#not having clear skin does not inherently make my body worth more or less than anyone else’s

[campirebitesarchive]

I almost hated these pictures bc skin texture and then I used my eyeballs and saw my ass and thighs and had a change of heart

[outoftheframework]

characterization cheat sheet: the batfamily boys

Hey everyone! I had the idea to compile a comprehensive list of different traits and attributes for each member of the batfamily based off of both canon and fanon interpretations. I think this could be useful for new members to the fandom, or those looking to write and/or draw for these characters. Remember that these will have a slight bias considering I, a fanon creator, am creating the lists. But I’ll try to make them as accurate as possible.

Appearances vary from artist to artist, so I’ll try to stray away from general details and add more little things you can consider in your art.

Bruce Wayne:

Age: 35-45

Appearance: Extremely physically fit, but signs of aging and prolonged exertion can slip through. Has a collection of scattered scars varying from fresh to fully healed. Strong, dark features. Conventionally attractive, but can easily switch to be foreboding/intimidating. Well kept in public appearances, but can look like death incarnate when in private.

Personality: Dual personas: “Bruce” (at home, but not as batman) and “Brucie” (public appearances like galas, news interviews). Bruce is stoic, well-read and educated, well-mannered, and occasionally can be witty and laid-back. Smirks rather than smiles. Brucie is loud, spontaneous, charming, and sometimes oblivious. He is the womanizer and scandal-maker. Often the actions of Brucie are motivated by Batman’s interests.

Speech: Bruce was mainly raised by as English butler, so his speech patterns are proper and smooth. Rarely uses speech fillers such as “uh” and “um,” except when interrupted while concentrating. Despite living in Gotham his entire life, he has not picked up the accent. His voice is newscaster American, almost impossible to pinpoint to a certain region. His speech as Brucie changes to relate more to the audience he is addressing. Speeches to Gotham high society will sound different than those aimed to the general public.

Additional Attributes: Bruce Wayne in all of his personalities is fiercely protective, and can easily slip into a deeper voice to intimidate. Bruce can be extremely empathetic and slightly impulsive when it comes to children who have lost their parents. As learned through his training to become Batman, Bruce is disciplined and can work for hours straight.

Dick Grayson:

Age: 23-29

Appearance: Dick Grayson mirrors a young Bruce Wayne despite their not being blood related. This could be a subconscious action by Dick to absorb traits of his father figure. His lean acrobatic body starts to set him apart from Bruce’s image. Dick manages to be well-built but still limber and flexible. His feet and hands are rough and calloused. His hair can get long but usually stays at a length in between Bruce’s and Tim’s. His eyes are bright blue without even a hint of green or brown. 

Personality: In one comic I believe it was Superman who said that Dick Grayson is a universal constant, meaning that on every alternate earth or timeline, you can always rely on him to be good and pure. I think this really sums up who Dick should be. He is kind to a fault, and can sometimes be naive and not think things through. He loves to love, be that in his family, in his romantic relationships, in his friendships, and even in strangers. He is a chronic hero who only wants to see the world as a better place. But it’s important to note that Dick can get angry when pushed, and holds grudges.

Speech: Dick is an extremely interesting study in speech patterns. As a child he traveled with the circus, until he lived with clear-spoken Bruce Wayne and a proper English butler. So influences to his speech and accent come both internationally and locally to Gotham and Bludhaven. As a child living at Wayne Manor, Dick picks up a slight Gotham tinge to his accent with some British flourish in his vowel sounds. He regularly speaks in slang. As Nightwing he is able to suppress his unique speech to sound more evenly American.

Additional Attributes: Dick acts differently around each of his family members as to be what they need in a big brother. For example, he is more fatherly to Damian while to Tim he is more an equal. Dick can fidget and has less of an attention span than Bruce. He can use jokes as a coping mechanism.

Jason Todd: 

Age: 22-26

Appearance: Hair is often long on top and shorter on the sides, sometimes with a white streak as a side effect from the Lazarus Pit. Tallest and heaviest of all the kids, very physically intimidating. Has a lot of scars and burns, and in some fan works he has a “Y” shaped scar the length of his chest from his autopsy. Never skips leg day. Green/blue eyes.

Personality: Jason goes through a lot of character development, but for this list I’m going off a timeline of post-Under the Red Hood, where Jason is on okay, yet still a little shaky, terms with the rest of the family. Jason has a hard time separating vigilante life and civilian life; his death as Robin ended his life as Jason Todd, blurring the lines between the two. Jason is legally dead, so he is basically building an identity back up. He holds some attributes from childhood: brave, impulsive, loud-mouthed, and street-smart. But his experiences post-Robin have made him a hardened loner. He lives modestly and with some semblance of order. He’s hard to foster a relationship with, but can be a passionate friend/family member when he opens up.

Speech: Jason probably has the least influence from Bruce and Alfred’s speech patterns, seeing as though he spent a lot more time with his biological family/on the streets than he did as a preteen in the manor. He is the definition of Gotham vernacular, with a rough edge. So much so that as a child, the high society gala attenders sometimes had a hard time understanding him. Often talks in curt, short sentences.

Additional Attributes: He has trouble expressing his emotions, more specifically anger and/or grief. Can both love or hate furiously. Inherently good, but sometimes does “bad” things. Protective over children, especially those living on the street. Very much a believer in “the ends justify the means.”

Tim Drake:

Age: 17-20

Appearance: Pale skin, dark hair. Sharp cheek bones and jawline, mostly from how skinny he is. His body isn’t technically “built” to be extremely athletic, but he’s forced a nice lean build from stringently working out. Easily loses and gains weight as a direct result of his work, causing fluctuations in his build. Five foot something, will eventually be out-grown by Damian. Long hair that can still be styled to look professional.

Personality: Tim Drake is very passionate in pretty much everything he sets his mind to. He feels as though he imposed himself onto Batman to become Robin, so he works twice as hard to prove his worth. He can be self conscious and deprecating. Tim as Robin or Red Robin is very different than civilian Tim; his hero personas can be bolder and more confident. Despite dropping out of high school, he values education.

Speech: Tim grew up rich, and his speech reflects an intelligence gained from private tutors. Despite this, he knows how to interact with those his age in using less formal language and slang. Often quotes books and movies. Can be awkward and stumble over his words when teased by his friends/family. He can manipulate people easily in business settings by talking fast and confidently while explaining complex topics.

Additional Attributes: Tim’s demeanor is directly tied to his varying levels of confidence and anxiety. Tim is has above-average intelligence and is diligent in detective work, but can still act like a teenager. He can be stubborn to extremes and will patiently play the long con. He does not cope well with loss.

Duke Thomas:

Age: 17-19

Appearance: Short dark hair, shaved on the sides and/or the back. Often wears the colors yellow and black. Around the same height as Tim, but a little taller. Stronger and heavier build more alike to Jason than Dick, but he’s still light on his feet. Expressive face that can give away his feelings easily. Still a bit of a baby face, but he’s still well-proportioned and conventionally handsome.

Personality: In my works, I’ve often described Duke as having a “sun-shiny” personality. He is one to not even think twice about putting others before himself. Duke uses his own personal experiences to guide him as a hero rather than suppress his emotions. Duke went from being an only child to having a large family, so he can sometimes feel overwhelmed. He is on friendly terms with every member of the batfamily, as well as many other heroes. Duke is self-sacrificial and is still learning how to effectively work as a detective.

Speech: Duke grew up in a middle class Gotham family, so his speech is influenced by his parents as well as his city environment. Duke has a mild Gotham accent and speaks a lot in modern slang. He hasn’t had much influence from Bruce and Alfred, considering he hasn’t lived with them for long. It’s possible that as he grows he will pick up some influences from Bruce and Tim’s way of speaking, but will most likely hold onto the accent of his childhood.

Additional Attributes: Duke is a metahuman vigilante in a city where Batman typically bans them, which causes a bit of an insecurity and a perfectionist drive. These are exasperated by the long line of history preceding him, as well as the fact that he involved himself in the Robin movement rather than being handpicked by Batman. He and Tim can relate in that way. Duke is an ardent student of Batman and is dedicated to the cause.

Damian Wayne:

Age: 10-14

Appearance: Looks similar to Bruce when he was the same age, yet stronger and with tanner skin. His hair is expertly cut and styled, but still age-appropriate. He is the shortest of the batkids, but still has a lot of time and potential to grow. He pretty much won the genetics lottery with Bruce and Talia as his biological parents, and is made for athletics. He has some scars that stand out with their pale coloring against his tan skin. 

Personality: Damian is slowly becoming less of a brat, to put it bluntly. He admires his family and tries to mimic them, but will never confess it. Damian is quick to judge and will voice his opinion no matter how scathing it may be, both as civilian and hero. Damian is slowly realizing he may not want the Batman mantle as quickly as he planned. Jon is a perfect foil to Damian, and often makes him a better person when they’re together. 

Speech: His speech is proper and formal. Prefers formal titles: ex. “father” over “dad” and last names over first. Damian is at least bilingual (Arabic and English), and can switch between languages easily. Most of his speech patterns developed from his tutors in the League, and more recently, Alfred. Influences like Jon and Dick have introduced him to a more modern, laid-back way of speaking, which he sometimes utilizes when relaxed.

Additional Attributes: Damian has problems with authority, especially those that he doesn’t respect like his teachers at school. He can be arrogant and childish ever though he often acts like he knows everything. Damian is still a child and has much to learn from batman and family as well as unlearn from his time at the League. Dami was forged to be a ruthless warrior, but now has to find a balance between the hero Robin and the child Damian Wayne.

Hope this helps someone! Feel free to add on if you think I missed anything. Just please remember to be civil and respect different interpretations of these characters. Let me know if you want another one of these posts outlining the girls or other characters.

[marcspectrr]

A word or two on Kiara's mental health...

Before I attempt to summarize the 39 page slideshow living rent free in my brain, a preface! This will include spoilers for s2, as well as a few mentions of suicidal thoughts! Also. I love Kiara Carrera with all of my heart so if you're not a fan of her, you might wanna keep scrolling. If you don't vibe with her that's perfectly fine, but this post is heavy with Kiara appreciation, be warned, my respect for her runs deep. The choice is yours, of course, just understand that I'm writing this bc @yellowlaboratory among others have encouraged me to get it out there because it's all I've been thinking about since I watched s2. This is not to start anything.

(This is also not me hating on Pope because I genuinely like his character, he's just made some very questionable choices throughout the show, some I can forgive and some that still don't sit right with me.)

Deep breath, here we go.

It's no secret Kiara has been poorly handled by the writers and therefore the characters at times. We got little development in s1 compared to other main male characters, leaving us to fill in the gaps as far as her ambitions, motivations, family, overall interest in the boys, etc. While I do keep this in mind, I could rant about it for days so for this I'm going off of what we have as well as what's been implied.

Kiara didn't have the same upbringing as the boys but it's clear the Carrera's had/have their struggles. She's got her foot in both worlds, not quite 'rich' but not entirely 'poor', inevitably giving her a fragile sense of belonging and identity. 16 is a hard age even without societal pressures and growing up in a classist environment, but here is where we're assuming the boys come in. They give her a place to feel comfortable in her own skin, with shared interests and accepting her for who she is, which we know the kooks don't provide. Just being around them helps ease those deep insecurities, helps her form meaningful bonds. We weren't given an explicit scene where this was shown but over the course of the two seasons it's clear how she feels about them and what they do for her mentally.

Her relationship with the pogues, however, puts a rift between her and her parents. Mike and Anna clearly want what's best for Kie but it's also obvious they've struggled with her even before the pogues. Anna wants Kiara to have the things she never got growing up, breeding a disconnect since Kiara doesn't share in her mother's interests. This leads into my biggest problem with Kiara's arc in s2, which was how Anna and Mike were written. 

Yes, Kiara didn't/doesn't treat them the best but it went both ways -- they all failed at communicating. Instead of finding a common ground and compensating for the things Kiara cares about, Anna shuts her down and ignores her, leaving her to feel like a problem rather than a person, further perpetuating even less healthy communication. Kiara even says in s2 that's why she doesn't like going home, because it always means walking into an argument and not feeling accepted.

I sorta expected a little more understanding from Anna considering her own background with pogues but instead it backfired. And Mike...he didn't contribute much at all. They could've all done better and need some work. Kiara could be more grateful and Anna and Mike are the parents, the adults, they need to make the space feel safe to talk. Kie didn't just wake up one day and decide to act out and keep her parents in the dark all the time, that stems from not feeling listened to when she does try and open up.

Expanding on this with...the whole Blue Ridge plot. Moment of silence for the show neglecting to acknowledge the academy,  even though it clearly had a big impact on Kiara's life. In s1 we got a brief look into how her 'kook year' affected her and it was not good. More isolation, blurred identity, insecurity and this time suicidal thoughts, with no one to turn to for support, assuming she was not on good terms with her parents then either. I'm assuming this because for them to send her to the academy, hoping to give her better opportunities only for it to end with her wanting to cut her wrists, to then thinking the best option is to send her away again? At this point I hope they didn’t know how badly the academy affected her because sending her away a second time with that knowledge is such a hurtful and oblivious move.

Kiara already thinks her parents see her as a burden, hurting her sense of worth as is. I really wanted to like the Carrera's and I still feel like they genuinely love and care for Kie, I just need to see more communication maybe. And if they choose to include the Blue Ridge plot, which I'm leaning towards yes on that one, I hope it's handled somewhat well, preferably not a tool to create drama even though I know a lot of people want to see it be used that way. I'm very particular, I'm sorry I'm this way.

Things I've seen her being criticized for in s2 is her behavior. The thing that people have to remember is that she's 16 and teenagers are just not the best with navigating their emotions. She made questionable choices (the 'murderer' thing and 'abusing' Pope) but these are both things that fit the plot and her character. She was by no means the only one grieving so I don't know why she's being targeted for it (although I'm not surprised, the fandom treats her horribly). Some of her core characteristics are her high moral integrity as well as her headstrong belief in people and causes. She's never been one to make herself palatable for people and s2 shows a lot of this (calling out the Cameron's, going off in front of the court, etc). Even if it caused them problems and even if they are flaws, that doesn't make her an inherently intolerable character, it makes her realistic. She was not in a good place emotionally and it would've been wrong to shy away from depicting it any other way, especially in a show where the teenage experience is decently represented.

Now with the Pope thing. I think it was handled as well as it could've been considering the circumstances. It really should've never happened but to justify it, emotions are messy, relationships even messier and they were both spiraling at the end of s1. I don't agree with the way it started (why give Kie the line of literally telling him she wanted something different only to show them together next episode, I'm forever confused) but I'm not mad about how it ended. They were both in the wrong at times so only bringing up Kie's faults is just unfair.

I believe they both tried their best and even wanted to feel the right things but learned quickly that's not exactly how it works, which was how it was supposed to be shown. Not as this romanticized, idealistic healthy relationship but as one that has its bumps and was bred out of all the wrong things. All of their body language pointed towards this. Pope didn't deserve to be hurt but Kie clearly didn't intend for things to turn out how they did. She wasn't mentally comfortable enough for a relationship and I can appreciate them showing this in the ways the writers framed it. Even the conversation with Kie describing their night on the beach, I think it was perfect. It was awkward but it was honest, which is so important.

Overall, I think Kiara's gone through a lot mentally that the show could be better at exploring. It doesn't have to be big, obvious lingering shots, they can be subtle and still mean so much to people who relate to her. Seeing someone on screen grapple with real life struggles (even if the show walks a painfully fine line as far as realism), it means a lot. Especially when mental health (more prominent than ever) is so rarely portrayed to translate in any significant way in media now. It's definitely something I would love to see get more time and effort so until then, just know I'll be manifesting the screen time Kiara Carrera deserves.

[crusherthedoctor]

The Lutrudis Hadeer Design Concept Masterpost

Every now and then, I get the occasional question about my very own Lutrudis, which I'm always gladly willing to answer. Yet for all the times I've answered such questions, it seems some folks are still a bit left in the dark as to how Trudy came to be. So I figured I could make one big post all about the creation process. Maybe not every single detail per say, but at least everything that I think is worth mentioning in a post of this sort.

I'm aware that fellow pal @benignmilitancy​ covered this subject herself recently, but I might as well do my part to back up what she said.

1. When did Lutrudis become an idea?

The basic idea for Lutrudis - and indeed, the setting of Viridonia and Beyond the Stars itself as a story - was thought up as early as 2014. When I say basic idea however, I really do mean it, as aside from the general concept of her being the latest Friend of the Week helping Sonic and Co fight evil on her home island, very little else about Trudy was set up, including her name and species. While some aspects of her personality were already set in stone by that point, I focused on the design first when I decided to go ahead and make her and Beyond the Stars a real thing. The idea being to use what personality traits I had in mind to create a mental image, then use that mental image to help figure out the rest of her traits, as a design can often help out with working out a personality.

So basically, I scratched my back, so that I could scratch it again. Made sense to me.

2. Why a horse? Is it because friendship is magic?

Maybe...

Actually, I wanted a species that hadn't been used before, at least in the games, its continuity being the one Beyond the Stars takes place in. But at the same time, I also wanted to go with a fairly mundane species rather than anything rare, extinct, or extravagant, as I felt that the latter would undermine the story arc that I had in mind for this particular character. Compared to the likes of Sonic, Shadow, or Blaze, Lutrudis is more akin to Amy in the sense that she's ordinary by comparison, despite her living conditions and the magical brand of ammo she eventually decides to use. To have the arc of a “normal” lady becoming a hero in her own right be represented by a T-rex or a dragon wouldn't really land the same impact in the context of this universe.

Already, I was quickly warming up to making her a horse because of this. But then I realised that many of Trudy's personality traits - her loyalty, her passion, her elegance - were ALSO commonly attributed to horses in real life. And if you're not aware, I'm a big fan of letting Sonic and Co have character tics representative of their species, and a horse in particular had plenty of potential to have some funny and cute moments by letting their horsiness show itself. This additional thought helped make my decision on the matter final.

