#stop psychoanalyzing my methods

[badjohnspeakeasy]

Saitama facing his greatest foe; Christmas.

But seriously, it starts earlier and earlier, don't it?

Link

[zombiecowboy65]

2) An issue I have with Nora's writing is that she seems to think that what's good for one character MUST be good for every character? Abby was good for the Foxes? Let's make Jean live with her and let’s give her a Badass Moment/Iconic Line (which anyone who cares for Jean should absolutely HATE). It was the same with Neil, he dislikes any type of caretaker figure but we're supposed to read between the lines and think “Abby is different”. Betsy was good for Andrew? Let's have her talk to Jean (and Neil and again THEY are the fools for not accepting her help)

And then let's have all these strangers try to act like therapists too. Because that's what textbook "healing" entails, right? Being psychoanalyzed and pushed out of your comfort zone

But she had promised us a Jean with the Trojans so instead of keeping him in Palmetto she put him in a house... with Abby-like characters. And that’s how we got the initial super pushy versions of Cat and Laila

Another example is in TGR, the lunch with Cody, Pat and Ananya. Jean has an ED so he predictably doesn't want to eat. He's a relative stranger so the NORMAL reaction from the other three should be "ok man, eat later if you want, no big deal". But no, the others just make it worse. They are Trojans and Know Better. Jean is an ex Raven and being unreasonable.

They're not used to Jean's type of trauma so THEY are the ones that actually freak out. Ironically Jean is the one with more control over his emotions so he removes himself before he can lash out and hurt someone. But the Trojans always make a scene, always draw attention to Jean’s “failings” and how very not normal his behavior is

Someone said that all the Trojans come off as very self righteous towards Jean rather than rightfully angry on Jean's behalf and I haven't stopped thinking about it. It definitely wasn’t Nora’s intention but unfortunately that’s how it reads

It’s like they constantly put their own righteous feelings above Jean’s wellbeing in the moment. They always push and challenge Jean when he’s panicking rather than give him space. The Trojans aren’t malicious, but they are completely ignorant in this sense. But if you point it out you're the bad guy lol

Oh trust me I get that haha. I said I didn’t understand why the girls didn’t ask for consent ever with him and was told that I shouldn’t expect consent to explicitly be a part of Jean’s story 💀. Which, again, it’s like the bare minimum. When u meet a new person u don’t just start invading and crossing personal boundaries because you know they’ve been hurt in the past , and the fact that cat and Laila immediately started coming at him with hands and mouths is still unfathomable to me lol . And ok sure his trauma is with men, but again, they’re strangers. Never in my life would I have just started kissing my new roommates forehead or reaching for them without permission

I agree so much with that “they’re self righteous towards Jean rather than angry on his behalf”. Like Jeremy constantly says that he doesn’t expect Jean to let them get away with things and he’s surprised when Jean does, but he also was told “Jean will submit if you tell him to”. And while I don’t think Jean is submissive by nature at all, to have these random methods of healing be shoved at him by everyone but himself is kinda grating. (Ex: the bandaids on his hands. I’ve seen ppl think it was sweet, and it would have been if they literally deigned to ask him if it was something he wanted ever, but they never do. In this case it was simply: pick a hand to start with. Not , do u want to try it?)

They’re always making a scene, you’re so correct. Pat with the food, cat screaming about his scars in the middle of the locker room, which was insane. Even coach lisinski. Why on earth would u shove a kid toward a pool who u don’t know can swim? It’s a constant theme with Jean and it’s really annoying because with Neil ,Andrew’s pushing was almost understandable. There was an active threat and Andrew knew it and we knew it, even if the threats we were aware of were two different things. Here, with Jean, the threat is dead. And granted , the three of them didn’t know that, but they also didn’t know there was a threat at all.

And this is kinda where that “one size fits all” thing comes in, because honestly I’m still not convinced we aren’t getting Neil 2.0 with the way this series is set up. TFC and TSC were nearly identical in plot points and pacing, and TGR AND TRK too if I’m honest. Less so now, but now with the threat of whatever this baiting thing is , TKM and TSC 3 could very well go the same way. And I still don’t think Jean and Neil are similar, despite what Nora says. But her saying this is also why I’m not unconvinced this series won’t go the same route.

But back to the Trojans—it’s kinda like, oh well Kevin asked us to take him so now we’re entitled to everything he does. How he plays and acts, his trauma, etc etc. Also I understand they’re college kids and they won’t handle this correctly and I’m not saying I know what’s best or would handle it perfectly, either, but the whole team?? The whole team just presses and pushes and wants to therapize the guy?? Honestly they should be staying away from him, no? Especially after Jeremy said the freshmen didn’t trust him when he seemed a bit off?

Imo a lot of this series reads like why can’t u just be normal? And I agree. I definitely don’t think that’s Nora’s intention, but it’s how it reads.

(Also the Betsy and Abby thing —HOW Betsy is seeing him in CA is crazy, and HIPAA exists nowhere with this woman lmao. Abby frustrates me because she like cannot handle this job imo. “My foxes chose to fight back” after he was beat to hell and back. What is wrong with u)

[calciumcryptid]

CalciumWatches: Wandee Goodday Episode Three Live Reactions

Right to the fucking! You'd think I'd stop being surprised by this.

Necklace. :)

Oh, they are roleplay dorks. Yay!

It is theme song time! *dances*

We take this little break to add the theme song to my liked songs.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN GREAT SUNG IT?

Cher! Yei! CherYei!

Kao!

Cher clocking the missing necklace.

KaoDee Friendship = CherYei and Yak Brothership

CherYei are so married. I love them.

Kao psychoanalyzing Wandee. You go, you funky asexual.

Fucking Ter again. Go away!

I like the doctor lady. She seems nice. :)

I don't think these two know what friends with benefits mean.

I relate to Yak, because I too would focus on the lightbulb. I am an electrician-in-progress, so we are focusing on it for different reasons.

Oh, they're switches. Nice.

Cher! Yei! CherYei! Oh, that's not Yei. Boo! :(

Cher! Yei! CherYei!

SPRITE SOCKS? *wheeze*

This is totally how real people talk, and not poorly incorporated exposition.

