between the lines of canon material with their own extrapolations, interpretations, and imagination, really only take canon at face value. So yeah, my Wanda does cry a lot more, and mention Pietro all the time, and seem a lot more broken and unable to move past his death, but that’s because to me and drawing from my own experiences, that’s more realistic to me than never mentioning him ever again and never shedding a tear for him past the immediate time after he died. But I also write her with muses that are helping her to cope and adjust and process everything afterward. I do write her being strong despite feeling torn in half by Pietro’s death. So it’s not a static state for her to be in that much despair, but it is an important part of her character, her life, her development to go through this really dark period.

I haven’t had nearly as much of a chance to write Wanda post-Endgame, and I feel like now that WandaVision is looming, a lot of the AUs I would come up with obvious don’t lead into that kind of... strangeness? XD (Although I do have a starter inspired by the concept of WandaVision and by what happened in the comics right here if anyone is interested in reading it.) But I would love to explore how different the loss of Vision is as opposed to Pietro. She loved Vision, but Pietro was her other half, really. No loss is ever going to hit her as hard as Pietro’s. Having said that, I feel like... you know when people’s pets die and they run right out and get a replacement animal to kindof “transfer the love?” I’m guilty of that, haha. I feel like Wanda needed someone to love and Vision was there and she had a connection to him through the mind stone, and he did save her life, and so maybe under other circumstances she might not have looked to him or felt the same about him, but having lost Pietro, I think maybe she tried to fill some of that void with Vision. She’s older after Endgame, things have set in with Pietro, but Vision’s loss is still new. She’s a different person after Pietro, and now she’s changing again without Vision. So... I would love to explore how her grief differs with that loss vs. Pietro’s.

And now... as to the last part of your ask... I haven’t seen the Guardians of the Galaxy movies, and Mantis was never one I followed in the comics, so I only know her from Infinity War and Endgame. But I thought she was absolutely adorable, haha. But yeah, Pietro is physically strong, physically healthier, stronger in personality as far as being forceful and extroverted, but Wanda is emotionally stronger. She can overcome so much more emotionally than Pietro can, and she doesn’t really even believe that that’s true. The thing with Wanda is that she has fairly low self-esteem at various points in her life, and so if she’s told that she’s not good enough or if she’s left to think that herself and given someone like Pietro who will always protect, always shield, always do for her... she will just allow that person to take care of her. And she’ll just believe that she’s so fragile and needs that sort of support from someone. But the reality is that she can survive and endure and overcome just fine all on her own. Unfortunately to realize that, she has to be forced to do it, by losing her loved ones or being pushed into situations that leave her with no choice but to adapt or die. Pietro, if given the same choice, would let himself die, either through a conscious choice or simply because he would succumb to his own despair.

How could Mantis help him, though? Like I said, I’m really not familiar with her, although I did notice in Infinity War that she had some mental abilities like Wanda. Could she help to sort of even out Pietro’s emotions or something? I don’t even know anyone who rps Mantis but that would be an interesting plot to do, heh.

Okay why can I never answer an ask like this without gabbing on for four miles, haha. I’m sorry for the word spam folks. XD But thank you for sending in these asks, I love them! =)

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morning-walk · 4 years

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I just came in from my morning walk.

My devotions led me to this.

It has come to this.

A fellow came by the church building last week.

The Lord protected me, or him, and I wasn’t there.

But he visited the preschool staff and left his multi-color, glossy, two sided brochures.

For his balloon ministry.

Kids will flock to the Lord.

I’m not making this stuff up.

He even has a balloon that is large enough for him to be inside when he blows it up.

Call for charges.

I shake my head so much these days that it is even more unhinged than usual.

Lord knows I am all about fun.

Especially for kids.

I really, really, like balloons (properly disposed of) and kids will bat them around for hours in the most harmless sort of fun exercise.

However.

It is well known around those in my charge that I am wired differently.

And for the life of me I ain’t gonna put Jesus on sale to the lowest bidder.

Love and hope and forgiveness and mercy available by grace is not a gimmick.

All the hot air in the cosmos, or in the balloon, won’t change that for me.

To breathe in and breathe out the Holy Spirit, which I do about 18 times each minute, is my reminder of the multitudes of uses of the atmospheric gases that surround me.

At no charge.

As our Friend and I struck out on another damp hike this morning I was telling him about yet another way folks are finding to turn a profit at his expense. He smiled at me the way he does and said...

“Prophets don’t profit they just breathe.”

Your move.

Brother Pat

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lorentzenlorentzen7-blog · 5 years

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advrik · 6 years

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BluReviews | Issue #2: Harvest Moon: Light of Hope Special Edition

Before I begin my review, I want to preface it with a few things:

1. Yes I am aware that this isn’t the actual Bokujou Monogatari series. You don’t have to yell it in my ear, I’m sick of hearing it.

2. I will not be addressing the issues with Soleil beyond this preface. Yes it was poorly done and really should have had some QA being done regarding it.

3. I have been playing games within this genre since the very beginning. Like, I made it a personal mission to rent Harvest Moon on SNES in 1998, then later asked Santa for Harvest Moon GB that same Christmas because I loved it so much. I own literally every game the series, spin-off or otherwise, that has released in the US.

All right, on with the review.

Harvest Moon: Light of Hope launched late last year on the PC, and on May 29th 2018 it made its console debut on the Nintendo Switch and Sony Playstation 4. I admittedly did not pay it much heed at first due to the fact that it was on the PC first and I just don’t play PC games. Heck, I don’t even play games on my TV anymore really thanks to the Switch and its hybrid nature.

But enough about that.