...Well, that and I wanted Trudy to have longer hair than the average Sonic female due to how, IMO, short hair wouldn't work as well for her. Obviously horses have manes, so that made it easier to get away with than it would have if she were a hedgehog, though it also helps that Trudy's hair is never any more detailed than the rest of her, meaning her hair actually looks like her own rather than her wearing an overly detailed wig to appease a certain disgraced comic writer, one of whom I will probably have the entirety of Beyond the Stars uploaded by the time he actually does something with his echidna libido-fueled comic at this rate... Looking forward to it in 2030.

As for what kind of horse she is, I decided to go with an English Thoroughbred, if only to further justify Trudy's English accent, which is nonetheless fairly mild compared to everyone else in Viridonia, who sound as though they jumped out of a 90's Rareware title.

3. “THIS IS WHO I AM... But who am I?”

Believe it or not, but even by 2016, I still hadn't decided on what to call my little pony. I had already figured that whatever I was going to call her, it would abide by the same naming convention as Amy Rose, Miles Prower, and Ivo Robotnik, to help further add to the aforementioned notion that she's an ordinary lady who wasn't born with any superpowers. That, and because “___ the Horse” doesn't have the same ring to it as “___ the Hedgehog” or “___ the Echidna”.

So what did I do?

I looked up a list of female names for baby girls. Duh.

Well, it worked out, because I stumbled across “Lutrudis”, which was German for “strength of the village”. The more I repeated it in my head, the more it appealed to me. Sometimes, you can have various names that mean the same thing, yet one in particular will just have that perfect sound to it. That was me with this name. This horse being named Lutrudis felt right to me, even if I perfectly understood that it was perhaps a bit more exotic than your usual Sonic anthro name.

Not that it mattered too much, since I was quick to think of “Trudy” as a nickname for her, since in addition to being less of a mouthful, that name - also German in origin - had a similar meaning, “universal strength”. Fit her character and arc just as well.

So that was the first name sorted, but what about the surname? Well, when looking at a selection of appropriate words, I stumbled on “Hadeer”, and while the Arabic meaning of the name is slightly unclear - some sources say “adventurous”, others say “sound of the water falls” - I felt that the meanings associated with it were all equally appropriate regardless. Then I combined it with the first name, said the full name over and over again in my head, and thought “Yeah... this sounds correct.”

I realise the irony of a part-German, part-Arabic name being associated with an English character, but considering this is the same universe where a man who is presumably not Polish is given a Polish term for a name (Robotnik), I think we can let it slide.

4. “You guys know what EDS is, right?”

It's no secret that another friend of mine, @greenyvertekins​, has Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, which has a lot of unfortunate complications to it, but in laymen's terms basically means your body is more fragile than that of the average person's. This condition is rather rare, so much so that a majority of people have never heard of it. Sure enough, I was one of those people, until I became friends with Verte.

After hearing Verte talk about her EDS and what she's had to go through, along with doing my own research on the condition, not only was I considerably more informed on it, but I also felt very sympathetic to not only my friend, but everyone else who has had to experience it, particularly with how ignorant other people continue to react to it due to lack of public awareness. It made me want to do something in dedication, and in the process, a certain pony eventually crossed my mind.

This wasn't done for the sake of appeasing blue checkmarks on Twitter. I genuinely wanted to help raise awareness of EDS however I could, and I considered that perhaps its inclusion in my story would help do that, so long as it didn't sacrifice everything else about the story or forget that it was still a Sonic the Hedgehog story. Yes, it's a fanfic, and thus not as well known as a Hollywood blockbuster or a bestselling novel, but if even a few people were to end up learning about EDS through Lutrudis, I would be happy.

However, I was well aware that the idea of a Sonic character having EDS might be seen as a bit jarring, and if done badly, could potentially be accidentally insulting. So I made sure to consult Verte about it, saying that I would only go through with it if she was comfortable with me doing so, and made it very clear that I would try to make its representation as tasteful and as faithful as I can, despite the inherent nature of the Sonic universe that Trudy is part of.

By the way, horses in real life can fall victim to very similar disorders, so that was yet another reason why I went with that choice.

5. “Hey Benign, I'm shite at art, please help.”

I can't remember the exact conversation that led to it, but after I talked to @benignmilitancy​ about Lutrudis, she offered to bring the character's design to life through her mad art skillz. Initially I was hesitant to take up the offer, since I felt guilty about having to rely on someone else to show people what my own character looks like, but I was giddily honored by the offer and decided to agree as long as she was willing. Luckily for her, she wasn't working with a blank canvas so to speak, as I had a relatively complete image in my mind regarding what Trudy would look like, having already reasoned to myself why this or that would apply.

When putting my vision into words to Benign, I mentioned that...

- Since Trudy is the same age as Rouge, logically that should mean she's given a similar mature build as the latter, as opposed to the pipe limbs you see with the other female characters. Since Trudy spends a lot of time with Amy and Cream and has a lot of motherly interactions with the latter in particular, it helps signify that she's older than them.

- Being a horse, she would have two slits for nostrils rather than the usual dot nose that most characters have. Similarly, though you don't see them most of the time anyway, her feet are grey hooves, but they abide by the usual Sonic-style feet rather than being more realistic ala Clove's hooves, if only because the latter didn't look right for this character IMO.

- To add to her gentle warmth, her eyes would be a honey shade of brown. Just like how Cream has brown eyes. Again, it's like poetry, they sort of, they rhyme. Every stanza kinda rhymes with the last one. *shrug* Hopefully it'll work.

- Since EDS tends to apply several subtle physical traits to those who have it, at least some of them should logically apply to Trudy as well. Those with EDS often have a bluish-grey tint to their sclera, and they also tend to have paler skin than most, so Trudy would have those qualities too.

- To emphasize her love for Mother Nature and all its amazing sights, and also to contrast with Amy and Cream's colour schemes, Trudy herself would be green, albeit a more gentler green rather than the brighter tones of Vector and Jet, while her clothes would be blue, with slightly different shades depending on the clothing to prevent her from looking like a drab curtain. After a few initial sketches, Benign eventually suggested that some of her clothing could be changed to brown to balance out her overall colour scheme, as well as to further add to the subtle nature motif by having brown (trees) go along with blue (water) and green (grass). Needless to say, I wholeheartedly approved of this idea, and decided that the best placement for the brown sections would be for her leggings and glove cuffs.

- Speaking of, as a nod to her equine status, she would wear leggings that could pass off as Equestrian jodhpurs. (Not that she has an aversion to wearing skirts or dresses, since she's girly and tomboyish in pretty much equal measures, compared to how Sonic females usually lean towards one or the other.)

- People with EDS are unable to wear heels since they can hurt their feet, so heels were out of the equation for this little horsie. But I also figured that regular shoes or sandals wouldn't mesh well with the rest of Trudy's clothing, so I went with boots that were flat at the heels. They can allude to her adventurous streak AND allude to how there's a lady willing to kick ass behind that quiet, mellow, introverted demeanour. Plus, much like how being stomped by a real horse's hoof would be very painful to put it mildly, so too would being stomped by this horse's boot.

- Seeing how Trudy's arms have permanent scars on them - permanent scars being another common effect of EDS - she would wear elbow-length gloves over them, since she wouldn't be comfortable with showing them publicly. Note however that she would still wear long gloves even if she didn't have those scars, since they genuinely happen to appeal to her fashion tastes as well. Covering the scars up is just a bonus. And since long gloves are often associated with royalty and high class, they're also suiting for a lady who lives in a fancy castle (despite not being royalty).

- Her hair is kept in a big bouncy ponytail, not unlike Coco Bandicoot or Shantae, since it's both cute and tomboyish... that and because the visual pun of a horse with a ponytail was too good to resist, let alone it humorously mirroring the general shape of her actual tail.

- To contrast with Sonic's spiky quills, a lot of Trudy's design is emphasized to have a round quality, such as her tail, her ponytail, and her sloped ears. To add to this design philosophy, she would wear a headscarf similar to Wave's. Me and Benign contemplated on whether Trudy's muzzle should be more blocky like that of a real horse, before we agreed that the softer muzzle fit both the round aesthetic and her general character better.

- Trudy has trouble breathing in colder temperatures, and she also has a sensitive nose that reacts strongly to heavy scents. As such, she would have a bandanna that she could cover over her mouth and nose to help out with either of those things whenever the situation called for it, or any other scenario where she deems it appropriate. It helps that a bandanna suits a horse anthro anyway.

Truth be told, I was worried that I was coming off as too demanding. But Benign assured me that giving all these details helped rather than hindered. In any case, I was more than pleased with the final result, as it was precisely spot on to what I had in my head, although even her initial sketches during the work in progress were great stuff.

6. If Amy uses a hammer, then Lutrudis uses...

Trudy has surprising arm and leg strength despite her appearance, which is mainly due to her horsie genes. But since she's still got EDS, it's still wise for her to equip herself with a weapon or two to even the odds. I contemplated a few ideas in this case, including a quarterstaff, but ultimately I decided that the following would be a little more interesting, while still remaining appropriate for the character in question.

I thought to myself “What's stopping her from having two weapons, one for short-range, the other for long-range?” I decided on the long-range weapon first: bow and arrows, the latter of which would eventually include the Ethereal Zone-powered crystals inside the cavern below her castle. Goes without saying that a bow suits her elegance and how it can be used from a stealthy distance, and the use of the crystals and their different abilities also helps to keep the reader guessing on what exactly is the nature of the elusive Ethereal Zone itself. I also reasoned that Trudy using a bow was a nice contrast to Amy's hammer, although I'm aware that Amy herself used a bow in the Fleetway comics. But no one uses a bow in the games (yet), so it's fine, right?

As for her short-range weapon, I thought it'd be funny if she had a whip that resembled a riding crop. Not only would it be used to give Eggman's robots the Simon Belmont treatment, it could also extend up to a certain distance to help grapple onto things and allow her to overcome areas that would otherwise cause complications for her body. Is it a bit ludicrous? Maybe, but so is a blue hedgehog fighting a Roosevelt lookalike. You just kind of have to live with it.

So there you have it! Everything you need to know about how Lutrudis Hadeer's name, species, design, and EDS came to be finalised. Now when you turn her into a monkey without my knowledge or permission for the sake of dunking on her because you don't approve of me making fun of Kingdom Hearts rejects, at least you'll have a better idea on what you're actually talking about. :^)

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Ten

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

When I was younger, probably around fourteen, I had an epiphany. Up until this point, I had always believed that when something good was meant to come my way, it would be permanent. I hadn’t thought much about romantic relationships, but once I figured out what they were exactly, it was easier to imagine eventually finding a sort of mate that stays for life. In fact, it became easier to imagine that practically all good things would stay for life.

I thought that the best part of my life was ahead of me, and that it would be filled with beautiful scenery and no issues whatsoever. Sort of like a straight line- one without the curves of issues and troubles. Like paradise was going to last forever.

But then I realized how wrong I was. It was just as sudden as the popping of a bubble, and I indeed spent a while after crying. I’d never felt so weak. Curled up in a ball on the top bunk of my Bracca bed, I sobbed. Skinny little thing, fresh with cuts from my new job, paling from the lack of sunlight on the system. Cal wasn’t there to know, but I can clearly remember wishing he were present so I could request comfort.

The day of the epiphany, I was working on taking apart a Jedi fighter. They’re not commonly found, so the parts are worth a lot of money. The other workers assigned to it had taken off in favor of getting some drinks, as the credits we made would be divided equally. I stayed purely because I hated looking at the ship all together, and ripping it up felt nice enough.

Maker, I hate the Jedi.

But I was taking the fighter apart methodically when something caught my attention. The sound had raised over the music blaring through my headset, making even the thunder coming from the sky above seem quiet. Still, my eyes follow the sound of the voices until I’m turned all the way to my right, and looking at the origin.

Through the sheets of pouring rain and the flashes of lightning, I can make out two scrappers at the end of the platform. I can’t see their faces, but I can see that one is far larger than the other. The smaller one is roaring over the rain, attempting to puff themselves up to make them look more threatening. I shake my head and turn back to my work. Arguments happen all the time.

But the argument didn’t just end. There’s a clang that makes me look over. The rain slams against the hood of my poncho, dripping into my eyelashes. The smaller of the two braces himself against the metal railing that serves as the only thing keeping them from falling to their death. There’s a second of stillness, before the scrapper shows his offense by pushing his much larger comrade.

The huge bulk of muscle doesn’t even flinch. But I can feel his anger growing inside of him the way it does to a Reek before it’s set loose. The rage swarms through his body and congregates around his brain- effectively clouding his judgement. Or maybe it made his judgement far more clear. Whatever the case, he’s the one who gets to deal the final blow.

The scrapper shoves the smaller one. They lose their balance quickly, tipping over the railing before completely hurtling over. They disappear out of my line of sight, but I can imagine their body disappearing into the fog below.

I’m still for a few seconds, watching the behemoth of a man heave his chest. I’m sure if I stood up beside him, he would be at least two feet above my head. His feet must be the size of my abdomen. And his eyes… when they turn to look at me, there’s a flash of both snow and lava.

Under his hood, his head turns to look at me. I can see the glittering orbs crackle coldly as he searches my own. It’s a silent fury, and it takes me a few moments to realize that he’s threatening me without speaking.

His threat is simple: if you attempt to defy me, I will strike you down too.

My brain begins to race. My knees, although bent as I crouch, have begun to rise into the standing position. Despite the man’s threat, the humanity in me is begging me to do something about this. He just killed someone. Murdered. I have to apprehend him! Avenge their death!

But then I think: why would I do that?

Scrappers fall from heights all the time. It’s not uncommon. Most scrappers don’t have friends or families. In fact, you could argue that once one joins the Scrapper’s Guild, their life loses all meaning. The only reason left for them to live is work. Maybe death would be kinder. And let’s assume I did try to get revenge. The perpetrator is too big for me to overtake, and I can’t use the Force for fear of being caught. If I turned him in, administration would probably forget about him long before he kills me. So what good would it do? I can’t bring the other scrapper back to life. I can’t change what’s already been done. Perhaps it’s better to accept it and move on.

It was.  

I put my headphone back against my ear, bent my legs, and went back to work. I didn’t mean the large man’s eyes again, even when he continued to watch me hauntingly for moments after. I didn’t tell any administrator what I’d seen. I never mentioned it to Cal. I never told a single soul about it, except whatever higher power I was speaking to in the chapel- though, they hadn’t answered me.

I can’t explain why, but I felt very sad for the rest of the week. I felt guilty, and the guilt had solidified into a glorified weight in the pit of my stomach. My mind was stronger than anything else I’d ever had, but my body had been easier to corrupt than I’d anticipated. My feelings were weak, whether they were born out of my own consequential actions or not.

But during all this, I realized that nothing good is permanent. Anything that I hold dear will fade away. Anything that I appreciate will die. It could be sudden or slow, but it doesn’t matter. And while the golden things leave, the shadow of the dark things will always stay. Through it all the will linger, whether I’m high or low. I guess, in a way, it was like realizing that the closest thing I’d ever have to a partner was my own pain.

I feel like I’m having this realization all over again now.

I’m not sure why it feels this way.  I’ve just inhaled about a pound of glitteryll, so I should be feeling like I’m on top of the galaxy. Instead, I lay on the floor of Hondo’s ship, floating through space without direction or aim, trying not to feel like someone’s hands are on me.

Hondo’s ship ran out of fuel rather quickly. I went into hyperspace for about three seconds before being pulled out of it do to lack of gas. Hondo must be laughing in the sand right about now. It’s my own fault for not finding a way to observe the tank before taking off.

The metal floor is uncomfortable against the back of my head, and my braid feels sort of clumped together. Pieces of my bangs are spread across my forehead, lazily covering my eyes. I push the strands away, then smear the beads of sweat across my face with my palm in a weak attempt to wipe it away. As I do so, I can feel the sharpness of my jaw, the weird way my cheekbones angle themselves.

Oh, Maker. I’m so kriffed right now.

I’ve never liked my face much. It’s not that it’s ugly, or inherently bad, but it’s got more going on then other faces. It’s so… unique. High cheekbones, square jaw, a small chin but prominent chin. My eyes are dragged up at the corners like a cat, though they’re rung with dark circles and old makeup that seems to drag them back down tiredly. The tip of my nose is shaped like a button, but the bridge is narrow. Straight eyebrows with a bit of an arch, with tope freckles dotting my face. My lips My skin is somewhere between pale and tanned, the shade of an olive. If I focus too much on my eyes when I look in the mirror, they seem to become way to intricate. Hazel at a distance, but borderline fern green up close.

So many flecks in my irises, all different colors and shades of emerald. Some lean more towards a golden color, others a dark aqua. And, Maker help me, when I look at them while on drugs, it’s like looking into a new kriffing dimension. It makes me feel like I have that whole dimension trapped inside of me, whirring around like wisps in my brain.

In other words, looking into my eyes while I’m on drugs makes me feel powerful.

But now I feel weak. I feel overly skinny and empty. Not really hungry, but like there’s a bit of an empty void in my stomach. Maybe there’s a black hole growing right inside of me? Should I… should I cut open into my stomach just to make sure? I should, right?

No- and don’t ever do that. Not even to be sure.

Still, coming to this conclusion does nothing to help the feeling of discomfort. It’s not really a physical thing, just a mental thing. I don’t want to keep my eyes open, because the light above makes my lids feel strained. I don’t want to close them, because then I can see memories of things I wish never happened. Things I’m not really ready to confront yet.

It comes in flashes. In my dreams, or when I space out too much. It’s essentially the only type of thought I mind getting lost in. I can see flashes of gold on a white canvas, hear the igniting of a lightsaber, and smell Talik’s overly sweet scent as she looms over me. I can sense the half real pressure of fingertips gripping my hips, causing my toes to curl uncomfortably. And then someone distant tells me I’m doing a good job, and I whimper out in discomfort.

I shoot up from my lying down position, my chest rising and falling with my rapid heartbeat. The sweat I previously wiped from my brow has now returned, along with goosebumps along my arms. I can feel my knees shaking and trembling weakly, and my neck muscles tense and stretch.