Yei, I know you are chivalrous and it is a hot characteristic, but you bagged a rich man. Get on the money, and let him pay for shit.

Wandee is so cute.

How dare you make me cry?

Wandee is a good doctor.

These two are so cute.

I see we have some hospital gossip going on.

Fuck, Ter is here. Please make a good choice.

Ter, why do you look upset, YOU REJECTED HIM-

Dee, why did you stop?

You see, I want to believe Ter is a good person just a little tactless but I'm not sure I believe him about having no part in the rumor.

I love the two nurses. You go ladies.

KaoDee friendship my beloved.

Dee you could have put it a bit differently.

Friends with benefits and a fake dating plot? Ooo, things are spicy.

Oh, homophobia exists?

Yak, you've fucked him, you've done one of the gayest parts.

Why are they having a dramatic breakup? They're not even dating.

Yak forgot his necklace, the idiot.

Oh boy, time for second-hand embarrassment (I think).

Yei clocked the necklace. Yak, you idiot.

Wandee you aren't supposed to pay your friend with benefit.

Yak, you forgot to take your necklace back. Idiot.

CHER IS REALLY READY TO SELL YAK OUT FOR CASH-

CherYei my beloveds. <3

Hell yeah! Yak and Yei showdown!

Cher recording. You go my funky little businessman.

Yei defeated his brother with the power of money and love.

Wandee and Yak are so fun. I love this duo.

Funky music again, wonderful.

Hell yeah, hands-on flirting.

We take this break to watch the music video for the theme song.

I need to watch music videos more often. That was a treat (trip).

If they don't fuck in the boxing ring, then what is the point?

If it is over, than take back your necklace.

Fun fact, I am working out while I watch this.

I see Wandee is going for the please please please method.

JESUS CHRIST WTF I THOUGHT HE WAS FINE WHY IS HE GETTING FLASHBACKS WHAT THE FUCK HOLD ON WHAT?

Yak! You are here!

Yak is consuming those noodles.

I don't think you two understand what friends with benefits means.

Yak! You dork! Oh, fireworks. Pretty.

I don't think you two understand what friends with benefits means.

HELL YEAH LET'S GO YAK!!!

TAKE THAT DOCTOR VANILLA!

WAIT! WHY ARE YOU LOOKING? YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE!

Damn right, it was satisfying.

Cooking skills? Damn Yak, a doctor and he can cook? Marry him.

Nevermind. He can't cook for shit.

Song time!

What the hell is happening in the next episode?

Outro time!

[caxycreations]

So let me get this straight, @nope-the-weeb

One of the countries I write about, Dornum, is a very strict oligarchy that outright abuses the "common" species through propaganda used to convince them they're of less value, less skill, less intelligence, while the "rare elite" live cushioned, comfortable, "idealistic" lives. The elites actively abuse the lower class and put them through hell for fun.

Another, Ferus, is a democratic republic with a long history of riots to get what they want. The government works for the citizens through and through, constantly passing, changing, and removing laws as needed to be most beneficial to the citizens as times change and needs evolve.

And then there's Eikiria, a country that is, through and through, an idealistic one. Goods are provided by those who create, craft, and grow produce as hobby. Services provided by those who have a love and passion for those services. Social standing is determined by reliability and strength of character, with a natural disposition towards encouraging better behavior, and a patience for those still maturing.

So based on those countries, given I write about them often and writing is SUCH an indication of character, what is my political view?

I have one character duo, Cyrus and Devon, who are mortal enemies. They will not stop until the other is dead. I have written scenes with Devon graphically maiming, tearing, sawing, slashing, piercing, ripping, and otherwise just *absolutely eviscerating* Cyrus in every manner you can imagine, because Cyrus is just that hard to kill, all in graphic detail, while Cyrus is constantly killing his way through Devon's forces trying to get to him. Neither are above killing, Devon enjoys it immensely and Cyrus is entirely okay with it if it's in the name of the greater good, or if he deems it "deserved".

Another character duo, Luka and Olivia. Luka is a janitor at an elementary school, and spends all his time either watching the world go by from inside his favorite café, going on dates with Olivia, or working at the school. He's sincere, and genuine, and kind, and the children adore him because he knows how to get on their level and explain things to them in ways they understand. Olivia adores children as much as the children adore Luka, and is devoted to teaching them as best she can so they'll be prepared to go out into the world. Both are very parental individuals, and see every child as one of their own. They abhor violence in all its forms, preferring to talk things out, and rather than spank or physically punish others, they both opt to teach them a better way and why they were wrong to do it the way they did.

Another, David and Ryder. Ryder is quick-to-action, and prefers using physical methods to resolve situations, whether that's dealing a OHKO to the person causing the trouble or if it's just getting between a pair of fighters. He answers any call to action quickly, and is, at his core, a guardian of others. He cares deeply about people, and only uses violence as a means to an end, with the end being "help the victims, stop the problems", while David is too reserved and has too low a self-image to do anything so grand. David prefers to call for help rather than be the help, and while they'll step in if it's the only possible way, they are not a fighter. They are less comfortable fighting, and far more comfortable loving, offering their affections freely, be it a simple shake of the hand or a night of passion.

Based on these, given these are my three most commonly written duos, and writing is such a strong indication of character, what kind of person am I?

Because, see, you can read this, and you can spend weeks, months, years, psychoanalyzing my work to figure me out.

You will be no closer in ten years than you are in five minutes.

Because I am not these people. I am not Ryder, or David. I am not Luka, or Olivia. I am not Cyrus, or Devon. I do not rule Dornum, nor do I govern Ferus, nor am I an Eikirian.

I am a writer. My job is to take ideas, concepts, imagined scenarios, and put them on written display for all to read, so that it might inspire other writers, it might inspire artists, it might entertain readers, it might cause debates and spark curiosities.

My goal is not so deep as to turn my book into my manifesto. My goal is not so grand as to project myself for the world to see.

I see a thousand different perspectives. I see a million ways of handling any given situation.

Just because I write some of them down doesn't mean those are how I would handle them, and saying that people should "be careful what they write" because "it can speak about your own character" is how you wind up with watered down, soulless fictions with no depth, no consequence, no risk.