As I was saying. Light of Hope made its debut on consoles as ‘Harvest Moon Light of Hope Special Edition, complete with an iffy new marriage candidate and a season pass. Now I know season passes as a whole are on their way out and not generally viewed in good light, but Harvest Moon? A game that is built around the changing of the seasons? Perfect.

Anywho, let’s get critical.

Presentation

...

All right, I know what you’re thinking.

“That looks like a mobile game!”

It most certainly does and it probably started out that way actually before being bumped up to a full-blown release.

(Screen was zoomed out)

The overworld graphics are by far and large, the biggest hit against the game. First-impression wise, they are TERRIBLE. Everything is either way off scale with each other or the perspective is off. Like really off. Like, these are very hastily made, amateurish tilesets.

And that is a real shame.

I could go on a rant about how bad the overworld actually looks, but I don’t want to rant. I want to talk about the pluses in this game because I feel that, despite the negative press (covfefe...), there is a lot of good here.

When conversing with a villager, the characters are presented with some rather expressive models instead of the stoic pieces of art found in Story of Seasons. And this is a nice addition because the models are a joy to look at; They all feature a multitude of emotions and expressions, with quite a few I really liked, like this on here with Tabitha.

Gameplay

Oh man, where Light of Hope stumbles (and falls down the stairs) in the graphics department, it makes up for big time on the gameplay side of things.

I’ll try to break it down into chunks that way I’m not presenting a huge wall of text here.

Context-Sensitive Tool Usage As has been from the get-go in the new Natsume era of Faux-Harvest Moon titles, having to cycle through your rucksack for certain tools is a thing of the past because now, depending what you are doing, you automatically use the necessary tool for the job. Admittedly I was iffy on the whole concept in the beginning when The Lost Valley launched, but it has since grown on me after certain refinements were made. This is but one of the aspects of the Natsume games that sets itself apart from the other farming sims in a good way.

Crop Mutations Oh man, if this isn’t the best thing to happen to the farm life genre since cooking was introduced in Back to Nature, I don’t know what is.

This was a feature I loved the idea of from the get-go. It not only put an absolute huge emphasis on farming crops once again, where Story of Seasons had progressed into a social sim of sorts. Crop mutations adds so much to the Natsume games that it’s actually something I want other developers, indie or otherwise, to look at and go “We should try something similar!”.

For example: There’s a type of Tomato in the game called San Marzano. It’s a mutation of, of course, the tomato. But you won’t get this simply by growing a ton of tomatoes on your farm. Oh no. You have to venture to the northern most part of the map to the dry field and plant some tomatoes there in either autumn or summer. While there is a chance that they’ll grow by themselves, you can sprinkle some fertilizer - either regular or special tomato-based type that boosts hybrid chances - the first few days of growth to further boost the chances.

Once you successfully grow ten of them and sell them to Sam, the seeds will unlock and you can then start growing the fruit itself rather than hoping for a mutation. This then opens the door for further mutations, such as the Red Zeppelin, which requires a tomato-based fertilizer from the start in order to even have a chance of mutating.

This is by far and large my favorite feature of the game. It just adds so much to the game that I actually miss it when I play something like, say, Stardew Valley.

Natsume have taken a few extra appreciated steps in managing mutations by including pop-up bubbles over certain crops that tell you beforehand if a certain unit is going to mutate or if it’s something you have never grown before. It’s appreciated stuff like this that shows that the folks at Natsume DO listen... sometimes.

Character Interactions One of the biggest complaints I had seen towards the Natsume games has been the lack of interactions with the villagers via conventional means, such as gift giving. Well, that’s back in full force here in LoH. You can take items from your rucksack and give it to your favorite guy or gal or god or goddess or sprite or... Ahem. But that’s not the only way you’ll be earning the affection of the locals.

The requests feature from past Natsume games makes a return here, and all of them not only boost your friendship with that character, but it also nets you a nice gift in the form of an item, cash or even valuable cooking and fertilizer recipes. And there are a ton of requests too, it feels like there’s never a shortage of people needing help.

Raising the friendship meter of villagers always, doesn’t seem to matter who it is, unlocks the coveted “heart events”. But since Natsume has taken the conservative stance when it comes to including same-sex relationships in their games, there won’t be any scenes involving any sort of romance with characters of the same gender, but there’s still quite a bit to see and experience. Way more in fact than I ever expected going into this game.

Sound

First I am going to complain about the sound effect. Yes. The one sound effect that early on had me turning off sounds all together, and it is the same sound effect that has plagued the Natsume games from the beginning and seems to be unstoppable.

The watering can sound effect.

It is obnoxiously loud and horrible sounding. After several games, you’d think that someone would have heard that sound two-hundred times a day in-game during testing and thought to themselves, “Wow, this is horrible.”

Annoying sound effects aside, the music is great. It’s not Animal Parade or Back to Nature quality stuff, but it’s catch in its own right and I have found myself humming the autumn theme a few times.

Closing

As I said in the gameplay section of this “review”, Natsume has listened to some of the complaints against their games and have implemented more QoL features for crop mutations. They have also thrown in character interactions that long-time fans of the genre are familiar with by allowing us to gift villagers once more. They’ve included a tool upgrade system via the blacksmith. A legit mine with 100 floors is here. Friendship/heart events are plentiful. The music is good and varied.

There’s a ton to do in this game, whether you prefer the social aspects or you’re like me and choose to focus on your farm. If you can look past the gaudy cheap mobile-esque graphics, you’ll find a legit good game here.

Verdict: Recommended, but wait for a sale. The graphics would be an easier pill to swallow if you’re not paying full price.

#Harvest Moon #Harvest Moon Light of Hope #Natsume #Review #Blog #BluReview #article

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