The thing about my trauma, was that I didn’t even think it existed. I thought there was no way what happened was real, and that if it was it was my probably my fault anyway. Because I’m a bad person, and bad people deserve to get bad things happening to them- even though it doesn’t most of the time.

In a less wordy way of speaking, I was having a bad trip. Maybe the spice I took was too strong or something. Or maybe it was just a gamble that I lost. But as I told myself it was a bad trip over and over, my body began to curl up into a ball. I hug my knees close to my chest and put my hot face in between them in an attempt to hide my embarrassment.

I’m a factual person. I like facts. Sometimes I’ll list them over again in my brain when I’m feeling this way so I can sort out what I know head on. For example, my name is Keres Vagor. I don’t remember my parents. I’ve lived on Coruscant, Ilum, Bracca, Zeffo, and Tatooine, but Ilum was my favorite. In my opinion, nothing beats the view of the snowy mountains. This means I’m not really much of a fan of the heat, but I suppose everyone says that until they’re freezing to death.

I hate the Jedi. They’re flawed and egotistical, and I should’ve been one of them. But they left me to fend for myself because of their own lazy cowardice. While I don’t really like the idea of the Sith, I’d rather be one of them than the latter. I mean, I’m already on my way there.

Laying the facts out for myself does nothing. My throat feels like it’s somehow shrinking, keeping me from getting a nice, full breath. I feel like someone’s watching me, too. Did the ship get smaller?

Well, maybe there’s something else I can trust in to give me the facts.

My left hand slips into the nearest jacket pocket, fumbling around clumsily. I grasp the little black book and pull it out, ignoring the dried blood splattered across a few pages. Maker, I nearly died for this thing. And such a little thing it is.

Turning the book open, I find it easier to inhale the scent of the pages. I can feel their age, their thinness that threatens to give me a papercut. On the inside of the front cover, I’m able to read out the words that bring me some semblance of both joy and panic. Property of Garreth A. Vaughn.

I wonder how old he was when he died. He looked older than me at least. He would still be alive if not for me. This makes me feel queasy. I know I’ve killed people before, but I actually meant to. I never intended for Garreth to lose his life in my quest for freedom. But I suppose I never intended for Mur or Jarvers to lose their lives either. I guess there’s been a lot of things I didn’t intend.

I flip to the next page, soaking in Garreth’s pretty handwriting. Kind of slanted, but steady and thin. The first few pages date back to nearly three years ago. He mentions how he’s been drafted into the Empire, and how he was trapped in a Separatist organization as a child. He ends the section on a hopeful note however- writing, “maybe I’ll actually get saved this time.” I guess he didn’t.

After that, I find the facts I’m looking for. There are names of accomplished generals and officers and projects. Officer Krane is apparently responsible for whatever happened on Zeffo. Someone named Tarkin is apparently doing well for themselves. Maker, I hate that name. At least have some flow- like Keres.

Eventually I flip to the page that would change everything. I don’t want to give away how, but let’s just say it wasn’t for the better.

          “List of Ships and Importance:”

Yeah, because things are always better when people give ships the power of something important.

          “Executor- General V’s main ship. Executor-Class Star Dreadnought. 5,000+ cannons and blasters.

          Maker’s Thrall- Captain Lorth Needa. Executor-Class Dreadnought. 4,500+ cannons.

-         One of highest cannon counts

-         Second Invasion of Naboo, Alderaan, Onderaan, Endor

-         Fuel stop at Mustafar (base)”

Everything else is unimportant to you. I continued to look through the journal, going over all the little details of the Empire until I can’t hear my heart beating in my ears anymore.

Honestly, I can respect the structure of the Empire. I bet I’d make a good member if I really cared. Looking down at Garreth’s journal has shown me that there’s so many layers to appreciate. It’s like opening up a droid or any other mechanical structure. Now I can see how it’s made and take all the work in.

Eventually, I put the book back down on the ground. Then I stretch out my limbs one at a time, arch my back and listening to all the joints pop. Then an amazing idea comes into my brilliant brain.

What if I could make my two lightsabers into one?

Detaching both cylinders from my waist, I hold them in my hands. I can already imagine the work now. I can take off the pommels of each body, and cauterize each end somehow. Maybe then I can make them each into seals that twist back together? Yes, yes I can see it now. The only thing I need is tools, and there must be some somewhere.

I push myself off the floor, rolling the lightsabers over my palms. The bronze colored blue one is heavier than the other, which I’m not fully certain I like. I furrow my eyebrows together as I stare down at it, imagining the blue color crystal clear.

Everybody likes blue. I can’t count how many people have said it’s their favorite color to me. The more I think about it, the more the very thought of the color makes me sick. Can one be any more unoriginal? At least the green brings me some bit of peace. It reminds me of nature and planning. Blue reminds me of something too bold and stupid.

A sneer crosses my features as my finger flickers over it’s switch. Sure enough, a long, blue blade ignites into the air, cutting through everything in the background. Maker, I do hate this color.

I’ve seen so many Jedi with blue lightsabers. I suppose the color fits them- they’re disguised as something wonderful and cool when they’re just obnoxious. Not to say that a color is too good for people- that’s ridiculous. But the Jedi? Oh, they’re too good for everyone. How many people have lost their lives for something the Jedi find justified? What makes them so certain they’re the ones who should be doing the justifying? They were the ones who were supposed to protect the Republic anyone- not let it be corrupted under their very noses. How pathetic.

Are they pathetic? Or am I? I’m the one who’s thought about my despise for them nearly every day the past three years. No- more than that. Since I was born. I’ve thought about how much I hate the Jedi for almost seventeen years, and I’m still not over it.

This brings me to a new question. Am I the one thinking all these things at the moment, or is it the bunch of spice I just took?

And, before my very eyes, the blue lightsaber begins to bleed.

Not literally, of course. But it’s changing in color. Red, passionate ink swirls around the blade like it was injected. The glow changes from crisp blue to hot magenta, then into a deep shade of flame. In a silent moment, the lightsaber blade goes ruby with anger.

I can’t explain it. To this day, I’m not actually fully sure how I did this. Adamus would end up telling me a bit about it, but it would’ve explain everything.

It was like the lightsaber was… bleeding. It looked a lot like what would happen when one puts a drop of red dye in a cup of water. Swirling around in all different shades of sanguine before settling in an even tone. I could feel the anger radiating to the beat of my pulse even from inside the hilt. And as I watched with wide eyes and an agape mouth, all the light in the ship seemed to fade away, until the red was all that remained.

The blue died and gave way to its successor, which I felt far more comfortable with despite the threatening nature. The red was more powerful, and I quickly realized that I liked the feeling of power. Which was strange since I’d never cared for it in the past. Though I suppose that was because I hadn’t had to think of it much before. Now, I’m holding a weapon of those who seek power in my hand. The metal is touching my skin. And it’s mine. I killed a Jedi and stole this from him. I bested him. Who else could I best now that I’m recognizing my full potential? Why should I dismiss myself?

Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I listen to my heartbeat fade out. My nerves are finally calming. My malice is slowly washing away, though the appreciation of the Sith saber remains. In my shock of whatever I had just done to change the color of my lightsaber, my free hand reaches out to dance in the crimson light.

That’s when things got weird.

For a second, my slender fingers are tinged with scarlet. I watch them, confirming over and over again that yes, the color is real. I did it. I somehow changed the color of my crystal. But how? And why? I hadn’t intended to. But I also didn’t intend what happens next.

It’s small at first. It’s just a little blue spark between my fingertips. It evaporates quickly, only to be replaced by another current. Like little fragments of lightening trying to be a spiderweb. I watch the second current grow with a quiet hum, and my eyes widen. I can feel the nerves like fire in my arms, spreading to my chest. When I feel it touch my heart just enough to bruise it, something explodes.

The electric charge becomes a branch. One long spike of lightning, complete with tiny arms in every direction, clashes against the red beam in my other hand. Deflecting off of that, it bounces against the metal walls of the ship in an indigo ray of light. And just for a brief moment, it’s the most brilliant spectacle to behold.

It’s a flash of all shades of blue and purple and white, blending together in a dizzying array. Despite the terror that suddenness, it’s beautiful. It’s not like the blue I hate so much. It’s deeper than that. It’s independent of all colors, which is something I’ve always tried to find. I doesn’t take long for me to fall in love with the view.

But the second ends as quickly as it began. I shoot back from the force, the red blade shutting off in the process. I feel the energy slip out of my fingers like water pouring from a pitcher. My back skids against the floor until I lay against the wall with a thrumming head and shoulders.

So, what the kriff just happened.

I made a Sith lightsaber. Then I shot lightning out my fingers. I did not intend to practice either. I know, at least, that my head hurts. There’s a dull ache in my  bones from the energy of using what I assume was the Force. I might’ve injured my skull when I flew back. I definitely injured my back and neck area. To what extent is unknown.

I’m exhausted. The metal floor has never been comfier than this moment. It reminds me a bit of the metal I would climb onto on Bracca. If it were raining in Hondo’s ship, it would be just like the floor the day I let that scrapper die.

I don’t remember passing out. I don’t remember them coming in. I only remember longing for another hit of glitteryll before I passed on into a state of unconsciousness.

[videcoeur]

Headcanons

The structure of this page and most of the headcanons were taken from @etchtrolls with their permission. Some have been modified to fit my own personal headcanons, but I give all the credit to most of everything here to etchtrolls.

For headcanons about my version of the Cult of the Mirthful Messiah, click here!

For more random general Alternia headcanons, visit the headcanon tag!

Headcanons under the cut because it’s very long. Trigger warning may apply for canon violence, slavery mentions, and all nitty-gritty things those criminal murdertrolls are known to do.

Biology

Caste System

Burgundy bloods: Averaged 40 sweeps (85 years)

Bronze bloods: Averaged 45 sweeps (98 years)

Gold bloods: Averaged 55 sweeps (119 years)

Lime bloods: Averaged 105 sweeps (228 years)

Olive bloods: Averaged 175 sweeps (380 years)

Jade bloods/rainbow: 300 sweeps (560 years or infinite)

Teal bloods: Averaged 450 sweeps (975 years)

Cerulean bloods: Averaged 600 sweeps (1,300 years)

Indigo bloods: Averaged 1,000 sweeps (2,165 years)

Purple bloods: Averaged 3,000 sweeps (6,500 years)

Violet bloods: Averaged 5,000 sweeps (10,833 years)

Fuschia bloods: None have died of time, only killed. The oldest lived over 10,000 sweeps and was still kicking when she was finally killed.

The higher a troll is up on the spectrum, the colder their body temperature is. While one normally can’t tell one’s exact blood color by body temperature, it gives one a general idea. Mutants' blood colors depend on the caste they’re mutated from. For example, a candy red troll would be even warmer than a redblood, while a lime would be somewhere between yellow and olive. Other non-canon colors work as well. For example, a bright fuchsia would be a tyrian mutant, and their blood color would probably be the coldest in all the hemospectrum, etc.

There is no instant assumption that hemoanons are mutants. Trolls are very careful about picking fights with hemoanons because there is no telling what sort of strength the anon wields. There is, of course, the assumption and stigma from the opposite ends of the spectrum that anons are either highbloods that are trying to infiltrate lowblood spaces or lowbloods trying to get more power than is legally allowed.

Ancestors and Descendants

Most descendants will never meet their ancestors and another great portion of them will not even know about their names. When it comes to lowbloods, I’d say that most of them will know jack shit about their ancestors because their ancestors probably died young doing nothing. Not everyone has The Summoner as an ancestor so unless their ancestor did something worth nothing down a book, they probably won’t ever know their names or titles. Another thing is, most highblooded ancestors can cross several timelines so it’s not a stretch to think some of them would meet their descendants.

Body Science

Pupation/Molting

Wrigglers (troll babies) pupate at 1-3 sweeps dependant upon the caste. Lowerbloods tend to pupate faster than higherbloods since their lifespan is shorter; everything happens faster for them. During pupation, they form a cocoon-like structure around their bodies, not unlike a pupating caterpillar. Wrigglers usually choose quiet and hidden places to do this in the caverns. The pupation usually takes 1-2 weeks long to go through, again, depending on the caste, and the wriggler emerges from its casing as a toddler. Adult molts take place usually around 10 sweeps and a troll almost has to use their skin for this. During molts, trolls grow at an extremely rapid rate, actually literally splitting their skin. Molting also takes about a week or two long and trolls emerge from it usually a foot to several feet taller than before. Trolls continue to grow after molting, and their eyes fill more rapidly with color. It is during molting that nipples appear and grubscars disappear, usually. Some trolls sometimes keep their grubscars and some never grow nipples.

Skin

Trolls skin is generally way thicker than humans, however, it can still bruise easily considering the strength of these aliens. Seadwellers’ skin is less rugged than lowbloods, it is, in fact, smoother and gives an almost perfect wet silk vibe. It’s soft and cold and almost always humid to the touch. They need their skin to create that extra watery sheen so their gills and fins don’t get dehydrated. They’re not «wet» per se, but touching a seadweller’s skin is like touching a moist, cold hand lmao.

Horns

Contrary to their name, horns are not part of troll’s skeletal system. They are more similar to antlers in that they are made of keratin and that they shed, albeit not completely. Horns only shed off old layers. They continue to grow as the troll does and, without proper care, can break, chip, and fracture. It’s also possible to use castes to try and make horns grow a certain way, but this is an unreliable method and known to cause more harm than good. Another way to decorate horns is to engrave carvings into the surface, which is much safer and more common. There are nerve endings in the keratin of horns and are most concentrated in the roots, in the red portion. For that reason, horns are not inherently an erogenous zone. While they may be sensitive around the base and a troll could get aroused by being rubbed the right way around the horns, those are not like sex organs. A troll won’t become a putty mess if their horns get messed with. In fact, it’s more of a pale thing, to pacify trolls. A massage around the horns wouldn’t give a troll a boner, it would just be something as pleasant as getting your hair played with or getting a shoulder massage. Depending on who’s touching, yeah, it can be arousing, but it’s not something my trolls would have their nook dripping for.

Horn Culture

Grub Scars

After putation, small vestigial grub legs are left behind, clinging to a troll’s midsection just below the ribcage. In time, they fall off, like an umbilical cord, and leave behind a hard section of scar tissue that’s tinted a darker shade of gray that troll skin. These are grub scars. These grub scars sometimes entirely disappear after the adult molting, as mentioned before.

Breasts

Rumble spheres are stored up nutrition and fat packs in troll’s chests, and thus are not solely for one gender. However, since ‘females’ are often the more aggressive type and spend more time fighting, they are prone to having larger fat reserves to protect themselves.

Misc

Ears are versatile, capable of moving to show emotion. This applies to fins too.

Some trolls possess a small carapace of sorts; a few plates of exoskeleton on their back that’s left over from the armored plating they had as a grub. Most of them lose it during the adult molting though, as their body has grown strong enough to not need these anymore.

Trolls are generally taller the higher they are up the spectrum, but this is a large generalization more of a rule. They are, however, much larger than humans are often 7-10 ft in height. There can be very short lowbloods and very tall lowbloods; it all depends on whose genetic slurry was more potent in the bucket that created them. If one half of their slurry was from a highblood, and the other from a lowblood, chances are that if they end up a lowblood, they’ll be tall. For that reason, short highbloods are rarer than tall lowbloods, as there are far taller highbloods than shorter ones.

Trolls are capable of a wide variety of sounds, including but not limited to: growling, hissing, warbling, chirping, and purring.

Fingernails grow into natural points, forming claws, and are much thicker and more durable than human fingernails. Some trolls may have retractable claws, though.

Many purple bloods have vestigial gill flaps and fin tines on their ears as a leftover evolutionary trait due to being the line between land dwellers and sea dwellers

Many sea dwellers have bioluminescent freckles scattered across their body.

Sea dwellers most commonly have gills on the sides of their neck, but some have them on their ribcage as well. They also have webbing stretched between the second knuckles on their hands and are more sensitive to light than land dwellers.

Troll hair is also exceptionally coarser and denser than human hair

Third eyelids for seadwellers, so they can keep their eyes open underwater and keep them protected.

Troll eyes reflect light, much like cats.

Trolls have much stronger senses than humans do.

The nature of the slurry helps to determine what kind of blood the wrigglers will have. For example, if a slurry comes from a matespritship, and one of the quadrants is a lowblood, chances are the hatchling will be a lowblood. Matespritship slurry is generally weaker in pheromones than caliginous and caliginous tends to produce stronger offsprings, thus more highbloods. This is why most highbloods have aggression in their system as they are hatched; aggression, in trolls case, is not taught but innate.

Social

Quadrants

Kismesis

Scars are very attractive in kismesitudes because it shows that your pitchmate can take a lot of damage physically and you don’t have to be too careful.

Moirail

While it is possible and socially acceptable to move in with any quadrant, trolls most commonly move in with their moirails.

There are different levels of attraction in the pale quadrant. While soft trolls with lots of fat and curves are definitely appealing and say that someone gives good hugs and can comfortably hold their palemate, someone scrawny and thin is also appealing because they need to be taken care of.

While in most moirallegiances there is no clear line between the pacifier and the pacified, the media likes to convey the roles as strictly belonging to lowbloods and highbloods respectively.

Wrist-kissing is an extremely common gesture of intimacy between moirails.

Rail with pails is taboo, but not unheard of. While it’s not openly discussed, trolls without concupiscent quadrants will often pail with their rail when it’s collection time.

Often trolls in red and black quadrants will stay together even after losing interest in each other just for the safety of being able to still fill and submit a bucket to the drones.

It’s very common to wear the color of your quadrant mate as well as your own color. Some lowbloods take advantage of this and wear colors higher up on the spectrum to keep away unwanted advances.

Different quadrant inclinations trigger different pheromones in a troll, which is how collector drones tell filled pails apart and are able to sort them by quadrant, thus ensuring that every troll required to submit a pail does so within each necessary quad.

Slavery

Slaves are almost always lowbloods- olive and below is a free-for-all.

Slave owners are held entirely accountable for the actions of their slaves; it is thought that the attitude and actions of the slave reflect that of their owner. Therefore, if a slave is particularly rebellious to the caste system, especially in public, there is often an investigation into the owner.