Nobody wants an ideal, perfect, sanitized world. They make for boring stories. "Jeremy woke up in his comfortable bed, like every day before. He had his favorite breakfast, his favorite lunch, and his favorite dinner. He worked his favorite job. He came home to his perfect house. He got a perfect night's sleep, just like every day before." isn't a good story. There's no conflict, there's no lesson, there's no ANYTHING besides "everything was perfect and good and safe."

A story doesn't need a conflict. It doesn't need a lesson. But it needs something. Whether that something is a lesson or a conflict, a goal or a purpose, whatever the case, it needs something. It's up to the author to decide what that something is.

But it needs something.

And when you tell people to "be careful what you write, it reflects on your character as a person!", you're essentially telling them to water down their ideas, to forsake their creativity in favor of some imaginary risk of being a bad person because they write about a bad topic.

Dornum actively practices eugenics, a practice which makes me physically fucking ill to write about, but to ignore that aspect of Dornum would be to water down the horrors of that country. Why are people so desperate to get out if it's JUST a caste system with no problems besides it BEING a caste system? Why are the citizens willing to fight and die for their escape if the worst that happens is "Well, I'm socially better than you are"?

What I am trying to say, in case it still hasn't registered with you is...

JUST BECAUSE YOU FIND A TOPIC UNCOMFORTABLE DOES NOT MEAN THE WRITER IS A BAD PERSON, NOR DOES IT MEAN THEY ADVOCATE FOR OR SUPPORT THAT TOPIC.

I will live, fight, and die on this hill and anyone who thinks written fiction reflects on an author's character needs to remind themselves Agatha Christie knew many, many ways to kill a man and wrote countless deaths and murders, but NEVER was a murderer herself.

Fiction does not dictate the Author's quality of character and, if I may be so bold as to speak from the heart for a moment so you CAN get an indication of my character...

If you think writing about uncomfortable topics makes someone a bad person, fuck you. Look at Junji Ito, writes and illustrates some of the most horrific things you can find out there, and they're one of the sweetest, kindest people in the world. Even Hayao Miyazaki puts "problematic" topics into the Ghibli films, and yet nobody is knocking at his door telling him he's an awful person for it.

Sorry for the long rant, this topic got me going and it was hard to stop once I started. Most of y'all can ignore this, I like to believe the kind of people that follow me aren't the ones going around trying to police authors on what they can and can't write. But if this passes your dash and you ARE the kind of person who tries to police it, give this a read, let it really sink in, and think about the fact you've been judging innocent people for doing their fucking jobs as writers.

I really think everyone needs to truly internalize this:

Fictional characters are objects.

They are not people. You cannot "objectify" them, because they have no personhood to be deprived of. They have no humanity to be erased. You cannot "disrespect" them, because they are not real.

[thankskenpenders]

Enerjak Reborn: Epilogue

It’s time to answer the question on everybody’s mind. How did Ken respond to Ian killing off Locke, one of his pet characters?

Well, the answer, as you should expect, is: poorly

Now, it’s important to remind everyone that Ken has not actually read the arc. He never read any of Ian’s run, to my knowledge. But his fans were sure to tell him all about it and ask him how he felt

Eventually, in 2010, two years after this issue dropped, we got a response from Ken talking about how he felt about Ian’s run. (Again, even though he wasn’t actually reading it himself.) Said response is worth reading in full if you’re interested in all this drama and Ken’s mindset. You literally get to see the guy brag about how he actively ignored what Bollers was doing when the two were sharing writing duties, as if this is a good thing that makes him a better writer. He also criticizes Ian for using the previous writers’ characters instead of introducing even more characters to the bloated Archie cast in his first few years on the series. But the relevant part to the discussion of Enerjak reborn is here:

“I especially don’t consider anything either does with any of the echidna characters – especially Locke – to be canon as neither created the characters nor established them in stories as the viable fan favorites they’ve become. No matter what Ian writes, he can never alter the fact that in MY universe, the events of Locke’s passing as depicted in SONIC #143 is canon. Anything he writes can easily be counter-written by a better story with an alternative solution.”

Let’s just brush past the very funny part where he calls Locke a “viable fan favorite”

So yeah. Penders was VERY unhappy with the way Ian wrote Locke, and the way Locke’s death in Enerjak Reborn meant that the timeline depicted in Mobius: 25 Years Later wasn’t the one true future of the series. He’s also gone on record saying that he thinks Ian didn’t get the relationship between Locke and Knuckles. When asked about Ian’s work, this has always been one of the major things that’s bothered him

On a broader level, his ramblings here are reflective of how he views comic franchises in general. A particularly illustrative quote from him is provided in the comments section below the article I linked:

“The only work I consider significant to any character is the work done by the original creators. Anything done afterwards by anyone else pretty much doesn’t count. For example, I consider the original issues of FANTASTIC FOUR by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby to be the only stories that matter in the entire run. Anything being done today is by writers and artists who are simply building off the work Stan and Jack originated. I apply this standard to just about every character I ever enjoyed over the years.”

This odd mindset explains a lot about Ken. It explains why he hates that Ian kept using his characters, and why he actively avoided building off of the work of his contemporary writers at Archie. I can see what he means on some level, of course. When another writer comes in and adds more novels to a series after the original author dies, I generally tend to ignore those. And I skipped a good chunk of Twin Peaks season 2 because it had less involvement from creators David Lynch and Mark Frost, making a lot of it feel like filler. But we’re talking about a licensed comic, one that had been a collaboration between multiple writers based on the work done for the games and cartoons from the very beginning. Ken was never the sole writer--he wasn’t even there for the first year--and he was writing stories centered around characters he hadn’t created like Sonic, Sally, and Knuckles. He doesn’t take credit for creating any of those characters, but the hypocrisy still seems to be lost on him

But of course, we’re not just talking about Ian’s handling of all of Archie Sonic here. We’re talking about Locke. And as Ken has said himself, Locke was based partially on his own father. And that’s really the kicker here

As I’ve said many times before, I try to avoid psychoanalyzing Penders and digging into his personal life. I don’t know the guy, and that’s his own business. But it’s hard not to when he literally says shit like THIS to fans

Locke is emotionally abusive towards his wife and son. Locke is also based on Ken’s dad. Ken refuses to see Locke as abusive, even though that’s exactly what he wrote, because that would mean acknowledging that his own father was abusive. So there’s always an excuse for why father knows best. It was a different era! They’re not humans! He could see the future! He might have hurt Knuckles, but it toughened him up, and he was always there for him in the end! The dad is never, ever at fault. The moms, on the other hands, are mere bystanders to the child rearing done by the dads. It’s just sad, really

I get why Ken would be bitter that Ian took this fictionalized version of his late dad, went “hey, this guy’s an asshole,” and then killed him off. I get why that would upset somebody. He wrote a very personal story there. But it’s not like Ian was pouring salt in a fresh wound--Ken lost his father all the way back in 1982. I know this because Ken literally dedicated the M25YL story about his version of Locke’s death to his dad. It had been nearly 30 years when he wrote this response to Ian’s work. That’s plenty of time to see a goddamn therapist instead of projecting all of your baggage onto Knuckles the Echidna and writing stories for kids about how you should never question your dad ever

The irony, though, is that Ian’s different take on Locke is arguably way more nuanced than Ken’s ever was. In his final moments, Ian’s Locke turns into this tragic figure who only realizes too late that the way of life the Brotherhood had raised him to believe was a mistake, that he had failed his son by passing those beliefs on to him. But he’s still held responsible for what he did. He’s a horrible dad, and the characters around him call him out for his failures, but you pity him for only now realizing what he had done

Ken, on the other hand, gestures at Locke doing horrible things, then tells you to forget about all that and stop questioning him. Knuckles pretends he has a totally normal Leave it to Beaver-ass father-son relationship as soon as they reunite in the Knuckles series. As an adult he thinks back on how great a job Locke did raising him, even though Locke literally took him from his mother, raised him to believe that his mother and the rest of his species were all dead, and then pretended he himself was dead for six years of his son’s childhood (among MANY other things)

M25YL gestures at those very same themes of not repeating your parents’ mistakes that Ian touched on in Locke’s final moments. Knuckles is raising Lara-Su very differently from how Locke raised him, and Locke admits that he wishes he had raised Knuckles differently on his deathbed. But his decision to suddenly admit wrongdoing in this flashback to his death feels unearned and arbitrary. Locke is never at fault. We cannot question Locke. Knuckles turned out fine, so don’t worry about it. Locke might regret the way Knuckles raised him, but Knuckles is not allowed to hold any ill will towards his father or question his methods whatsoever. We’re allowed to gesture at the idea that Knuckles doesn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the previous generations, but those vague mistakes aren’t allowed to be anyone’s fault. That’s just “how things were”

Ken would do a lot more than just complain about Ian’s handling of Locke on the internet, though. Because you see, the way Ian wrote Locke is commonly cited as one of the main reasons why Ken started copyrighting his work, right up there with Bioware basing the story of Sonic Chronicles partially off of the Knuckles comics without his blessing. And those copyrights, of course, were what started the legal battle that would kill off the original Archieverse

[mando-fando]

Chapter 3

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: Kinda anxious reader, but nothing wild

Summary: You decide to thank your savior on your own terms. It turns into something much more.

You were still waiting on the details of the shoot with Din, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Eventually, you decided to suck it up and DM him.

Just wanted to say thanks again for saving me from being trampled!

Nope, that wasn’t it. You deleted it and tried again.

Hey, thanks for saving me the other night at that party! Sorry if it turned into something crazy—the internet loves to pretend they have all the details.

There it was. Grateful, chill, slightly apologetic.

You stared at the message, waiting for a response longer than you’d like to admit. When nothing came, you locked your phone and decided to take a long, hot shower.

When you finally emerged from the steaming bathroom, you were surprised to find a response.

No need to thank me. You doing okay after this whole thing?

You smiled to yourself when you read his message. He had no good reason to care if you were okay, but he asked anyway.

I’m all good, thanks for asking. I’m accepting that parties in the Hills will NEVER be my thing. How about you? Everything okay on your side of the internet?

Not used to being tagged in so many videos that aren’t about cars. People are acting like I saved you from a bullet.

Your heart thudded a little harder as you chuckled. You took a breath, thumbs hovering over your keyboard.

Well, I hope you’re there next time I’m in harm’s way. Have you heard any more details about this shoot we’re supposed to do??

You psychoanalyzed your text as you waited.

I haven’t heard anything other than it being in the desert. You?

Nothing more than that.

You hesitated, then double-texted.

Well, if you want to grab a coffee or something before then, just let me know!

You waited. Refreshed the app. Nothing. You plugged in your phone and finally went to bed, thoughts spiraling.

The next morning, you reached for your phone before you were even fully awake. Your heart fluttered when you saw his reply.

Have you ever been on a motorcycle?

The message surprised you. Was he being kind, or was he flirting? You thought long and hard about your response.

Nope. I heard it’s a lot of fun though.

You tapped your thumbs nervously along the sides of your phone, waiting.

Interested in changing that?

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Only if you’re willing to deal with the wrath my manager would unleash if something happened to me.

You hoped he understood it was a joke.

Risk I’m willing to take. The helmet’s not optional, but I’ve got one for you. I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow morning. We’ll get breakfast. Dress warm.

It was simple. Direct. Sweet, in its own way. You pressed your phone to your chest and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The next morning, your alarm went off at 5:30. Despite usually hating early mornings, you jumped out of bed. You washed your face, put on light makeup, and pulled your hair back—low effort, still cute.

You pulled on comfortable jeans, a black turtleneck, and a thick jacket.

At 6:57, you were standing outside your apartment complex, trying to look casual as you checked the street. Your stomach fluttered every time you looked down the road.

At 6:59, a sleek grey bike rounded the corner. The rider wore a matching helmet and stopped right in front of you.

“Morning,” you said, stepping back a little.

“Morning,” he replied, turning to unhook a second helmet strapped to the bike. He unclasped the chin strap and looked at you.

“Ever worn one of these before?”