Pre-purchased bloodlines

Highblood slaves do exist, but they are very rare and are only made slaves by punishment for an extreme crime. It’s one of the most severe of humiliations.

Psions are generally used to power factories and ships. Less commonly, psions who are owned by kinder trolls are used for small tasks such as fetching and carrying.

There is nothing stopping a slave owner from doing whatever they want to their slave. There is no law protecting a slave, so owners are allowed to treat their property how they wish and give whatever punishments they desire. There are, however, social pressures and stigma in place.

PEN Collars

Everyday Castism

Train stations

Low bloods are at a higher risk of being culled for minor and insignificant issues due to the expendability of their caste. There is typically little to no consequence for anyone killing a lowblood for no reason.

Psions, while often being sought after by the military and slave owners for their abilities, are also at a higher risk for being culled due to simultaneously being seen as threats

Money Earning

Cues

Trolls tip their heads down in a show of aggression, showing their horns. They tip their heads up to show submission, baring their throat.

Staring openly at a troll is a hostile sign.

While maintaining eye contact can also be taken as a hostile sign, having no eye contact and constantly looking away paints a troll to be a coward.

Adults have the right of way over children. Young trolls remain standing until an adult sits, or gives up their space if an adult enters a full room. The older a troll is, the more respect they’re given.

Trolls are burned after death to keep them from returning as daywalkers.

Seadweller lingo

Languages

Military

Rank System

Every troll in the Imperial Fleet has an officer to report to. Lowbloods(burgundy-yellow) all report to a midblood (green-teal) and all midbloods report to higher-ups (highly stationed blues or purples) and all of them report directly to the Empress. The officers of each faction of soldiers is expected to pass orders from the higher ranks down to their factions and to maintain complete control of their faction.

Ex: A blue blood has a commanding officer that is purple that she has to report to. She must follow her commander’s orders and pass them into her own faction, which is made up of olives and teals. A few of the trolls in her faction have factions of their own, consisting of yellows and bronzes. However, there are exceptions to this rule. Seadweller officials can choose whoever they want to be on their team, no matter the blood color.

Violets are almost mostly used for the navy since they’re usually the only ones that have swimming skills of any kind. However, a good portion of them makes it to the stars since most purplebloods are uninterested in the fleet. Purples tend to remain on Alternia due to their religious views. Some of them to make it to the stars, but mostly with the goal in mind to spread the faith to the defeated nations. As for the navy, crew members of the navy are not required to be violet, however, and are certainly not all violet. Land dwellers on the ships are generally much more expendable than the violets, though. And, of course, there are the psions that power the ships. Generally speaking, violets do not have their cluster of lowbloods to tend to and order around, just their crew and ship.

Psions

Psions of the strong, electric variety are almost exclusively used as batteries to ships in the military, or as living canons of energy. Often they are not counted as actual trolls or as part of a crew, so they don’t get tags or a uniform unless their captain requests it specifically.

Psions that possess other abilities (telekinesis, pyrokinesis, etc.) are allowed to be within their own squadron as long as they’ve proven themselves to be obedient and non-volatile. They are still closely monitored by their officer to make sure it stays they way, and they’re expected to use their abilities whenever ordered to, never for their own use.

Misc

Trolls can be drafted into the military as early as 7 sweeps, especially highbloods due to their strength. They train them young to become tough fleet admirals. However, this is extremely rare and is only the absolute earliest that one can be drafted. Usually, only particularly powerful psions and highbloods are drafted at this age. Most other trolls are drafted between 10 and 12 sweeps. Some trolls are also lost in the system and never gets drafted, lucky!

Trolls in the military are given dog tags stamped with their symbol, blood caste, and name on one side. On the other side, the troll’s quads are stamped.

Purple bloods are generally pretty rare in the military. They work best with trolls of their own caste and are often not included in the faction and rank system, instead of being one massive unit. Sometimes they have factions of their own, but they answer directly to the Grand Highblood of the time, who is on the planet at all time unless the Empress requested him to be in space.

Lower bloods (rust-olive) are either used for unimportant jobs (paperwork, serving as a living training dummy, a higher rank troll’s personal assistant, etc.) or as pawns. Though rarer, they can also be used for spy work since there’s the stigma of lowbloods being inconspicuous and helpless. In times of war, lowbloods are meatshields.

Medics are generally teal-blue bloods with lower blooded assistants. Due to the stigma of lowbloods always being the pacifiers and being too soft and helpless to be a real threat, the assistants are mostly just kept around to calm the patient down instead of doing actual work.

Uniforms are provided to every troll that is properly drafted (i.e. not a slave that was dragged along) and are mostly identical with small, subtle differences to show caste. The uniforms are, of course, better made and better fitted the higher you go up the spectrum. Teal bloods and up get to wear their own sign and color, but must also wear the color of their commanding officers. Trolls below teal are also allowed to wear their color as an identification but not their sign and are also required to wear the color of their officers as well as the fleet’s symbol.

DISKAS Models

Other

Lime Bloods

While most limes were culled centuries back, a few managed to slip through the cracks and hide in society under the guise of being anon or posing as either olive or jade. Furthermore, because of the Mother Grub’s ability to store genetic material for long periods of time, she still sometimes gives birth to lime eggs. Of course, most of these are disposed of by the jadebloods.

Lusii

Low blooded lusii are more commonly smaller and weaker beasts, while high blooded lusii are generally larger and predators. With this being so, low blooded lusii more often die while taking care of their charge. They are also more susceptible to staying with their charge their entire lives instead of moving on once the troll is an adult and adopting a new charge like high blooded lusii do. Lowblood lusii are also a prized catch for alternian hunters, especially if they’re larger. For example, a large bovine lusii that protects a lowblood would sell a lot more than let’s say, Tinkerbull on the market. Since large lusii for lowbloods are rare, they’re a convenient catch and are worth their caegars. Lowbloods with large lusii tend to live in secluded areas such as the forest or near caverns to keep their lusus protected.

Sea dweller lusii often mistake purple wrigglers as violet bloods and take them in. Upon realizing their mistake, they usually abandon the wriggler to die. These wrigglers are sometimes lucky enough to be raised by some of their fellow purples.

Lusii choose their charges from each group of wigglers that manage to overcome the Trials in the caves of the Mother Grubs. Often when their charge grows up, the lusii will then see their job as finished and leave the troll to go adopt another. However, it’s not uncommon for a lusus to become attached and to stay with their charge even after maturation.

Lusii are not allowed to be brought into the military or aboard starships unless there is a very good reason, such as the lusus being exceptionally small, unproblematic, and easy to transport or being a military asset due to size and strength or abilities.

If a troll’s lusus dies from any sort of cause before reaching maturation, that troll must fend for themselves. It is illegal for them to be adopted by another lusus.

It’s common for trolls with exceptionally large lusii to be forced to provide food for their lusii, lest they become food themselves. Higher blooded trolls typically solve this problem by killing other trolls and feeding their bodies to their lusii, provided their lusii are carnivorous.

Recuperacoons

Sopor slime is a breathable liquid-like perfluorocarbon, allowing trolls to be completely submerged in their coon. This liquid has some relaxing properties and when swallowed instead of inhaled, it’s like a drug. Sopor ingestion is considered pretty gross amongst trolls but it’s something a few trolls indulge in secretly. Especially lowblooded psions that have to deal with terrible visions and nightmares, or highbloods with pent up aggression.

Coons of the more expensive type automatically filter themselves out of skin cells and other gunk, constantly keeping themselves clean and keeping themselves proper heat.

During a troll’s adult molt, coons serve as a safe space to rest. It keeps the troll’s skin properly hydrated so they don’t desiccate and become injured.

Reproduction

Upon having their adult molts, trolls are given a set date via letter by the Empire on which their genetic material will be collected by a drone every 6 perigrees. It does not matter who the bucket is filled with, all that matters is that it is submitted and taken to the Mother Grub.

All trolls are intersex, producing both a bulge and a nook. Sometimes several bulges. Bulges come in all shapes and forms, the weirder the better. There is no sexual difference between the two binary genders. There are in fact, no genders. Trolls may have sexual preferences for those with or without rumblespheres, but other than that, gender is not something they understand. Trolls are just trolls.

Trolls used to reproduce naturally, but since the enforced use of the Mother Grub by the Empire, the ability has begun to evolve out. Most of troll society are either infertile or lack proper reproductive organs, making them entirely dependant upon the Mother Grub. Evolution made it that some trolls only have a bulge, some only have a nook. Mutations happen, so some trolls may even have two nooks or two sheaths for bulges.

While mutants are cullable on sight, mutants with very minor flaws such as eyes that are the wrong color or trolls that have multiple horns are very often looked over.

Executions/Dealing with Mutants

Public executions are frequent. As seen with Friendsim, an entire club can be eradicated under the suspicion that one or two lowbloods are activists inside it. However, say, the leaders of a rebel cause that have been stirring up trouble, or a psion that went crazy and murdered a whole hivestem with the overcharge of their abilities, these trolls tend to be taken in for interrogation. After all, even if the leader has been eradicated, they need a bunch of names to root out the problem entirely. While someone ordinary is perfectly capable and entitled to the culling of a mutant and hemorebel, the Empire requires it to be reported before it’s done. That’s why trolls tend to capture mutants and wait for the empire to come to deal with them.

If the authorities suspect a troll of a mutation they consider a threat to the norm or acts of rebellion, they will often take care of the troll quietly. The troll will simply disappear, and no one will know why. Sometimes a story is fabricated speaking of broken laws or black market scandal involving the troll, but there is usually no clear pointer to what happened.

If a troll is discovered to be a mutant while aboard a starship in the military, the common course of action is to launch the troll into space without protection.

Misc

Prosthetics

Transportalizers

Social medias

There are colonies of near-feral sea dwellers residing in the deep oceans of Alternia. In the same line of thought, there are also near-feral trolls on secluded islands or deep into the forest.

Clothing most often have buttons or zippers in the sides or on the back due to the struggle of taking clothes off over horns

Articles of clothing worn on the head, such as hats or hoods, are typically fitted with velcro or buttons so they can be properly fit around a hornbed and then secured into place

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

more of this, none of sense

supposed to be right after a practise outing, maybe swinging some, maybe killing some, you know how it is, but have i written that part? not yet. and i don’t have the time to, so it’s your problem now. also a prototype because i really don’t know whether i want to commit to or rethink some of this stuff

Eddie makes it into his apartment, flushed, flooded, certain that he should be weak in the knees, but somehow, feeling sturdier than ever. That’s not him, he realises, by himself he’d certainly have stumbled, crawled into the bathroom and thrown up by now, but together, supported, all the overstimulation makes him want to do is…

He thinks, very simply, very intently, of hugging someone in celebration, holding on to someone to ground himself. The symbiote doesn’t react, beyond that vague nervousness it seems to be stewing in most of the time. Eddie laughs, quick and heavy in his chest, and opens his arms to the empty space in front of him, desperate for someone to fill it.

“I mean you,” he says, rising in pitch, gently chiding, and, perking up like it missed its name during roll call, the symbiote flows forth from his torso, keeping the approximate shape of one, leaving them face to face -

For about a second, before Eddie slams them both against the door, harder than he’d intended, chest flush against the symbiote’s mass, hands digging into its sides, face buried in the crook of its neck. Separated like this, he can feel himself tremble, and he laughs in earnest, now, as he thinks of what they’ve done, what they’ll do, what they are.

His breaths are deep, only slowing down as he leans into the pressure, realises the symbiote is wrapping around his back, realises he’s been rubbing his face all over it like a damn cat. Certainly, it feels nice, but the symbiote seems distant, somehow, like it either has no feedback on this situation or wants him to think it has none.

He lets up, just a little, just as much as he can bear. “I’m sorry,” he says. “On the one hand, you’ve seen the inside of my capillaries, and I’d consider that the upper limit on familiarity. On the other, we’ve only known each other for… a week or two?”

They’ve been so alone, is the thing. Rejected. Abandoned. And then, to find a connection of this calibre… How could they not have thrown themselves into it?

The symbiote only grows more contemplative.

Eddie genuinely draws back from it, then, but it wasn’t actually being held up against the door, so it stays anchored right where it is, squeezing him warmly. “What’s wrong,” he begins, and it answers with an impression. Total darkness. Noise, though, like holding a seashell up to your ear.

There’s a beat. Then, he realises: It can’t have seen the inside of his capillaries. It must be pitch black in there.

“Silly,” he laughs, meaning both of them, and brings his arms up around it. He walks backwards, not having to remove his cheek from the symbiote’s to look over his shoulder, and deposits them on the couch.

“I suppose,” he starts, “my understanding of the internal workings of my body is primarily informed by anatomical charts, so on some level… I assumed you were…”

He tries for an image, the symbiote swimming through rivers of red and blue, along colour-coded organs, a bit like the theme park version of a human being. The symbiote tends to be reserved whenever it is the topic of conversation, but this has it interested. It offers him… a look at the real deal. It can channel its perceptions to him when it encases him, it can do the same thing when he’s encasing it.

Eddie has to admit, he’s curious about where, exactly, the symbiote goes, what it’s like in there. It seems elated, but then… It withdraws again. Scared? Scared of… Eddie being scared. Humans are strange, it thinks. Humans have a barrier between themselves and most of their own bodies. Humans only tend to be aware of their insides when something is horribly wrong. The smells, the textures, the sounds, they associate them with one of them getting splattered across the pavement.

“And you think that’s a shame, right?” Eddie says, oddly fond, arms around what he shouldn’t think of as its waist, because, really, it’s all arbitrary shapes. The symbiote loses its definition to fit more thoroughly against him, and, as it very rarely does, offers him a word. In this case, Eddie assumes it chose to use one because the underlying concept is distasteful to it, the linguistic representation providing the same distance it usually avoids.

Invasive.

The associations still spring forth. Insects squirming underneath skin. Anaesthesia wearing off during surgery. Aliens bursting from chest cavities.

That last one, Eddie thinks, is fictional, so don’t worry.

It’s real, the symbiote thinks, so do.

Either way, the cultural value assigned to an alien buried deep within human tissue is clear. Being overly aware of it wouldn’t do him any good. Becoming aware of it has yet to end well.

Ignorance is bliss, it seems to think. Its nature is something horrifying to him, he just hasn’t figured it out yet. Eddie hums.

He pivots and stretches out on the couch, taking the symbiote with him in the form of a thick, gooey blanket, with a little arm and clawed hand emerging on either side and a melting face in front of him. It usually forgets to vary its expressions to match its emotional state, doesn’t think of itself as part of that social framework at all. Its consistency, he thinks, may actually be a better indicator of its mood.

“But,” he says, barely resisting the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, “we only think of something as invasive when our bodily or psychological boundaries are crossed.” He fails to resist the urge to poke a hole into its forehead, but tries not to laugh about it. “A violating incursion. That’s what… an alien laying its eggs in you… without asking first, I suppose… would be.”

Something about this is only increasing the symbiote’s agitation. Guilt. Shame. Regret. He can feel it, almost physically bearing down on him. “It’s nothing inherent,” he tries again. “Didn’t I welcome you in?”

He smooths over the symbiote’s forehead, almost apologetic in face of its turmoil. “Can’t you tell that I want you here, every minute of every day?”

It shivers all over, with a desperate, chirping noise he’s never heard before. He shoots up straight, trying to gather the miserable puddle that was once the symbiote up as it slips through his fingers. He hasn’t faced this much emotional feedback since the night they met, only this time, he’s not sure where it’s coming from, this sudden urge to tear at himself, itching under his skin and at the back of his throat. Like parts of himself rotting, spreading, claiming, if he can’t dig them out.

It’s familiar. He tries to distance himself, tell himself these aren’t his emotions. But they are. That’s the downside of a kindred spirit. And an empathic bond.

Their mind swirls around itself. I did this, and I am this, and there’s no refuge from what I did, and there’s no escape from what I am, and there’s no one, there’s no one. I made myself what I was made into.

Eddie’s teeth are clenched. Something about these feelings daring to resurface makes his blood run hot. He won’t let them claim him, or it, or them. He can control them. He can redirect them. He can use them. “Who,” he grits out, gripping the cushions and symbiote both, “who did this to you?”

The symbiote reforms its eyes to look up at him, startled out of its spiral. Its mind is unusually open, pliable, and Eddie tries to conjure up that fateful memory, even as it resists, isn’t it hurting enough- It’s going to hurt less. If it’ll just listen, it’s going to hurt less.

Sound. Separation. Spider-Man, it offers, weakly. “He made us feel like this,” Eddie says, intense. “He made us do this.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think it was worth an explanation. 

“This is what he makes people into.”

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t show it any mercy.

"This feeling, you have to cling to it, because this is what we're putting an end to."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t think about anything beyond using it.

"This is what drives us."

Spider-Man is the one who didn’t mind the collateral damage.

"We're taking a stand against his corruption. His lies."

Spider-Man is the one who is self-righteous above all else.

"You’re not worthless. You’re worth everything to me.”

Spider-Man is the one who wants them to suffer.

“Don’t ever think this is your fault.”

Eddie started out growling, hissing, but by the end of it, he’s whispering, bent over, hands slowly releasing their hold to turn around and cup the symbiote’s substance as it stares, enraptured.

They let the silence hang between them, long enough to refocus on the glide of it along his skin, on the way their minds fall into step like old, old friends. “And,” Eddie says, before feeling that speaking out loud would be inappropriate.

There’s nothing invasive about the symbiote, now. When something’s wanted, it’s not invasive. It’s something entirely different. It’s intimate.

Intimate.

It’s a lifeline the symbiote immediately clings to.

Eddie’s still reliant on words, always encoding parts of himself for it to decode, but this time- This one time, it thinks it may understand the appeal, the form of it unfurling in their minds, soft and lovely, carrying a lifetime of experience. Eddie even offers it a memory to go with it, because he has been trying, he has, and it's a fresh one, it's of him saying yes, of blackness encasing him, of their first real rush of togetherness. Intimate, it thinks.

Intimate. It could make itself at home in that word. Eddie's got it filed away with an overwhelming sense of yearning, but not the kind that hurts. Vulnerability, but not the kind that fills you with fear. Closeness, but not the kind that's been forced. It's everything. It's everything it ever wanted. It's real.

The symbiote pulls itself together, quite literally, and as it stretches a long, solid, humanoid form across the couch, Eddie’s already tipping forward to let himself fall into it. He rolls onto his side, hugging his middle and pulling up his knees in a slow, clumsy movement the symbiote follows with inexplicable fascination, and closes his eyes, cradled.

“Show me,” he says, “I trust you,” and then there’s no room left to argue. 

The first thing to fade in is the scent of blood, metallic and biting, pain and death on one level, full of life, familiar and comforting on another. It’s disorienting in a very visceral way. The gulf between their experiences is too deep.

“Maybe,” Eddie chokes out, “maybe not the smells. Maybe you were right about the smells.” The symbiote seems disappointed, but stable. “It’s okay,” he says, wondering whether he could rewire his own reactions, whether that would be a good idea.

Sensations, then. The symbiote processes them completely differently from a human, but it gets better, over time, at translating them for its host. Eddie feels, as he focuses on it, into it, a bit like he imagines an out-of-body experience to feel like, even though it is, of course, the exact opposite.

Being surrounded by warm liquid, under pressure, dissolving into it, letting it carry you.

Their bodies, no barriers, one purpose. The symbiote draws a tendril along his veins, and Eddie becomes very aware that this isn’t a memory, it’s what’s happening right now. His heightened heartbeat pumps it, them, harder.

Being warm liquid.

Something about their shared perception is different from Eddie’s. His blood stops being his blood. It starts being him. Not something he owns. Something he is. Like the symbiote doesn’t perceive the separation of body and self. But the separation, he thinks, is important. It enables control of one over the other. It enables the soul to transcend the confines of the flesh, to be in contact with the divine.

Confining, controlling, the symbiote echoes.

It draws its mass up to his chest, slipping through the fabric of his shirt. He can feel it on his skin, and through their connection, he can feel it slipping past that, too, dipping inside him, just as effortlessly. He holds his breath, hardly daring to move, but before fear can take hold of him, the symbiote’s point of view filters through. Spreading out along muscle fibres, threading through them, feeling safe and grounded. A tingling sensation, almost, to have so much surface area, so much sensory input, like stepping into a just-too-hot bath, but settling into it to find deep-seated calm.

So much more of this, it thinks, bittersweet, so much more of this than Peter Parker had. So much more room. So much more care devoted to the upkeep. Eddie almost giggles at that. Here he is, being introduced to his own body like it’s a friend’s new apartment. It’s ridiculous. And yet.

Every part of him, resonating as a source of pride and comfort.

It moves on, then, takes a second to be entranced by his lungs, in gentle contact with the spongy surface, expanding and contracting to a larger degree than he would’ve thought. Keeping watch on this, it thinks, always. Delicate. Fragile. All these little bubbles. It weaves itself like a decorative ribbon through his ribcage. Could replace their function. Worst case scenario.

“I don’t- I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Eddie says, largely wanting to avoid the image of the symbiote trying to make up for his collapsed lungs by sticking out of his open veins like a straw to oxygenate his blood.

And there’s his heart, of course. There’s the symbiote, feeling his heartbeat. Reveling in it. No commentary, just the push and pull of it. Slower, and deeper, and slower, and deeper, it coaxes. The darkness, soon, stops being absence and starts being something, contributing just as much to feeling enveloped. 

The symbiote overlays each thump with an impression, indescribable, but it makes him feel seen, in his entirety, almost too much. You, it says, not with words, but with his heartbeat, and his inner voice, and his sensations, and his movements, all at once, all inseparable from one another. Eddie.

It keeps moving for a while, shows him the porousness of bone, the undulation of intestines, the tension of tendons, caressing him from the inside, though he only feels it from its perspective. Shows him its sense of awe, all these complex systems, all relying on each other, all working together. The symbiote’s body is built on universal principles, one cell the same as the next, each either healthy and connected to the larger whole or not. Humans...

“I think you’re pretty miraculous, yourself,” Eddie says, contemplating ways to get the symbiote access to medical resources, concerned in equal measure with enabling its joy in learning about what it loves and sheer self-preservation.

Finally returning to himself doesn’t feel like it at all. It feels like a connection, severed.

His self, split in half.

"No,” Eddie says, patiently, “it’s not like that.” A body is something precious, and natural, and beautiful, but it’s not... you. A body is something you struggle with. You elevate yourself above it by pushing it, denying it.

The symbiote doesn’t want to argue, tries to defer to him, but something about all this has made it more willing to express itself than it’s ever been, and niggling, at the back of his mind, he can tell it doesn’t understand at all. It didn’t think their unity was one of three entities. Or four? Are they both above Eddie’s body? Should it try to split itself, too? What’s the ranking, there?

It conjures up the feeling, the heartbeat feeling, your-consciousness-in-every-cell-of-you, and Eddie shivers. He’s not saying they can never feel in tune. He’s not saying that. But the symbiote doesn’t have the experience, doesn’t have the whole picture, doesn’t have the culture.

If it was only this, he thinks, only what you see in it. If it was only the life-giver.

When did it become something else?

Eddie doesn’t want to drag it down there. He doesn’t want to drag himself back up. He holds out his hands, and the symbiote engulfs them, tracing, at the microscopic level, his fingerprints, committing them to memory.

Eddie stares at the ceiling. 

“I always wanted,” he mumbles, lips barely moving, “I always wanted to return to the body I was born in.”

Something about the complex way these words light up his brain rubs the symbiote the wrong way.

Poetry?

“Poetry.”

Pure exasperation. Eddie laughs, voicelessly.

“You don’t have to deal with poetry, yet. Some day we’ll talk about all of it, art, religion, politics... You don’t have to, now. It’s all a bit much.”

The symbiote agrees, satisfied. Already seeming so much happier, so much more open than when they met. Away from Spider-Man’s toxic influence. They were going to reclaim themselves, yet.

“If you like being in there so much,” he asks, “are you sure I’m not imposing when I ask you to come out?”

The symbiote emerges from somewhere around his collarbones, cupping his face. That is intimate for me, it thinks, this is intimate for you. In there, you only feel through me, out here, I only feel through you.

“So it’s equal-”

So this is better, it thinks, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, a gesture gleaned from a memory.

Eddie sighs.

[wilde-world]

For @kylotrashforever -- happy birthday!!

😉😉

Prompt #19 - I could kill you right now!

A persistent buzz distantly flit through her mind, and she’s briefly aware that she had somewhere to be. Rose shuffled around in the other room, frantically readying herself for her three-o’clock study group (they met every Wednesday and Rey quietly loathed that group for always stealing her damn dark roast coffee grounds and never re-stocking them). Wait—Wednesday. 3:00. Class. Oh, fuck.

Rey jolted awake, throwing her covers to the floor in an instant. She slammed down the alarm button, silencing that persistent blare just in time to glance at the time. 2:45.

Great, she still has time. Quickly throwing her books, pencils, and everything else on her desk into her bag, Rey slams through their two-bedroom apartment, running (well, power-walking since running was forbidden) out of her apartment complex.

It was just like her, deciding to live fifteen miles off-campus just to save on living costs. And her car was tilting weirdly toward the driver’s side. Stupid, Rey, she mentally berated herself, physically shaking her head.

She less than eight miles from campus when, as expected, a giant clap of thunder engulfed her whole body, shivers running down her spine.

It’s fine, she reasoned. She would make it before it started raining down too hard. Her little car would be fine.  

Nope. In less than a minute, sheets of rain came pouring down. She slowed down to fifteen-miles-per-hour (as she was inherently terrified of being pulled over and scolded my police officer) and continued on her way. Dr. Skywalker was understanding, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t be scolded for being a little late.

It would be fine, she soothed herself.

Nope. The slight stench of smoke rose to meet her, and was immediately followed by a loud sputtering sound.

“Fuck,” she hissed, pulling off to the side of the road. She sharply tugged her door open, stepping out into the cold, pouring rain to check under her hood. 

She sighed, , and leaned dejectedly on the left side of her little Ford, finally looking over to see why her car was tilting. 

Great, she thought, my fucking alternator hates me and I’ve got a flat tire.

She crawled into her car, hair dripping over her seats, and turned on her emergency lights, letting out a feral growl as her fingers tangled in her hair, banging her head on the dash. 

A quick knock on the driver’s side window startled her, and she let out a loud shriek. 

“Rey?” Of course her rescuer would be none other than Ben-Fucking-Solo. Of course he would fucking stop in the rain at the sight of her little car. He was Snoke’s previous TA (before Snoke had been fired off for sexually harassing one of his female students) and he had played the role of “knight in shining armor” for her many times. He had personally helped her study for a number of tests (it totally wasn’t a big deal, she had always bought the coffee so they were completely even) and he had nearly assaulted a fellow TA who had gotten too handsy with her at a house party. Still, she continued to listen to the countless tales of his assholery from Finn and Poe, allowing them to poison her perception. She leaned over and used the crank to roll down the window. 

“Yes?” she deadpanned, raising her eyebrow. She raised her voice so that she could be heard over the roll of thunder that decided to make an appearence.

“What are you doing?” He had the fucking audacity to scowl at this moment? He was holding an umbrella, yes, but the waning sheets of rain continued to soak his very fitted t-shirt.

“Oh, you know. I’m just enjoying some alone time. On the edge of the road. In a thunderstorm. How about you?” She leaned her chin on her hands and awkwardly rested her elbows on the steering wheel, trying her best to convey her sarcastic interest. 

Ben scoffed, opening up her door, “What’s wrong with your car?” He eyed her soaked clothes and dripping hair with more sympathy than was necessary and her jaw set in annoyance.

She rolled her eyes and straightened up, “Engine’s dead and my tire’s flat. I would call a tow, but I forgot my cell phone at my apartment.”

Ben nodded. He looked away from her, casting a bare glance at her hood. “My dad owns a repair shop not too far from here. You can wait in my car until he comes.” 

Rey eyed her warily, “Are you sure?” As much as she loved her little car, it wasn’t exactly known for withstanding storms. She had been able to buy it at scrap-metal price from Han when it had suffered more hail damage that it was worth (according to Han, at least). 

“I have towels.” He rolled his eyes and made a sweeping motion with his hand. 

Rey settled wordlessly into his vintage silencer, subtly gawking at the chrome and leather interior. She breathed a quiet, “Shit,” and them turned to him, “What time is it?” 

He glanced at his phone, “3:11, why?”

Irritably rubbing her eyes, she let out a quiet groan, “I’m missing class right now.”  Ben let out a scoffing laugh, “Aren’t you in Skywalker’s program?”  He’d set off her defenses, he knew. “Yes, what about it?” “Well, I don’t think you’re missing much to be honest,” he grinned to himself, as if indulging in a private joke. “Oh, what’s that supposed to mean?” she rolled her eyes. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he swore, “It’s just that Skywalker has been known to go on philosophical rants from time to time. It’s a bit strange. Especially considering that he works in the physics department.” A slight cackle left his lips, and Rey’s face flushed with anger. 

“Oh, like you’d know anything about what Skywalker teaches,” she scoffed. Everyone had heard the stories of Ben getting thrown out of the department. Although, no one had ever really heard why. 

His face darkened and he set his jaw, so Rey darkly smiled to herself, pleased to have gotten underneath his skin.  

They sat in silence for nearly five minutes, gathering potential insults to hurl at one another. Things like goth beanstalk and Crylo Ren. (Okay, maybe it was just Rey gathering insults)  Ben cleared his throat, “I left the program to study under professor Snoke. Luke and I didn’t see eye-to-eye, but that doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t expect you to understand how difficult family can be.” He didn’t know he hit the wrong wire until the entire building exploded.

Rey whipped her head to glare at him, fuming. Part of her was hurt, yes, but the more pronounced emotions stirring within her dictated that she was pissed. “What?” she asked him, her tone sharp.

“What?” he questioned, and his anxiety swelled, pronouncing his every possible fault in the conversation. 

“Just because, what, I don’t have a family--that gives you the right to judge me?” Her voice became increasingly accusatory. Ben realized his blunder, and his eyes widened. 

“Rey, no, that’s not what I meant at all-” but she was on a roll.

“The fact that people don’t have what you have. Does that register with you at all? Not everyone has families that they can just throw away, Ben. God, I could kill you right now!” She spit his name like venom, and he felt the guilt in his chest crack open and start to consume him. He couldn’t think of anything to say, just staring, open-mouthed, at the girl who he’d always perceived as flawless. 

Luckily (or unfortunately, he didn’t know yet), a large star-fighter tow truck pulled up next to them, effectively ending any conversation. 

Rey quickly exited Ben’s silencer, slamming the door shut for measure. She walked over to Han, accepting the fatherly hug that he offered and helped him set up the cables. The rain and cleared in their short wait, and Ben could see the sun beginning to peek out from the clouds once again.

Han offered her a ride to the shop so Rose could pick her up, and she was in the pickup before he could even finish his sentence. He turned to Ben, who had been quietly surveying his and Rey’s work. 

“Thanks for taking care of her, Ben,” he only nodded reluctantly in reply.

“Well, I’m sure I caused more issues than I fixed, but that’s nothing new,” he frowned, staring after her.

Han chuckled. Like father, like son. “Just give her a while. She usually comes around,” he waved vaguely toward his truck.

Ben just nodded, so Han began to slowly walk back to his truck, “And call your mother!”

Ben gave her exactly two days. He had seen her around, each time receiving a death glare from either her or Rose. Now, he stood outside Skywalker’s class room, holding the sweetest cup of coffee he knew how to order (caramel macchiato, four shots, too much caramel) and wearing an expression not unlike that of a lost puppy. 

When she saw him, she shook her head, stalking over to him only when he had held out her coffee.  “I’m sorry,” he told her, a pleading look etched across his features. For a second, she was caught off-guard. For all her positive interactions with him, Rey had still taken Ben as the difficult ass everyone painted him to be.  “I didn’t know about your family, and I’m sorry that my words upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He looked almost pained to say it, but Rey supposed he hadn’t had much practice.  A small smile bloomed across her features. “I’m sorry too,” she told him, “I shouldn’t have said all that stuff about you and your family.”  She cleared her throat daintily, “So...Han’s your dad?”  He grinned slightly, “Yes, that would be him.”  Rey shook her head, releasing a tiny sigh and smiling, “That explains...so much.”  Ben grinned slightly, and he dropped his gaze so he wouldn’t get caught staring at the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.

“Forgive me?” he asked after a pause, clearing his throat, his brow creasing adorably.  She answered him with a simple smile before taking a sip of her coffee.  -

They sat down at the student center, and it was seven before they even noticed the time. Ben walked her to her car and stared into her eyes a few seconds longer than he could handle without the tips of his ears burning red. She giggled, tucking his hair back to expose them. “They’re cute!” she insisted, and he couldn’t help but chuckle in reply. 

“I’d like to do this again,” he told her, and he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she grinned at him and leaned up to kiss his cheek. 

“I’d like that,” she whispered to him before sliding into her car.

He stared after her car until he couldn’t see it anymore. He was so screwed. 

[matt-joseph-diaz-blog]

I’m so disappointed in what’s happening with mainstream body positivity.

There’s almost no way this won’t sound at least partly like the ravings of a twenty-something who’s salty that their instagram following seems to be in decline, but I want you to stick with me here.

I’ve been a part of the body positive movement for a few years now. After going viral in 2015 for making a video where I revealed the excess skin I had from losing nearly 300 pounds, I became a writer, public speaker and social media advocate for the importance of positive body image.

I’ve spoken at colleges and conferences all over the country, written pieces for multiple websites, met body positive advocates far more famous than me, and even spoke at an event for Seventeen Magazine at instagram headquarters.

Now, I need to make this clear: I still believe in the tenants and ideals of body positivity; more than ever in fact. What worries me is the direction the bopo movement is taking in the pursuit of public acceptance.

Like most radical ideologies that go mainstream, it had to be introduced in a more “approachable” form.

So this is something that really can’t be helped. When introducing an idea that completely opposes long held societal beliefs, you really have no choice other than to introduce it in a way “average people (typically meaning the type of person so unaffected by the issue that they have no knowledge of it)” will find palatable.

Obviously I’m writing pretty off-the-cuff here so I’m reaching for examples, but ones that come to mind are stuff like the original debut of Queer Eye, Will & Grace and RuPaul painting specific pictures of the queer community while introducing them as something the Straights™️ could be mostly comfortable with.

Rarely is this a conscious decision. Mainstream society lifts up the individuals and causes it finds different and powerful without being too challenging. Try and force the world to accept something too different, and it becomes offensive.

So what does this look like in the body positive movement?

I remember working at one of the biggest photo retouching companies in NYC during the early 2010s, when we first discovered that one of our clients, Aerie, would no longer be retouching the models in their lingerie ads.

This is indisputably a wonderful thing, and I hope it has inspired other companies to do the same thing. But while Aerie chose to forgo retouching its plus sized supermodels, they were, in fact, supermodels. The net was cast a bit wider, but these plus sized models still checked off a lot of the boxes we associate with the problematic societal beauty standard: all cis women, all “conventionally attractive,” and nearly entirely white.

This is what concerns me.

As someone who follows and is followed by a lot of prominent members of the bopo movement my instagram suggestions are littered with bopo accounts with hundreds of thousands of followers; and time and time again these popular accounts are professional models, cis, white, female and almost entirely plus sized by definition of how it’s seen in pop culture: meaning mostly thin with hips and breasts and ass.

Now, these bodies are just as valid as any other and deserve their time in the sun and to be celebrated. That isn’t up for debate. However, what appears to be happening is that an idea started as a a radical breaking of chains imposed on us by society has been morphed by popular culture into a shift of what we see as “acceptable.”

Basically, what started out as an attempt to dissolve the beauty standard has been turned into merely changing what the beauty standard is. That’s a problem.

There are so few men in the body positive movement.