You shook your head. The helmet matched his perfectly.

He gestured for you to come closer and gently slipped the helmet over your head.

“It’s not too bad. Make sure it’s snug, but not too tight. Takes some getting used to, but you won’t even notice it once we’re on the road.” He adjusted the chin strap with ease. Even through his gloves, you could feel the warmth of his hands.

He was so methodical. So confident. On any other day, with any other man, you might’ve hesitated. But you didn’t feel an ounce of fear.

“Ready?” Din asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you said.

He took your hand and guided you onto the bike, showing you where to place your feet and warning you not to touch the exhaust. You nodded, taking it all in.

He climbed on, then reached back and pulled your arms tightly around him.

“Don’t let go. And don’t loosen your grip.”

Then he reached back again, hooked his hands under your knees, and slid you forward until you were properly straddling him. Almost every inch of your body was pressed against his. He smelled like leather, motor oil, and something clean and faintly herbal.

“Alright. We’re off,” he said.

The engine rumbled beneath you. Suddenly, you were flying down the road.

You couldn’t help but let out a squeal of excitement. His shoulders shook with laughter.

The ride was peaceful. You watched the sun stretch across the horizon in soft streaks of purple and orange. The ocean shimmered beside the cliffs, more vast than ever.

Eventually, you pulled into a small diner perched on a cliffside, far above the water below. Din helped you off the bike and you removed your helmet, bewildered by the site.

“This is one of the best views I’ve ever seen,” you whispered.

“I stumbled across this place years ago. The food’s great. And the best part? No cell service, no Wi-Fi. Cash only. No digital footprint.”

You smiled. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Din Djarin, are you gonna stand there yapping or come in and eat?” a voice called from the back door.

You turned to see an older woman in an apron giving him a stern look.

He raised a hand. “We’re coming, Peli.”

“How often do you come up here?” you asked as you started walking toward the door.

“About once a week. If I’ve got the time.”

You walked through the door of the diner. Peli smacked Din on the shoulder with a menu that was surely laminated in the last century. Walking into the diner felt like walking backwards in time.

“You brought this poor girl all the way up here with no food in her belly? I pegged you as a better man.”

Din must have been familiar with her banter, because he kept walking towards a table in the corner. He pulled a chair out and gestured for you to take a seat.

“How chivalrous,” you smiled as you scooted your seat in. He quickly took the chair across from you. Just after you sat down, Peli brought out two plates and set them in front of you.

“I hope you’re not picky. I didn’t think he’d be unwise enough to bring a picky girl up here, but if you don’t like something, just let me know.”

You nodded, noting that the server was no-nonsense. You’d probably eat a piece of roadkill if she served it to you out of sheer politeness.

To your chagrin, there were two sunny side up eggs, a side of bacon, and hashbrowns on your plate.

“This looks good,” You smiled at Din as you took a sip of your coffee. “Is this what you get every time?”

He nodded as he dashed a bit of salt on his hashbrowns. “Eggs and bacon is really hard to mess up, so that’s my usual order.”

You liked the simplicity of his answer. In fact, you were captivated by his presence. He was refreshing to talk to in every sense of the word.

“So,” you said, “how did someone as chill as you wind up in the influencer world?” you asked with a slight chuckle.

“It was definitely an accident. I have a knack for fixing things, so I started sharing what I know online. Too many people in the automotive world overcomplicate things, so I wanted to keep things simple and easy to understand. If I could teach one person how to do something on their own, that would be a success in my eyes.” He shrugged. “What about you? You’re a singer, right?”

“I definitely was, once. But it’s probably been a year since I posted anything related to music. It’s hard to explain…” you took a sip of your coffee and pondered for a second. “My old music teacher used to tell me that I have the talent to be a musician, but not the passion. It drove her nuts because she’d challenge me, and I would rise to every occasion, but if I lost my voice tomorrow, I would still feel complete.”

Din listened to you intently as you spoke. He took tidy, utilitarian bites. Everything about him was so measured and intentional. “So, you would not consider yourself a musician?”

You shook your head. “Definitely not. I would just call myself someone who has a talent for singing ridiculously high soprano notes and happened to post herself doing that at the right time to profit off of it.”

A smile spread across his face. “That’s an interesting perspective. For what it’s worth, I think you have a nice voice. Maybe you’ll decide to pick it back up someday.”

The morning carried on that way; you asked each other dozens of questions and they were each reciprocated. The conversation was easy, you never interrupted each other. You just clicked.

By the time he pulled up in front of your apartment complex, the sun was higher in the sky and the world had returned to its usual pace. You reluctantly pulled off the helmet and handed it back to him.

Your hair was a mess and your face was a little flushed from the wind, but you didn’t care.

You looked up at him, your heart unexpectedly full.

“Thank you for this,” you said. “I had a really, really nice time.”

He took the helmet from you and rested it against his thigh. “So did I.”

You hesitated, feeling like maybe you should say more. You tamped down the urge to fill the silence. You just smiled at him like an idiot.

“I’ll see you at the shoot, then.”

He gave you a nod. “Looking forward to it.”

And with that, he revved the engine and took off down the street.

You stood on the curb for another minute, watching until he disappeared. Then, finally, you turned and walked inside, heart still buzzing

Exposure

Long time no see, guys! Here is my Din Djarin/Mandalorian x Reader x Miguel O'Hara fic! Basically, it's an AU where all three are different types of influencers living in LA and getting up to shenanigans. If this is too outlandish, PLEASE let me know. I am still not quite sure where the story is going, but I like what I have so far! Without further ado:

Pairing: Plus Sized!Influencer!Reader x Influencer!Din x Influencer!Miguel

Words: 960

Warnings: drugs/alcohol mentioned, potential out of character, potential love triangle (there will def be smut later down the line)

Summary: You've been an influencer for awhile now. You've curated your content, gotten an agent, and built up your instincts to know who's worth getting to know and who's trying to use you for views. Nothing in the city felt real until you met him.

Despite living in California for two years, you still hadn’t gotten over the culture shock of attending LA house parties. They were always held at some rented mansion in the hills, with dozens of sports cars and luxury vehicles lining the streets. Everyone was hot in an uncanny valley sort of way. People did lines of coke like it was nothing, and questions like, “How many likes do you usually get on a post?” dominated the conversation.