There are a lot of reasons for this: Beauty standards are by and large more imposing and pressuring for women than men, toxic masculinity doesn’t allow for the vulnerability necessary to be part of the bopo movement, etc. However, if roughly half the population doesn’t step the fuck up and garner attention when they do, a massive aspect of the movement is never going to be acknowledged.

At the end of 2015 I was named one of the top 7 men to follow in the body positive movement by the wonderful Jes Baker, when I’d been an advocate for less than 9 months. Whenever I mention this I always joke that “it was a top 7 because they couldn’t find 10 men involved in the movement,” and it always rings a little true.

The body positive movement in mainstream media is overwhelmingly white.

...I really don’t have a great answer for this. There’s a lot of fucking white people, and if there’s one thing white people love, it’s other white people.

That isn’t for lack of trying, either. The bopo movement is rife with POCs that are celebrating their bodies and trying to empower others, but they get nowhere near the attention of the overwhelming number of whites. The racism inherent in our beauty standards already continue to hold true when moving into the bopo movement.

As a male-presenting latinx in the body positive movement, I don’t know if I’ve ever met another member of the community with even my low degree of online attention that checks both those boxes.

The trans/nb community mostly lacks representation in bopo as well.

This is similar to the issue of non-whiteness in body positivity. We already underrepresent those who aren’t cis in mainstream media, and when we do it’s either to commend how you can’t clearl tell that they aren’t cis, or to celebrate how “brave they are” for celebrating their own beauty despite how freakish society may continue to believe they look.

“Plus-sized” vs Fatness in bopo.

I’ve touched on this a bit already, but in the pursuit of making body positivity approachable it feels like “body positive” has come to mean “curvy, but definitely not fat” in a way that’s as toxic as it is ridiculous.

There have been times when I and people who have reached out to me have told me that they don’t feel like they fit into the body positive movement because they aren’t curvy enough. Body positivity doesn’t mean “hips, chest, but no stomach” in the way it’s so disproportionately portrayed, and “fat” isn’t a dirty word. Curvy people deserve to be body positive, and so do fat people, thin people, and everyone else on the spectrum.

That’s kind of the entire fucking point. You deserve to feel confident in your body, no matter what form it takes.

So, what do we do about it?

In early 2017, I was invited to visit Instagram headquarters to speak on a panel for the National Eating Disorder Association and Seventeen Magazine about the importance of body diversity. I was a last minute addition- I wasn’t invited until the week before the event.

It was a really cool opportunity and I was so honored to be a part of it. However, of the five people in the panel, I was the only one who wasn’t a mostly thin, white, cis woman.

A panel on the importance of body diversity. Five thin pretty white women and me, 6’5” lumbering queer male presenting nonbinary giant, Matt Diaz.

...I...

...fucking...

...what?

During the panel I was asked what I think is the most important thing we can do for the sake of body diversity. There was a group of college students that were invited to the event sitting in the front two row, and they were entirely people of color. And I know there’s no way I was this poetic off the cuff, but I remember saying something akin to:

“Stop waiting for someone to make you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. Be who you are, and force the rest of the world to catch up.”

Nobody is going to suddenly decide that we’re worth seeing. You’re basically going to have to drag people kicking and screaming into accepting you, and that fight has to become a key aspect of who you are.

If you plan on waiting until you see a prevalent body positive Instagram or tumblr user who looks like you before you express your own body positivity, you’re going to be waiting for the rest of your life.

Be that inspiration for someone else. Tell the world that you’re here and demand to be seen. Embrace and celebrate the people you see who deviate from the norm; promote them, talk about them, reblog them, and tell them how proud you are of them.

This is definitely starting to sound like I’m just trying to promote my own Instagram and shit (@mattjosephdiaz) but in all honesty, I don’t care if you don’t decide to follow me. I just want to leave you with something it took me too long to understand.

Your success in the body positive movement will never be about how many followers you get, or how many people tell you that you’ve changed their lives. Your success in this movement comes from learning to love yourself in every form you might take.

Sometimes, the only persons life you change is your own, and that’s more than enough.

[bennettmarko]

Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

[dailypositivequotes]

If you’re committed to saying “all lives matter” in response to the Black Lives Matter movement: prove it

Excerpt from Vox

Taken from the Unitarian Universalist Association's website: 

 Of course all lives matter. Central to Unitarian Universalism is the affirmation of the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Sadly, our society has a long history of treating some people as less valuable than others. Study after study has confirmed that in equivalent situations, African Americans and Latinos are treated with deadly force far more often than White people, and authorities held less accountable. Unfortunately, racial bias continues to exist even when it is no longer conscious—this too is confirmed by multiple studies. A lack of accountability in the use of force combined with unconscious bias is too often a deadly combination – and one that could place police officers, as well as the public, in great danger.

To say that Black lives matter is not to say that other lives do not; indeed, it is quite the reverse—it is to recognize that all lives do matter, and to acknowledge that African Americans are often targeted unfairly (witness the number of African Americans accosted daily for no reason other than walking through a White neighborhood—including some, like young Trayvon Martin, who lost their lives) and that our society is not yet so advanced as to have become truly color blind. This means that many people of goodwill face the hard task of recognizing that these societal ills continue to exist, and that White privilege continues to exist, even though we wish it didn’t and would not have asked for it. I certainly agree that no loving God would judge anyone by skin color.

As a White man, I have never been followed by security in a department store, or been stopped by police for driving through a neighborhood in which I didn’t live. My African American friends have, almost to a person, had these experiences. Some have been through incidents that were far worse. I owe it to the ideal that we share, the ideal that all lives matter, to take their experiences seriously and listen to what they are saying. To deny the truth of these experiences because they make me uncomfortable would be to place my comfort above the safety of others, and I cannot do that.

I very much appreciate you writing to me, and am glad that we share the goal of coming to a day when people will not be judged, consciously or unconsciously, on the basis of their race. I believe that day is possible, too, but that it will take a great deal of work to get there. That work begins by listening to one another, and listening especially to the voices of those who have the least power in society. If nothing else is clear from the past few weeks, it is painfully evident that a great many people do not believe that they are treated fairly. Healing begins by listening to those voices and stories.

Excerpt from What Does “Black Lives Matter” Actually Mean?  

As someone who is constantly bombarded with the howling of “but all lives matter”—and the heated conversations that inevitably follow—let me explain. Black Lives Matter is not a term of confrontation or an exclusionary demand. As Columbia Law Professor Kimberle Crenshaw explains, saying black lives matter “is simply aspirational;” it's a rallying cry for a shift in statistical numbers that show that people who are black are twice as likely to be killed by a police officer while unarmed, compared to a white individual. According to a 2015 study, African-Americans died at the hands of police at a rate of 7.2 per million, while whites were killed at a rate of 2.9 per million.

...

If a patient being rushed to the ER after an accident were to point to their mangled leg and say, “This is what matters right now,” and the doctor saw the scrapes and bruises of other areas and countered, “but all of you matters,” wouldn’t there be a question as to why he doesn't show urgency in aiding that what is most at risk? At a community fundraiser for a decaying local library, you would never see a mob of people from the next city over show up angry and offended yelling, “All libraries matter!”—especially when theirs is already well-funded.

This is because there is a fundamental understanding that when the parts of society with the most pain and lack of protection are cared for, the whole system benefits. For some reason, the community of white America would rather adjust the blinders they’ve set against racism, instead of confront it, so that the country can move forward toward a true nation of justice for all.

Stating 'black lives matter' doesn’t insinuate that other lives don’t. Of course all lives matter. That doesn’t even need to be said. But the fact that white people get so upset about the term black lives matter is proof that nothing can center the wellbeing and livelihoods of black bodies without white people assuming it is to their demise. 

Excerpt from HERE’S WHY IT HURTS WHEN PEOPLE SAY, “ALL LIVES MATTER” from Vanity Fair:

If All Lives Matter, why is the black community continually asked to justify its anger and grief? If All Lives Matter, why does the court system continue to put the victims of racial discrimination and police brutality on trial, rather than punishing their assailants? If All Lives Matter, why do our fellow Americans continually challenge African-Americans to justify our pain instead of empathizing with it?

Do all lives matter? Of course! And you will be hard pressed to find any African-American who would say otherwise. But we will continue to say Black Lives Matter until African-American lives are given the same value as the lives of people from other countries, our police officers, your property, a lion named Cecil, and a gorilla named Harambe.

[neubauje]

BEGT ch. 18

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 AO3

By the time the Sports Festival wraps up and the last of the ceremonies are complete, the UA faculty are exhausted - both those involved in the event, and spectators alike. The students who had put their best efforts into the spectacle are even more exhausted, of course, at least those who are present to be accounted for. Aizawa does notice Iida's empty desk during their brief debriefing and dismissal from the classroom, slightly worried that the normally responsible student had ducked out without excusing himself or leaving some sort of note. So long as he still showed up for class on Wednesday, Shouta supposes, it wouldn't matter that much. With the students long gone and dispersed to their homes, and the majority of the school faculty released from the last dredges of clean-up duty, All Might meets Eraserhead once again outside the classroom, changed back from his hero costume into his baggy civilian suit, with the duffel bag slung back over his shoulders. "Hey there, all set?" He flashes a weary smile and nods, indicating the empty classroom, as he turns down the hallway with a little jerk of his chin, "Come on, then, Aizawa, let's go get your arms freed, so you can get a couple days of relaxing in too. I'm sure you're itching for a bit of solitude."

The younger teacher nods slowly and turns to fall into step beside All Might as he plods out the main school entrance, leading the way to the hospital only a few blocks away. He sighs deeply as they walk, letting the stress of the crowds and the spotlight roll off his shoulders, replacing it with the cooling night air. "So, what did you think of your first Festival as a teacher?" (more under the cut)

"Hmm?" Toshinori glances down and over at his walking companion, giving a wry little chuckle as he turns back to keep an eye on their route, "It's certainly escalated since my days as a student, that's for sure. I suppose that never really hit home just from watching on TV. I still can barely comprehend the extremes the finalists went to in their fights, especially..." He trails off with a little shudder, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets as his mind's eye flashes back to the sorry state Midoriya's fingers had been in by the end of his last battle.

"Midoriya and Todoroki, yes. About that." Aizawa spares a glance upward at the older teacher, who meets it hesitantly for a moment before they both look away, "He can't continue like this. A hero who damages himself more than his opponent is nothing but a liability out in the field."

"Yeah. I know. Recovery Girl said much the same thing, she made him vow not to come back to her with injuries like that any more." The Symbol of Peace takes his turn to get a lung-full of the fresh air, echoing the sigh with a further slump of his sloped shoulders, and reaching with one hand to tuck his fingers in a tight grip around the strap of the duffel as they walk. "Even with as much progress as he's made in this past year, though, I don't see how he's going to be able to just... stop hurting himself so suddenly. He still has so far to go..." Toshinori falls silent again, as the hospital draws into view.

"Was it like this for you?" The question is soft, muffled, as Aizawa mutters into his scarf, not even facing the older hero as he asks, and only clarifying at the sound of a questioning hum from Yagi. "When you first got the power. Did it hurt you, like it does him?"

"No. It was... so easy, when it settled into place, like I'd been wearing weights my whole life and they were suddenly lifted. It felt good." Toshinori shudders a little, clenching his teeth in a little grimace, "That's why I... have no idea how to help him. I'm almost worried that-" He bites his tongue as the words hitch in his throat, and slows to a pause beneath a street light, finally turning to Aizawa with deep shadows hiding his eyes, "What if the difference between taking in seven's worth, and taking in eight's worth, is the difference between being able to handle it or not? What if the power I added was too much, what if I... broke him?"

Not entirely clear on all the details of what Yagi is trying to get at, but still following along as best he can, Aizawa hesitates as his mind rushes over possible outcomes, and glances over at Toshinori with a sidelong look, "Can you take it back?" Impatient to get in out of the now-chilly evening, he resumes the walk, leaving the other teacher to catch up or be left behind. All Might quickly makes up the distance with his longer strides, hardly noticing at all.

"I... have no idea, it's never been done. It's possible, but probably unwise for us to try. I don't think my body could handle the strain, not anymore. And it would probably rob him of any inherent strength he may have started with, quirkless or not." By now the enthusiastic hero is tapping away idly at his chest, lost in contemplation of the possibility. "But no, I wouldn't want to do that to the boy."

Aizawa shrugs and lets his arms swing back down into the gauze slings still propping them up, "Then it's not an option. All that's left is to keep him moving forward. Or to retire him prematurely." The option is meant to be a joke, but by the time it leaves Eraserhead's lips, it's already begun to twist sourly into a threatening ultimatum. Trying to clear the air, he adds, "We'll see how he does after the internship."

"Yeah." All Might hangs his head guiltily, left only with the hope that some other pro out there will prove to be a more competent teacher than he's managed to be. Within a few moments of silence, Toshinori's thoughts wander the short distance to the matter he'd meant to discuss, looking over as they draw near into the lights of the hospital and through the automatic doors, "Oh, Aizawa! I meant to tell you, I talked to Endeavor, and-"

"Welcome to MGH, Can I help you?" The two heroes look up from their conversation as a harried-looking receptionist greets them, glancing between their approach and the piles of folders, binders, and files she’d continued to sort as they’d walked in. As they draw nearer in the light, however, she seems to get a spark of recognition, and glances up at the small television in the corner of the waiting room, where a re-run of the Sports Festival is looping again, confirming her hunch. “Mr. Aizawa, right? Eraserhead? Recovery Girl told us to expect you soon for cast removal.”

“Yes,” Aizawa nods in resignation and sighs at the ease with which he’s now able to be recognized, already regretting the boost in exposure from the announcer role. Cutting off the receptionist’s next question as her gaze turns to Toshinori, he answers preemptively, “He’s fine, he’s just with me.”

The receptionist smiles absently and directs them through the emergency room waiting area and to a smaller, more secluded waiting room where an even smaller TV loops a later part of the Sports Festival, thankfully on mute. “I talked to Todoroki,” All Might picks up his earlier train of thought thanks to the silent reminder, his eyes listlessly watching the flashy display of ice and fire on the screen, “Endeavor, I mean.” He turns back to Shouta, who suddenly won’t meet his eyes, pointedly glaring through the bandages at the little stack of magazines on a table across the room. “Shouta, he... scared me, the way he talked about his son.” Aizawa finally does look up at these words, his brows furrowed as he turns in slight disbelief to listen while Toshinori continues, “Between that, and the brief conversation I had with young Shotou on the podium... There is something very wrong with that man. I don’t know if he was always like that, or...” The older hero trails off a little as he notices a slight tremble in the shorter man’s frame, but before he can inquire any further, they’re called back by a nurse, and anything Yagi thought he might have seen is instantly wiped away.

The process is pretty straightforward, if a little tedious. Working on first Aizawa’s left arm, then his right, the nurse applies an old-fashioned dremel saw to either side of each cast, instructing Shouta to twist his arms at awkward angles in order to apply the best pressure along the seams being cut into the hardened outer shells. Then, with the application of special pliers and a little force, one by one the casts come free with a satisfying series of thunk sounds as the nurse tosses each half-shell into a nearby bio-waste bin, then starts in on the bandages and padding still remaining. Aizawa recoils a little as this last layer comes away, freeing a pungent scent of concentrated skin cells, like the inside of the strap on an old beloved watch worn every day. Toshinori remains calm as he watches from the chair in the corner, the duffel bag propped on his knees. He’d smelled this and much worse during his long stints in various hospitals, and it doesn’t phase him now. He does perk up a little with interest, though, when he catches a glimpse of Aizawa’s right elbow, “Hey, it’s a little hard to tell under all the layers of peeling... but it looks like you’ve got a miniature version of the same scar that I have. We match!”

Shouta, his eyes slightly manic, glances over to meet Toshinori’s sunny grin, before he turns back to the nurse, “Are we done?” The helpful nurse confirms their discharge, and points down the hallway to a single bathroom across from the check-out desk. Aizawa rushes to it and slams the door locked, leaving Yagi to wait just outside it with the duffel slung back over his shoulders.

The newly-freed teacher spends no less than three minutes scratching the accumulation of every itch he’s suffered over the past two weeks, shedding and flaking the piled-up dead skin and scabs across the linoleum floor, until his arms are bright pink and a little raw, covered in nothing more than the layer of fresh, new skin just generated by Recovery Girl’s last treatment. He spends another few minutes at the sink, letting the cool water flow as high up as he can manage, wedging each arm under the tap until the refreshing rinse reaches his elbows, then vigorously scrubbing them down with the antibacterial soap helpfully supplied by the hospital. Lastly, glancing up in the mirror, he rips the gauze free from his face and shoves it in the trash before emerging, his arms still wet and dripping.

“Ah, there he is! Better?” Yagi beams and steps forward from where he’d been leaned back against the desk, chatting amiably with the administrator there. Drawing near to Aizawa’s side, he continues to chatter, “Sakura here was giving me ideas - what say we go for a celebratory dinner, my treat? You can actually feed yourself now, how’s that sound for putting your new arms to good use?” His good-natured chuckles suddenly cut short as Shouta, who had been staring idly as he stretched and flexed his fingers and wrists, snaps his gaze up at the suggestion, and lunges in to put his arms to good use immediately. Still damp and slightly weakened from two weeks’ atrophy, it’s not the best hug Aizawa’s ever given, but his fingers wedge themselves between the weight of the duffel and Toshinori’s bony frame, pulling the older hero in with as much strength as he can muster; his arms tremble with the force of it, loaded with the weight of a thousand overdue ‘thank you’s he’d never managed to put into words, and one impending ‘goodbye’ he still refuses to acknowledge.

“Yeah,” he mutters against Yagi’s chest, a little breathless laugh escaping his own, “Dinner sounds good.” Toshinori hesitates for a moment, taken aback by the odd show of affection from the usually aloof teacher, but eventually returns the embrace with a fond arm around Aizawa’s shoulders until the younger man pulls away, his face nearly as pink as his arms. Clearing his throat softly, Aizawa takes a moment to pull down the sleeves of his uniform shirt, and to tug his scarf up protectively over his chin, ducking into it a little as he tucks his hands into his pockets and leads the way out. “If you’re buying, then let’s go to that steakhouse we passed on the way here. Looked expensive.”