You hadn’t even wanted to go to this party, but your manager insisted. She said that if you wanted bigger brand deals, you needed to stop being such a homebody. “Act like you want to rub elbows with the big guys!”

Frankly, you didn’t want to rub elbows with anyone—especially not after the way this city had treated you. You were a plus-sized lifestyle influencer. When you’d first started posting on social media, your content was mostly singing videos, with the occasional vlog or makeup tutorial. But over time, it had morphed into the same glossy, generic lifestyle posts as every other girl at this party.

“You can always come back home, honey!” your mom’s voice echoed in your head constantly. You’d been thinking about it more and more lately. But for now, you decided to carry on, as long as your content continued to pay the bills. Unlike many of the people you met at parties, brand trips, and pop-ups, you’d actually had a real job before your platform took off. You remembered the long hours, the aching feet, and the anxiety of payday—how you’d have only $20 left after covering rent and bills.

You’d gladly endure a room full of people with no self-awareness over going back to retail or restaurant work. You’d carved out your own corner of the internet where your fans were mostly supportive. You’d managed to avoid the petty drama, and you did have a few real friends who had your back.

“Hey, I think we’re mutuals on Insta?” a girl interrupted as you stared down at your phone, completely breaking your train of thought. You looked up, confused, having no idea who she was. “Oh, sorry, you’re not who I thought you were. Carry on, queen!”

You rolled your eyes and turned your attention back to your phone. Your manager had texted, asking how the party was going. You were debating whether or not to ignore her when you heard shouting.

“Watch out!”

Before you could react, someone yanked you backward. You landed hard against a steady body—whoever caught you hadn’t even stumbled. You turned, ready to snap, but froze when you saw what had nearly hit you: two guys fighting, crashing into the wall right where you’d been standing seconds earlier.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the adrenaline set in. You looked up to thank the person who’d saved you and found yourself staring at a tall, handsome man whose eyes were still trained on the chaos. His hands were still braced at your sides protectively. He radiated quiet confidence. His sharp jawline, strong nose, and calm intensity made your stomach flutter. He wore a fitted tee, a worn leather jacket, and black jeans.

The men who almost turned you into a pancake were still going at it. Your mystery savior stepped past you and broke up the fight with surprisingly little effort. Of course, a dozen phones were out, capturing every angle, every second.

That night, you found out his name was Din Djarin. He was an automotive influencer known for posting clear, step-by-step videos on how to fix different cars and motorcycles. He’d gone viral for never taking off his helmet—and never once acknowledging it. His following was mixed, but many fans were very vocal about finding him attractive.

Later that night, you sat in your room scrolling through his older videos. He struck you as quiet, calm, deeply intelligent—unlike anyone you’d ever met. You kept replaying the moment over and over.

So did the internet.

The algorithm did its thing, and soon your fateful encounter was everywhere. The viral video always started the same way: the camera on the two men fighting, then panning over to you in their path. Just before impact, a pair of strong arms pulled you to safety. Other clips showed how the fight started, and Din breaking it up—but the video of you was getting the most traction. “Influencer nearly crushed when house party turns violent” made for irresistible clickbait, and the views skyrocketed.

Your manager was thrilled. “This is exactly the kind of exposure I’m talking about!”

“Me, looking like an idiot who doesn’t know where she is, is good publicity?” you asked.

“Honey, haven’t you ever heard any publicity is good publicity?” she said, sipping her iced matcha as the two of you sat in an overpriced café downtown. “My inbox is blowing up with brands wanting to capitalize on this moment! I looked over the offers, and there’s a clothing company that wants to do a campaign with you and Din. The premise is really cute—it’s the two of you—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupted.

She blinked, caught off guard. Usually, you made her pitch you twice before considering anything. “Oh? You don’t want to hear the rest?”

“Nope. I trust your judgment. Just tell me when and where.”

You stood, ready to leave, heart thudding with anticipation. Excitement buzzed in your veins like you were a schoolgirl hoping to run into her crush between classes. Your chest tightened at the thought of seeing him again. Still, you took a deep breath and reminded yourself: you hadn’t even spoken to the man.

You just wanted to say thank you. Didn't you?

[sgtbradfords]

Lips like Licorice

A little drabble inspired by this post made by the amazing @inthemovingcastle. What if our favorite officer had a bit of a sweet tooth? 

If you happen to think of Candyman by Christina Aguilera and get it stuck in your head, I am not at all sorry. Any mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

At Mid-Wilshire, it was no secret that Tim Bradford had a sweet tooth. On any given day, you could always find some kind of sugary sweetness within reaching distance of the officer.

Ever since Angela and Tim were both recruits in the academy, Angela had long since kept a variety of candy in her duffle bag and soon, when they became boots at the Mid-Wilshire, there was a stash on the top shelf of her locker, making sure to keep a thorough stock of Skittles and Butterfingers (which were a favorite) for something quick and easy.

Though, he would not turn down most candies, he tends to stay away from Reese’s (eighth grade proved the cups do not taste as good the second time) and regular M&Ms (squished colorful pods of chocolate are difficult to clean out of uniform pockets in the desert).

Halloween was one of his favorite times of the year, not the 31st Day of October specifically, more so the day after. Every year, without fail, Tim could walk into the break room on November 1st and find the countertops littered with baggies of goodies that his co-workers had left from their children’s trick-or-treating festivities.

Angela keeps a small ziplock baggie of Jolly Ranchers, peppermints, Fireballs and Lemonheads stocked in Tim’s war bag. This was at first Isabel’s job, but when she went undercover it fell to Talia. Then Isabel went too far off the deep end and Bishop left. ‘Everyone deserves to be happy.’ She thought when she decisively made the task her own.

Sometimes the more challenging calls get to him, though he would never let it show on the outside, on the inside he was an emotional mess. More than once, had Tim walk back to his shop to find a small red bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms sitting in the driver’s seat, the sweet treat putting a smile on his face during the toughest of calls.

There were times when he questioned his friend’s methods, opening his locker after shift to find a full-sized Snickers bar, a sticky note attached to the top telling him “You’re not you when you’re hungry Timothy.” written in a familiar script.  He rolled his eyes, leaving the candy sitting until his next shift where he would give it to one of the officers coming in off shift. That was, until Lucy Chen came along.

It took some time since Tim was shot on her second day, but Lucy soon figured out about Tim’s sweet tooth within his first days back as her Training Officer.

Lucy covered her smile with her hand as she watched the city pass by out her passenger window, glancing out of the corner of her eye, watching as Tim fought to open the wrapper containing the Butterfinger.

“Need a utility knife sir?” She asked him with a smirk.

Tim glared at the latest thorn in his side (though he does have to give her credit, she did save his life) as the shop came to a stop at the red light in front of them. “You think this is funny boot?”

Lucy’s smirk turned into a frown as the light turned green and he signaled right, pulling the vehicle past a brick building and into an empty parking lot. Thirty burpees later, Lucy was thankful when they were dispatched to the report of an assault across the district.

Lucy had Tim’s sugar intake doubling which left Angela scrambling to keep her stashes thoroughly stocked. One night as they were getting off shift, Tim ran into Angela who pointedly handed the candy bar over, pushing it into his chest before she brushed past him, leaving a stunned Tim standing in the hallway.  

“Is that a Snickers?” Lucy asked as she stepped out of the women’s locker room. “I love those.”

Tim looked at the candy bar in his hand before looking up at his boot. “Here.” He said as he tossed the wrapped candy over, shoving a hand into his pants pocket as he walked away. From that moment on, anytime Angela felt the need to leave the caramel and nougat filled candy for Tim, the popular candy would end up in Lucy’s hands. And every time it was handed over the woman would glance around, giving a little happy dance when she thought no one was looking (she never noticed her training officer peeking around the corner) before making a detour towards the break room.

She thought no one knew about her secret stash of candy that was kept within arm’s reach (the baggie is taped to the back of the refrigerator) but the fact was, everyone knew. And after the events with Caleb and Rosalind, Lucy may have teared up when she came back to her secret stash overfilled with sweet new additions, not that she would ever tell anyone.

Though, during Lucy’s year of riding shotgun, there was one thing that she always wondered…

“You know, I don’t think I know what your favorite kind of candy is.” Lucy thought aloud during their last week of riding together. “Over the past year you’ve ate a lot of candy but never something consistently.”

Tim shook his head as he steered the shop down the busy street. “I’m not telling you, you’re going to think it’s weird and I don’t want you psychoanalyzing me Chen.”

Lucy scoffed. “It’s Candy Tim.”

The cab of the shop became quiet, save for the voices on the other end of the radio as they both watched the hustle and bustle of the city around them.  

“Caramel Apple Pops.” He said, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“My favorite candy, it’s Caramel Apple Pops.”

“Caramel Apple Pops.” She repeated back. “Are those the ones that comes in the green wrappers and are like, half brown half green? I think the last time I had one of those was in middle school.”

Tim sighed. “When I was in elementary school, I would have to stay after school for tutoring because they thought I had a learning disability. So once a week after my tutoring sessions had ended, I would walk home but not before stopping at the store across the street. My mom would give me a few dollars for helping around the house and I would use the money to buy a bag of Caramel Apple Pops.”

“You would eat a whole bag of lollipops by yourself?” She asked in amusement. “I bet your mother loved that.”

“I never said I ate them by myself Lucy,” He scoffed as the dispatcher on the other end addressed their unit, Lucy reaching for the radio. “I shared them with my sister.”

And if on her last day as his boot, she hid a bag of Caramel Apple Pops in his locker, who was she to tell?

[liberalfartsdegree]

seeing a number of people here and elsewhere talk about NBC’s H*annibal series in terms of trans politics with largely 2 main sub-themes: 1. that the relationship between the two central characters “feels” t4t and 2. that the story captures something “trans” in the way that it deals with social ostracism, violence, and (ostensibly) the relationship between creation and destruction. 

To the first, I’ll say that I too am not immune to pointing at characters on TV and saying “that’s trans” for fun, and it can be fun to look at villains for that moment because its satisfying or whatever. 

But to the second, and the way in which it connects to the first, I’m profoundly sad about the way that it sounds like people are connecting to it. The article I’ve seen a lot of people float is about “creation through destruction” focalized through the writer’s experience of their top surgery and DIY piercing/tattooing experiences. I guess I’m struggling with the contiguity that’s established between those practices, and the kind of “self-making” (which isn’t always non-violent) that trans people often go through with the kind of violence on that show. Full disclaimer, I had to turn it off--I couldn’t bear to “read around” the way that psychological abuse and cruelty was the only way to express needs and desires, not to mention the unmitigated gore of the show I found very challenging. 

It reminds me of my experience of reading Nietzsche--which the show references explicitly. The afterlife of Nietzsche has a weird multivalent presence. On face, Nietzsche is a violent racist, misogynist, anti-semite, white-supremacist, etc. and his philosophy explicitly and repeatedly invokes violence in every manifestation as a means of accessing and reinforcing power. However, in reading Nietzsche, ESPECIALLY in “enlightened” contexts with other readers (who I respect and trust! I’m talking about smart people doing good faith readings) there is an explicit desire to recover Nietzsche--to say “well, but his method” or “yes, and his structure of thinking is still useful.” I can’t fully reject this approach either! If nothing else Nietzsche developed a genealogical method that was instrumental in the kinds of reading that I care about. But The real task is’t to stop there, it can’t be to stop there, because we have to hold in our mind the fact that these meanings we can read in the text are co-constituted by the most repugnant and violent imaginings possible. 

Looking at the moment that hannibal is having, my first thought was a question--why are so many people who I would like to consider myself in community with (young AFAB trans people) finding solace in this show that I can’t bear to look at? The article (which I’m not linking deliberately because I am reflecting, not trying to start discourse) seems to be in good faith--I fully believe the writer finds immense power in what they called the “creation from destruction” they read in the text. There was a slip in the discussion though--the writer saw the cutting into of their own body reflected more in the psyches of Hannibal and Will Graham instead of the actual destroyed bodies depicted on screen. I think that’s super interesting if deeply sad: the body was externalized to the dead bodies on the show, while the mind was transposed into the cerebral lead characters. 