Chapter 19 - Chapter 20

[lilithhawthorne]

Title: Blood of the Brotherhood Fandom: Mass Effect: Andromeda Relationship: Sara Ryder x Jaal Rating: M Chapter: 9/? Cross posted on AO3 / FFN First // Previous / Next

Big thanks everyone for being so patient while I finish the school year and threw away my updating schedule. Come Tuesday (after 3 more finals), I will be done with school until September. Expect the weekly updates to return in another two weeks!

Biiiiiiiiiiiig shout out to @animarosa and  @sasseffects for being extra, extra patient with me and having the keen eye that keeps all this mess readable. 

Angara wore their emotions openly and proudly, which made them ideal for conflict resolution and less than ideal for espionage. Lying wasn’t unheard of, but hiding emotions or forcing a show that didn’t hold true to what one was feeling was a foreign feeling to most. Some, like Evfra, may have mastered it, but Jaal was always uncomfortable when he was forced to lie. And he was bad at it.

Despite his intentions when boarding the Tempest all those months ago, he had proven how unfit for the job he was during his correspondence with Evfra. His updates at first were appropriately detail oriented - the layout of the ship and the crew’s duties discussed most. Over time his e-mails became longer, his personal feelings becoming more and more apparent. Details about his outings, the missions they were running and the crew’s relationship, lost their tone of indifference and began to read like journal entries.

The night - it was disorienting to remember that it had only been a few days ago - Ryder had been taken had been the worst night he could recall in recent memory. During the immediate aftermath, the tense extraction and furious activity that consumed the Tempest, he had forgotten that his allegiance first and foremost was with the angara. For a short time his priority had been Ryder and he would have done anything to get her back.

On Eos that all changed and the guilt he felt for forgetting about his people was overwhelming, and he wondered if it would break him. He had thought about asking Evfra to remove him from the post, but his own stubbornness wouldn’t allow it. He had already lost his focus once, the least he could do was sit through a lecture and return to the Tempest with a renewed sense of purpose. 

Evfra’s lectures were not easy to sit through, however. 

All that turmoil had been nothing compared to what Jaal felt when he walked into the medbay after Ryder had finally woken up. Her eyes darted to him the instant the doors slid open, her nostrils flared and the whites of her eyes tinged pink. She looked awful and his resolve sank. The urge to take her hands in his face, press color back into her cheeks and lips through the warmth of his hands, was overwhelming. 

Evfra had been right, he reflected briefly. Then he hardened himself again, remembering those same eyes gazing up at him moments before she punched a shockwave into his chest and sent him tumbling backwards. He had tasted metal for a few hours after that.

“Hey,” she croaked, the look of panic that had greeted him now contained. Was it hidden beneath a smile or was she actually smiling, happy to see him?

“You’re looking…” he paused, trying to think of something appropriate to say. “Well.”

She grinned and patted her cheeks with the back of her hands. “You’re a bad liar.”

“I suppose I am.”

The pause filled the space between them. Jaal stared straight ahead, looking at a spot on the wall just to the left of her cheek. Ryder shifted on the bed, leaned back and then winced, pulling herself up once more. He noticed the way her mouth slackened from the pain, her fingers knotting in the thin sheet over her.

“So,” she tried again, clearing her throat. She ran her hands through her hair, grimaced, and wiped them against the sheet. “Soooo….”

Jaal shifted his weight, his arms loose at his side. This was all familiar. Awkward silences as they both tried to figure each other out during impromptu visits in the tech lab. Only this time she was trying to gauge what had changed and he was trying to gauge what she was hiding.

He may have been bad at lying, but she was just as bad when it came to hiding her emotions. There was more than just discomfort and embarrassment playing across her features. She was thinking about something, her eyes narrowed as she examined her hands, her lips moving to mouth something he couldn’t understand. She tilted her head, as if listening to something, and a series of wrinkles appeared between her brows.  

Her attention snapped back to him, her face slackening again. “You don’t have to stand in the door,” she said. She folded her legs beneath her, sitting up a little more straight and motioning to the space in front of her. “I kind of want to, uh, say that I’m sorry?”

Again he felt a thud in his chest, his guard relaxing as he smiled down at her. He sat at the foot of the bed. “You have nothing to apologize for.” 

She shook her head and color flooded her cheeks, giving her a healthy shine that made her look almost normal. “I actually have a lot to apologize for, but that’s not what I meant. I want to apologize for what I’m about to ask you to do. SAM?”

“Hello, Jaal.”

Jaal’s suspicions flared and he hoped he did a better job in that moment hiding what he was thinking than she had just before. Despite his relationship - if it could be called that - with SAM, he was still inherently uneasy around the AI and uncomfortable with the thought of it lodged in Ryder’s brain.

“SAM, tell Jaal what you just told me.”

“Pathfinder, I wonder if - “

“I know what I’m doing,” she snapped. She winced at her own tone and closed her eyes, a ragged breath escaping between clenched teeth. 

“I have performed an extensive diagnostic of the Pathfinder’s vital signs and overall health. Currently, I detect a foreign body located just beneath her skin.”

It took a moment for Jaal to understand what he was being told. He looked between Ryder and the ceiling where he heard SAM’s voice. She was watching him expectantly, her brow furrowed and her mouth frozen in a smile.

He rose to his feet and started towards the door. “Lexi should be made aware of this immediately.” The logic of telling him rather than Lexi escaped him. 

“No, Jaal, wait!” Something in her voice made him pause and he ignored his better judgement, holding back and looking at her over his shoulder. She was on her knees, her hands reaching out for him across the space. 

“It appears to be doing no damage and was able to avoid detection by the ship’s local body scanners,” SAM provided.

Jaal turned to face her, his lips disappearing into a thin line.

“I think…” Ryder struggled to find the words, her eyes downcast as she tried to convince him to stay. “I think they knew we wouldn’t be able to find it on our scanners and they knew SAM would pick it up.”

They. The exiles. Or so he had thought. Exiles in the past had earned the ire of the Pathfinder and Nexus alike. Whoever they had been, they had meant more to Ryder than she was letting on. Jaal wondered if she had come to appreciate their cause after they had taken her, or if it had all been planned.

Regardless of how sick the thought made him, he owed it to Evfra and the Resistance to find out more. The Nexus and her people were guests in their galaxy. For now. If any of them became a danger to his people, even the human Pathfinder Sara Ryder, he would need to find out all he could before he was able to do anything more.

“What does this mean?” he asked her.

The color had gone from her face again and her eyes looked more red than they had moments before. “Promise you won’t freak out?”

- x - 

Over and over again Ryder heard Lia’s final message: “Don’t trust that the Milky Way is really that far behind us.”

SAM, for whatever reason, had decided that it was best to tell her, cutting Lexi out of the loop and leaving the decision up to her about what to do. She couldn’t trust the exiles, but she couldn’t shake the warning. If there was no one from the Milky Way she could trust, who did that leave? 

One very suspicious and agitated angara.

She had been present when Evfra agreed to let Jaal measure their worth aboard the Tempest, but she had never had any disillusions about Jaal’s loyalty to the Resistance and the angara. It had been safe to assume that he would have been reporting some things back to Evfra, or at least painting a clear enough picture that the Resistance leader knew what they were up to.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she thought maybe he had made room for loyalty to the Tempest and her crew as well. If he hadn’t, would he still be here after their encounter on Eos? He didn’t need to say anything for her to read all over his face that he knew who it had been beneath that bandana.

She had to prove to him that she could be trusted, and she needed to make it clear that she needed him.

“No,” he said slowly, “I will not… freak out.” 

If he wasn’t going to freak out that meant she couldn’t freak out, either. She had to just say it before she thought better of it. She patted the bed again and waited from him to sit. She sat on her hands to keep from fiddling with her hair and thought about how she needed a shower.

“You have to get whatever this is out of me. I know where it is, it’s in the original - you’re freaking out, I can tell.”

He shook his head but found something of greater interest on the floor. “I wonder if it isn’t best that we find Lexi? After all, she is a doctor.”

“Jaal, please. Think of this as an amazing opportunity to dissect an alien.”

He shook his head again but she saw the smile tug at the corner of his lips. “That is a bad joke,” he told her.

“I thought you might like that one.” This was good, it felt like familiar territory. The tension in the air softened.

“I will,” he said after a pause. “But only in exchange for something. What do you call it? Tit for that?”

“Tat,” she corrected. 

“Yes, tat for that. Agreeable?” 

“You get to cut into me, how are you not already getting something out of this that’s way cooler than any other opportunity you will ever have with another alien?” 

The tension was back. For a split second his eyes rolled to her shoulder, a look of distress washing over his features. She tried to turn away, wiggling to the side as if she was adjusting her sitting position and hadn’t noticed his gaze. 

“Agreed,” she said quickly. A change of subject and her willingness to accept his questioning would, she hoped, bring back the affable atmosphere. “I’ll even be a good sport and let you ask first.”

She was hoping to see his smile return. Instead he frowned and took a deep breath, his chest puffing out. He leveled her with his stare, his gaze unwavering and hard. She squirmed and realized that she had backed herself into a corner. He was going to ask her what she was doing on Eos.

“Listen,” she began, eager to get it right out of the gate. “I - “ 

“Could you hear the yevara? Is that why you went to the lake?”

“What do you mean?” The question caught her off guard.

“We received navpoints that would lead us to you. When Cora and I arrived, we found the remnants of a kett encampment. It had long since been empty, but someone had set up a heat lamp. I could see where you had been and then the trail leading towards the lake.”

“All I remember is being very cold and going forward. I don’t remember being taken to Voeld or why I kept walking.” She chuckled and pressed fingers against her trembling eyelids. “I don’t even know if I’ve slept the last few days or if I just keep getting knocked out.”

“The yevara play an important role in Angaran folklore,” Jaal said. The bed shifted as he moved and Ryder felt a finger brush against her knee. 

“Do they lead women through the snow and to their death?”

“No. They pull the sun out from behind shadow and part the sky to reveal the stars.”

“Am I the sun or the shadow?” she wondered, opening her eyes.

Jaal didn’t answer.

[amesbrisees]

‘ i would travel across the world to be by your side, because as long as you are with me, anywhere is a perfect place to me. '       ⤷ @attristantx​

The house feels empty at night, the room he occupies sits vacant of raspy voices uttering hushed whispers, denoted by his own evident drowsiness. Crystalline eyes cut through ubiquitous gloom and try to distinguish merging shadows, layers of darkness that bleed into one another so effortlessly, it feels like the walls come closing in. There are hallow ghosts sleeping under the ceiling, eyes peeking through the windows and half-drawn curtains in sinful secrecy. The malevolent reminders of a long time gone. One he’s impossibly reluctant to let trespass the borderline of the limits his head musters to wrap itself around. It’s crowded with rushing white noise and delightful voices of former lovers. Glum-looking company, birthed by the first generation of a beautiful yet pitiful degenerate youth. It’s all wasted potential, thrown further from him, where it would no longer be found; lost in the gutter in dirty side streets and placed by the feet of titans. They’re all just part of a game between mice and gods. He’s never seen the point. 

The blanket’s too heavy and the immeasurable cold keeps on rising to some extreme he can’t define. His eyes are open, impossible to shut. It’s a forsaken endeavor he knows better than trying harder for. Restlessly, he lies on a bed that’s not his own, the wooden frame moaning with each move, no matter how small and subtle it may be and he can’t help but wish to drown under the dark sky and the northern lights with someone by his side, whose company finds a constant appreciation. He draws a sigh into the dark of the room with a sharp exhale, before limbs twitch. He moves to get on his feet in languid motion, peels his body gravely from the mattress and the caress of warm sheets, and the cold only worsens. A bilateral shiver creeps down his spine. It sows subtle irritation, plants some bitter flavor on his tongue.

Floorboards shriek under the weight of a moving frame, measuring six foot and some inches. Draw tepid whispers into the somber ambiance of empty hallways. Steps of an old staircase announce his near to lethargic descent down to the main floor of a family abode, he remembers from the earliest of memories formed. The leftovers to recollect and pick from barren ground of his forsaken childhood days. He lacks strength to carry all that’s gone wrong on broad shoulders, all that his poor soul longs to undo and neglect, but somehow he keeps on moving, keeps on moving on and on.

Old furniture is tinted by the full moon’s wan light, turned into something radiant and glowing by it’s pallid sheen. It must be a clear sky outside. No heavy clouds or opaque smog lingering beneath the cope of heaven, obscuring the awe-inspiring view, exposure of bare blots of dead light, forcing their way through eons worth of history. He steps closer to an open chimney, old and confessing to be out of order for the past coupe of years, bearing silver frames propped on a sill’s narrow expanse. Tired eyes, yearning to latch onto something of shallow comfort, something, anything, to set his sorrow-ridden mind at ease. It’s all remembrance of lifelong wounds, smiling facades, a masquerade he can only now see through. Realize how sheer it’s all been all along, feel the weight of his heart pulling downwards, following the lead of a deep-rooted melancholy, sitting down in the bottomless pit of a hungry heart. The frame feels cold against his touch and with only the pallid moonlight to ease the straining endeavor on sore eyes, to find familiarity in a foreign concept, captured on the printed image. The picture shows a young family of three. A husband and his wife, his arm thrown around her waist casually, while she’s busy holding a young boy in a mother’s unconditionally warm embrace. They look happy. He knows better.

It’s difficult for him to put it into coherent relation. The vast differences painted in a contrast much too stark to realize that they’ve once seemed like anything but a dysfunctional mess. A group of people, supposedly bound by the unyielding tie of love, when time would prove all those endeared and envious false.

He hears the footsteps and turns around before anyone’s blurred silhouette seizes the brief time frame of opportunity to push through the shadows looming over the staircase. He half-expected his mother to take a stroll onto ground floor to keep him bittersweet and utterly pitiful company for just a few minutes, before he’d pull himself away from the night’s light and slip back beneath the cold sheets. But the frame is not quite tall enough to resemble a family member. One moment it takes. She moves almost hesitantly, almost as if she’s living in danger on foreign territory and lacks permission to set even the most cautious step beyond the threshold of the guest room’s door.

A prolonged gaze finds exchanged in silent seconds’ time and soft, utterly tired smiles are drawn against their pale faces during the same instant. When he turns, he does so completely, asking if she has trouble finding rest behind closed eyelids, in a nightmarish world of abandoned control, too. She affirms the persistent suspicion. Even if she’d have tried to deny the curse of evident sleeplessness they both brutally suffer from, the innocent white lie would have been about as transparent as the flawed reflection of a picture perfect family. Faux simpers worn to please and appease.

Slowly, he moves over, soles of his bare feet carry him further from the place for rusted memories, the picture still in hand. One move allows him to sink against the leather cushions of the couch, while Chicago’s nocturnes drown out against the thundering thoughts crashing inside his brain. His palm pats the empty spot next to him, his smile stretches a little further anew, a fleeting adjustment made in the most miniscule of ways. A faint change he trusts only her to take keen notice of. And it’s then, when she steps closer, still looking so unsure, though with an expression to match his, that he realizes he doesn’t like the nickname Jenny. At all. He misses awareness of inherent knowledge as to why this is, either. Just Jen helps make it all feel a little less weird for him to let her name roll off his tongue, after relief settled in between the tired rattling bones of his body. Strange train of thought, one ought to assume he’s used to the twisted ways of his own inner workings, by now. But there’s some kind of ridiculous contentment in knowing that he’s surely memorized her name well enough, and oblivion poses no further threat. He sometimes feels as if they’re two sides of the same coin, wonders how it can be that he’s found her, in the hidden spots amidst the billion people in a world as messed up as theirs. The odds always stay behind the boundary opposing his place. Adjacent spots in the dark of night, where he feels the most comfortable. He knows it’s the brightest lights that cast the darkest shadows, and he keeps wandering the world’s unfortunate pathways, losing himself in the narrow streets and hidden roads with exhausted unwillingness. Going on to tell himself that it’s yet better than standing still, frozen in one of countless bad places. A journey is only kind to heart and memory, when it’s shared with a trustworthy companion. That much he’s sure of.

He watches her with a gaze as attentive as it bears to be, in the wake of each waking hour the current cycle counts. The warmth of a body mere inches from where he’s sitting with god-awful posture, slouching to the point of stabbing back-ache, works magic. Muscles fall , tension fleets from underneath his cold skin – until she utters a question, the soft whisper hanging in the air like a broken promise. Is that you? She must have found familiarity in his mother’s features, as today Christa looks just slightly different from then. Older, wiser maybe, though unaltered by the touch of unfortunate change. When he looks down, he observes the picture that’s growing more and more foreign characteristics as he holds the countless details, making a humming-bird heart beat just a little faster to compensate familiar hurt, in his immediate vision. She parts her lips and he can hear the inhale. Daring preparation to bring vocal folds to proper function once again, though he cuts her short, before he gets to savor the bitter flavor of her uneeded apology. “Yeah, that’s me.” He hands it over for her to peer through the shadows their bodies cast, for closer examination. “And that’s my father.“ He says in deadpan intonation, just as though it’s meant to be missed – the distinct resemblance. A willful lump that’s sitting comfortably nestled inside his tightened throat like a wound-up coil of all things unsaid, pushes him dangerously close to the borderline, keeping him from almost hurting himself. It doesn’t sound like it. His sonorous voice rings too low and quiet to turn into a treacherous fiend, give all his late-night-secrets away.

He asks her to listen, not say a word. Goes on sharing history or rather pieces of it, bound into a story that’s known by select few only. About the strain pulling at the fractured bond between father and son, how there’s no way to find explicit coherence interlaced within the logic of a strange mind’s even stranger operations. He mentions that one time he’d found himself on the street with less than he brought along for their trip into the modernized wild. The night his home turned into a place he’s too foreign to return to, in the violent snowfall of late January. About the vain attempts to find a common ground for the sake of reluctant mediation, though with no success. How he doesn’t know why or how, can’t offer solution or reason. He speaks from a state of an uncertain kid’s incessant perplexity, slowly merging with resigned abandonment of hope, without ever explicitly suggesting so. His words are chosen wisely, with far more care on the denotation than he commonly bestows upon the forsaken undertaking of evading offense. He tells her about his mother and about how she’s been the one to turn to for rarely sought support, the one who also found herself in a dead-end-situation, in spite of her profession and the knowledge that comes with it. About how he feels so lost, like a shipwreck in the making, somewhere on the open sea with no company but the fear of inevitable capsize and a gruesome death by the malignant consequences of saltwater-lungs. And the last of confessions, he’s sure he’ll regret come morning light, is uttered so quietly he would be wrapped up in no notion of surprise, had she not understood too well. “Sometimes I think I remember what home feels like.” A swallow of pride, a thud of a worn-out heart; it might feel a lot like you. “Maybe it’s my own fault.” The stakes don’t matter any more. 

Sunken low into the cushions, his head droops atop the backrest until it’s all reduced to slouched posture and drowsy eyes. His head rolls over, crystalline eyes of cerulean hue fall victim to a gentle stare, almost hypnotized by the things he recognizes against the pull of the drawn shadows. Tendrils of blonde pull off semblance to ghostly white, doused in the reflection of broad sunlight against the moon’s surface. Contentment feels sacred when he breathes out, tries to find sympathy for a feeling he’s unused to. 

There’s something inside her. He’s sure when he glances back at her. Akin to a hopeful glint behind those dark eyes, one he longs to seek needed shelter beneath, bathe in the ubiquitous warming comfort. The glowing moon witnesses to the way he reaches out to seize her hand. the tips of his callused fingers brush along the lines etched into her palm’s membrane. They push and slip in between, nestle in skinned crooks. Intertwined touch and the silent resonant reassurance floods his system like a violent tide. Funny how a gesture this small can make the ache and pain disappear for the smallest while. 

They sit and he shares his silence with her, the lack of words bleeding into the tranquil atmosphere until there’s no telling how long it’s been, since voices were last raised. He wants to scoot closer but his tall frame is cemented on the spot, rendered immovable against the leather, that’s slowly easing into the warm temperature his body holds. And yet the cold won’t evaporate into the thin air growing heavy between the beating of hearts, longing for understanding and clearance of ill thoughts. The good in life and he swallows once more, over a thick lump that’s grown inside his throat. 

It’s him who breaks his promise of staying wrapped up in nothingness, with a mumbled whisper, rumbling upward from a scratching larynx, rasped with a moving sandpaper-tongue. “We’ll have to go back eventually, you know?” His eyes suggest an apologetic notion, a heavy sense of dreadful sorrow laced between the syllables enunciated with the slightest altercation of reluctance to his tone. They can’t keep on going forever, or much longer, before reality will catch up with them. Grab them in a crushing chokehold, pull them under the surface of raging water, cold malice. And when he looks at her, he’s sure he’d taste disappointment and the fractures on her frail heartstrings, were he to lean in and initiate a tender liplock. He’d take the words back if he could. A thought present for a moment only. “I want to go somewhere first, though.” A last destination on a journey through the doomed world of reprobated dynasties. 

I would travel across the world to be by your side. He hasn’t even told her the place he holds dear inside his head. As long as you are with me, anywhere is a perfect place to me. And the words cease to keep his features restless, pull on his lips and form them into a flashed smile, barely a ghost of what it might have been had it not been for the undeniable strain of tiredness and he feels clinically inept, like a light-headed idiot, wondering how much longer they had before the sun will rise and the sky brighten.

“What I told you about the stakes--” He shakes his head against the backrest’s cushion, expression faltering against a dawning realization, feeding him muffled fright. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter.” Commonly when there’s no fixing to the problem of flawed, human emotion. Treacherous attachment. A deep inhale, his voice lowering just a little more. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter if they’re too high.” 

[themoneybuff-blog]

External Validation and Personal Finance

I participate in a couple of online book clubs with a number of old friends (and friends of friends) who have been spread all over the country. In these clubs, we read a book a month and discuss them in an online forum with the understanding that we are exploring ideas and not necessarily trying to defend what we personally believe, but trying to understand the ideas better. Often, the discussions go far astray from the book itself, which is great. Anyway, a question was recently posted to one of my book clubs that has left me thinking quite a bit lately: Imagine that you were in a science experiment where you were cut off from society for ten years. You lived in your house alone and there was some space outdoors to exercise, but you had no direct human interaction, social media, texting, anything like that. If you wanted something, you could write it down and it would be given to you, so theres no need to work. How would you spend your time? The discussion about this question ended up boiling down to this: What would you do in a world where you had zero access to external validation? So, lets be clear for a second: external validation means that your sense of pride is derived from the approval others show of your behavior. Your sense of feeling good about something you did comes from what other people think of it, not from what you think of the inherent worth of what you did. On the other hand, internal validation means that your sense of pride is derived from your own internal sense of having done the right thing. You feel good about yourself because you know you did the right thing. Most of us go through our lives guided by a mix of internal validation and external validation. What if there was no external validation? What if there was no one around to applaud when you did something that they deemed good, and no one around to frown when you did something that they deemed bad? What would you do? Most of the answers boiled down to a few common areas. People would become much more casual with things that are minor social no-nos, like picking their nose. People would dig into hobbies that they think their current friends and family would see as too nerdy. Several people liked the notion of no longer mowing the grass or cutting their hair. As the discussion went on, I came to a quick twofold realization. One, most of the things that people said theyd stop doing had some sort of financial cost associated with them. Getting their hair cut requires a visit to the salon or the barber and often additional hair care costs. Mowing the lawn requires a mower and gas and often additional landscaping costs. A lot of the regular social activities that people mentioned involved spending money or donating to a cause they didnt care about. At the same time, most of the things that people said theyd start doing had virtually no financial cost associated with them. Many of those things involved just being more comfortable in their own skin. Some of them involved nerdy hobbies, but they were often things like reading or watching more science fiction or playing roleplaying games (which you can do for free). I thought about my own list. Ive already chopped down a lot of external validation needs in my own life, but I recognize that there are still a number of things I do for external validation. I would definitely spend less time and money on lawn care. I would wear clothes until they were even more worn than I do, because some of my favorite clothes are well-worn shirts and hoodies and jeans which just reach a point where I dont feel like I should wear them in public. Truthfully, I often wonder why I do those things. At previous points in my life, I often considered what others thought of me when I bought cars and gadgets and clothes and I sought their validation after the purchase. I would often go along to do expensive things like golf outings and expensive dinners just to get that nod of approval from others. What did those things really amount to? Nothing. Most of the people who I was seeking the approval of in those days arent a part of my life or are only in the most peripheral part of my life. The truth is that if you do things for external validation, your happiness is reliant on the approval of others, which is out of your control. If they take away that validation, youre left with nothing. Furthermore, chasing that validation is often expensive, causing you to buy clothes and devices and other things just to get that burst of validation. Whats the path out of that conundrum? Rather than doing things just because it pleases someone else, do things that bring value to you and fill your life with people who happen to also value those things. Here are some strategies for doing just that. Listen to your heart in terms of what you want to do and how you want to spend your money and dont simply do those things to please others. Trust yourself with regards to what you should do with your time and with your money and what the right decision in a given situation is. Do the things that feel right to you, the things that leave you feeling good without someone else giving you that stamp of approval. Accentuate relationships that accept you for doing those things; minimize relationships that expect you to do things for their approval. Naturally, you cant always do this you do have to listen to your boss, for example, and you have a commitment to some relationships in your life. However, in most relationships in life, you have a choice as to whether to accentuate that relationship or spend your energy on others. Choose ones that are supportive of the things that seem right to you internally and not the ones that insist that you make choices that dont seem right to you internally just so you can gain their approval. Whenever youre about to spend money, ask yourself whether or not this purchase is really for you or whether the effect is just to please or impress others. If youre buying something just so that someone else is impressed, strongly consider skipping that purchase and using your money elsewhere. Seek internal validation in the things you do, not the things you buy. Take pride in the books you read because you were interested in them, not the books you bought. Take pride in the health of your body, not in whether others approve of how you dress and how you look. Take pride in your actions, not your purchases. Stick to the golden rule when interacting with others. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Not only does it feel like the right thing to do which triggers that internal validation but because it provides a much better internal guide for dealing with others rather than just seeking their validation. Just treat others as youd like to be treated and dont worry about how others validate you. For me, that principle guides me to good hygiene and functional clothes, but it keeps me from buying expensive clothes to impress others. It guides me toward being friendly toward others, but being myself and happy with my own interests. Whats the core lesson here? Dont fall into the trap of spending money to try to earn some fleeting external validation. It wont last, and it often wont work. Rather, strive to maximize internal validation through your actions and cultivate friends who are on board with those same things that you find yourself doing. Youll still find some external validation, but its often right in line with the things that cause internal validation, too, and thats a good life to live. Good luck! https://www.thesimpledollar.com/external-validation-and-personal-finance/

[vdbstore-blog]

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Female facial hair: if so many women have it, why are we so deeply ashamed? | Fashion

Women like me have been keeping a secret. It’s a secret so shameful that it’s hidden from friends and lovers, so dark that vast amounts of time and money are spent hiding it. It’s not a crime we have committed, it’s a curse: facial hair.

What can be dismissed as trivial is a source of deep anxiety for many women, but that’s what female facial hair is; a series of contradictions. It’s something that’s common yet considered abnormal, natural for one gender and freakish for another. The reality isn’t quite so clear cut. Merran Toerien, who wrote her PhD on the removal of female body hair, explained “biologically the boundary lines on body hair between masculinity and femininity are much more blurred than we make them seem”.

The removal of facial hair is just as paradoxical – the pressure to do it is recognized by many women as a stupid social norm and yet they strictly follow it. Because these little whiskers represent the most basic rules of the patriarchy – to ignore them is to jeopardize your reputation, even your dignity.

About one in 14 women have hirsutism, a condition where “excessive” hair appears in a male pattern on women’s bodies. But plenty more women who don’t come close to that benchmark of “excessive” still feel deeply uncomfortable about their body hair. If you’re unsure whether your hair growth qualifies as “excessive” for a woman, there’s a measurement tool that some men have developed for you.

The Ferriman-Gallwey scale for the measure of hirsutism Photograph: Mona Chalabi

In 1961, an endocrinologist named Dr David Ferriman and a graduate student published a study on the “clinical assessment of body hair growth in women”. More specifically, they were interested in terminal hairs (ones that are coarser, darker and at least 0.5cm/0.2 inches in length) rather than the fine vellus hairs. The men looked at 11 body areas on women, rating the hair from zero (no hairs) to four (extensive hairs). The Ferriman-Gallwey scale was born.

It has since been simplified, scoring just nine body areas (upper lip, chin, chest, upper stomach, lower stomach, upper arms, upper legs, upper back and lower back). The total score is then added up – less than eight is considered normal, a score of eight to 15 indicates mild hirsutism and a score greater than 15 moderate or severe hirsutism.

The Ferriman-Gallwey scale for the measure of hirsutism Photograph: Mona Chalabi

Most women who live with facial hair don’t refer to the Ferriman-Gallwey scale before deciding they have a problem. Since starting to research hirsutism, I’ve received over a hundred emails from women describing their experiences discovering, and living with, facial hair. Their stories loudly echo one another.

Because terminal hairs start to appear on girls around the age of eight, the experiences start young. Alicia, 38, in Indiana wrote, “kids in my class would be like, ‘Haha look at this gorilla!’”, Lara was nicknamed “monkey” by her classmates while Mina in San Diego was called “sasquatch”. For some girls, this bullying (more often by boys) was their first realization that they had facial hair and that the facial hair was somehow “wrong”. Next, came efforts to “fix” themselves.

Génesis, a 24-year-old woman described her first memories of hair removal. “In fourth grade, a boy called me a werewolf when he saw my arm hairs and upper lip hairs… I cried to my mom about it… she bleached my lower legs, my arms, my back, my upper lip and part of my cheeks to diminish my growing sideburns. I remember it itched and burned.”

After those first attempts come many, many more – each with their own investment in time, money and physical pain. The removal doesn’t just make unwanted hair go away, it raises a whole new set of problems, particularly for women of color. Non-white skin is more likely to scar as a result of trying to remove hair.

Instead of reading or finishing homework on the car drives to school growing up, I would spend the entire length of the drive obsessively plucking and threading my mustache. Every day. – Rona K Akbari, 21, Brooklyn

On average, women with facial hair spend 104 minutes per week managing it, according to a 2006 British study. Two thirds of the women in the study said they continually check their facial hair in mirrors and three quarters said they continually check by touching it.

The study found facial hair takes an emotional toll. Forty percent said they felt uncomfortable in social situations, 75% reported clinical levels of anxiety. Overall, they said that they had a good quality of life, but tended to give low scores when it came to their social lives and relationships. All of this pain despite the fact that, for the most part, women’s facial hair is entirely normal.

If I know I have visible facial hair, I’m much more reserved in social situations. I try to cover it up by placing my hand on my chin or over my mouth. And I’m thinking about it constantly. – Ashley D’Arcy, 26

Meanwhile, my 95-year-old demented, deaf and blind Italian aunt sits in a nursing home, and whenever I visit, she points to and rubs her chin, which is her way of communicating to take care of the hair situation. That’s how I know she’s still in there and she cares. I hope someone returns the favor in 40 years. – Julia, 54

There are, however, some medical conditions which can cause moderate or severe hirsutism, the most likely of which is polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS, which accounts for 72-82% of all cases. PCOS is a hormonal disorder affecting between eight and 20% of women worldwide. There are other causes too, such as idiopathic hyperandrogenemia, a condition where women have excessive levels of male hormones like testosterone, which explains another 6-15% of cases. .

But many women who don’t have hirsutism, who don’t have any medical condition whatsoever, consider their hairs “excessive” all the same. And that’s much more likely if you’re a woman of color.

The original Ferriman-Gallwey study, like so much Western medical research at the time, produced findings that might not apply to women of color (the averages were based on an evaluations of 60 white women). More recent research has suggested that was a big flaw, because race does make a big difference to the chances that a woman will have facial hair.

In 2014, researchers looked at high-resolution photos of 2,895 women’s faces. They found that, on average, the white women had less hair than any other race and Asian women had the most. But ethnicity mattered too – for example, the white Italian women in the study had more hair than the white British women.

The percentage of females with at least some upper lip hair by race. Source: Javorsky et al, 2014 Photograph: Mona Chalabi

But more than a gender thing, for me my hair was about race/ethnicity. My hairiness really solidified how different I was from my peers. I grew up in the suburbs of Dallas. And although my school was pretty diverse, the dominant beauty norm was to be blonde and white. – Mitra Kaboli, 30, Brooklyn

These numbers might be helpful to women like Melissa who said her facial hair meant “I felt inferior, I was a ‘dirty ethnic’ girl”.

But giving reassurance to ethnic minorities probably isn’t why this research was undertaken. The study was funded by Procter & Gamble, the consumer goods company worth $230bn which sells, among other things, razors for women. They know that female hair removal is big business.

Over the years, as women showed more of our bodies – as stockings became sheer and sleeves became short, there was pressure for these new exposed parts to be hairless. Beginning in 1915, advertisements in magazines like Harper’s Bazaar began referring to hair removal for women. Last year, the hair removal industry in the US alone was valued at $990m. The business model only works if we hate our hair and want to remove it or render it invisible with bleach (a norm just as unrealistic as hairlessness – brown women rarely have blonde hair).

When did we sign up to an ideal of female hairlessness? The short answer is: women have hated our facial hair for as long as men have been studying it. In 1575, the Spanish physician Juan Huarte wrote: “Of course, the woman who has much body and facial hair (being of a more hot and dry nature) is also intelligent but disagreeable and argumentative, muscular, ugly, has a deep voice and frequent infertility problems.”

These signposts are strictest when it comes to our faces, and they extend beyond gender to sexuality too. According to Huarte, masculine women, feminine men and homosexuals were originally supposed to be born of the opposite sex. Facial hair is one important way to understand these distinctions between “normal” and “abnormal”, and then police those boundaries.

Scientists have turned their sexist and homophobic expectations of body hair to racist ones, too. After Darwin’s 1871 book Descent of Man was published, male scientists began to obsess over racial hair types as an indication of primitiveness. One study, published in 1893, looked for insanity in 271 white women and found that women who were insane were more likely to have facial hair, resembling those of the “inferior races”.

These aren’t separate ideas because race and gender overlap – black is portrayed in mass media as a masculine race, Asian as feminine. Ashley Reese, 27, wrote “part of my self-consciousness about my facial hair might also tie into some ridiculous internalized racism about black women being less inherently feminine”. While Katherine Parker, 44, wrote, “It makes me feel very confused about my gender”.

Some women are pushing back. Queer women – those who are questioning heterosexual and cisgender norms – are already thinking outside of the framework which shames female facial hair. Melanie, a 28-year-old woman in Chicago explained that as a queer woman “there is less of a prescription for what I should embody as a woman, what attraction between my partner and I looks like, which has helped immensely in coming to terms with my facial hair”.

Social media accounts like hirsute and cute, happy and hairy and activists like Harnaam Kaur are resisting these norms too, by shamelessly sharing images of hairy female bodies. And even women who aren’t rejecting these standards outright, feel deeply ambivalent about them. “I understand, on a rational level, how inherently misogynistic it is to expect women to be constantly ripping hair out of themselves, hair that grows naturally, wrote one woman who, like many I heard from, asked to remain anonymous. “But I can’t bring myself to accept it and let it grow.”

Another wrote “It’s one thing to be a little heavy, or short, or vote. But facial hair? That’s pushing it.”

I’m not about to judge any woman for removing her facial hair. Despite knowing that I don’t need “help”, I still go to see a beauty “therapist” each month. I pay huge sums so she can zap me with a laser that damages my hair follicles. I’ve signed up for a solution, even though I know that the problem doesn’t really exist. I lie there wincing with each shock as she asks me about my weekend and says “Honey, are you sure you don’t want me to do your arms too? They’re very hairy.”

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