I don’t care to psychoanalyze that too much. Like, is it because AFAB trans people I’ve seen tend to connect with stories about the externality of bodies as a way to process dysphoria and lived experiences of misogyny etc? Sure maybe, but I think that kind of symptomatic reading strikes me as almost self-indulgent (that old tumblr meme about ‘some people need murder to cope’ comes to mind). 

I guess I’m just seeing a confluence of something here--and I don’t know how to name it without spending more time on this than I need to--which comes down to a sense that the body is a vehicle for psychological distress and that modification (”creation out of destruction”) of the body is reparative, held at the same time that the body is only ever external to the mind, and seeing violence done to bodies is ok as long as it creates something for the mind seeing it. 

And that’s just not true!!!! I mean like, everyone’s reading and life experience is different and there’s no one way to “be” trans and I’m not trying to prescribe a way of being for anybody. But like reading Nietzsche, taking that message out of that show seems to ignore the horrific, repugnant violence which is  its precondition. I think it’s essential to see the elision between the violently dismembered bodies in the show and the creation/destruction of Will Graham (and I’m not even getting into the psychological violence Hannibal does against him which is nightmare-inducing). Transposing that onto the self seems to miss that key slippage in the show between “bodies that matter” (thanks judy) and the ones that don’t. Taken in real life, either the person’s own body becomes the site of this violence (as happened in the article) or the violence becomes externalized to an Other who matters even less than the person doing this reading (wherever abjection settles itself--from t*kt*k it seems like these readers are nb AFAB people who are trying to negotiate their own expressions of gender within their attachment to femininity who often direct this need for violence against “masculine women” whatever that means)

ive spent way too long on this idk just like what would it be like to experience your dysphoria as contiguous with your experience of yourself and with your embodied experience and recognize the urge to violence as predicated on a construction of something abject, and to instead reject that and start over from a place of care

(and im not subposting at you @ keneinahora if you see this--of course I’d love to hear your thoughts if you want to share them, but this isn’t intended as a weird passive-aggressive callout. I hope that it’s clear from writing this that I’m not addressing any single individual and the value that media has on an individual scale). 

[doctorlaelia-ffxiv]

take a break.

I know each time I find an excuse to not sleep, or an excuse to not stay still, that I’m hurting Cato. It makes me feel like a monster. 

He begs me to take a break. I tell him that I can’t. If I take a break, it feels like everything will start to fall apart even more around me. If I decided to psychoanalyze myself, the words ‘trust issues’ would flash red in front of me. In these changing times, there is so little that I’m in control of. My homeland is being torn apart by war, and while there’s a part of me that hurts for that...

It hurts more that I am not the one leading the charge in bringing my younger sisters out of danger. It hurts more that I am comfortably situated in a cozy apartment with a dog and a loving man while the people I live are gods-know-where, out of my reach, left to people who don’t know them as I do... who don’t love them as much as I do. 

Everyone tells me that they need me at home. They need me to be here, to be glue or a rock, but... 

I can’t help but feel that everyone but Cato forgets that I, too, am a person. I feel things. I suffer. I bleed red if you cut me open. Just because I can maintain my composure doesn’t mean that it isn’t a struggle. Just because I am the “impeccable lux Caelius” doesn’t mean that I don’t feel agony at not knowing the state of things. My sisters, my beloved baby sisters, my mother - I don’t know where they are. Are they even alive? Are they wounded, bleeding in a place they don’t recognize, afraid? 

Even if I did get to run to them, to find them... They think I’m dead. Would knowing I’ve been alive this whole time only do more harm than good as they try to get to safety? 

The Benes family will take care of them. I know that. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my precious family is safe with them all. Celia is working hard. But it feels a lot like letting someone else in the operating theater, someone I’ve never worked with or tested before. I was scolded for always doing everything myself, even surgery prep - even just shaving the heads of my patients. 

Trust issues. Control freak. 

I’m not in control of this situation, and it frightens me. It paralyzes me, and the only way that I can combat it is to be non-stop. 

I take every single solitary patient, from those in desperate need of surgery to those with just a cough. All night, I stay up working on theories and essays and writing and re-writing medical journals. Every textbook I own has been edited with practices I think would be better, and I write my own research once, twice, three times, going over it relentlessly to make sure there’s not a singular error. I write down new methods to use for when, eventually, my Garlean machinery breaks down and I have to find alternatives in this world that is, for all intents and purposes, technologically dark. 

And in my selfishness, in my desire to not be afraid, to not like a single crack show... I worry the one person who understands me better than anyone else. He knows that I’m only a person, not some infallible, untouchable creature. Cato has to watch the strain, the exhaustion, the endless hours away from home to be in the clinic instead. He’s afraid, too, for his family. And gods help me, I try to be there for him, even if I’m tight-lipped about my own fears, only letting them slip when I’m half a bottle of wine in. 

Does he regret this? I have to wonder it. Cato has always been the man of my dreams, but am I failing him, now? Is he with me out of kindness, out of concern of what would happen to me if I was not being monitored? 

Even that thought makes me feel more like a monster. Doubting Cato’s love... I need sleep. I know he’s right. I know I need to take a break. 

What happens, though, when I stop to breathe? Will I fall apart? Will I stop being able to put on this brave face? Will I fail everyone even more than I already have? There’s so much work to do. I have to be the one to do it.

Take a break, Cato’s soft voice asks me, his hands on my shoulders. Just for a little bit. Take a break. We can go anywhere you want. 

I want to cry. I want to scream and let everything that makes my heart heavy fall from my lips. But I feel like machinery, programmed only to protect. I smile and lie through my teeth that I’m okay, that I’ll take a break soon. And I watch as I hurt Cato, and I know that I don’t deserve him. He deserves better. 

Something has to give, and I know that that ‘something’ is me.  (( @benes-diction​ for mentions! )) 

[nitewrighter]

Like every couple i figure Genji and Mercy would have some arguments. Do you think they could have a really big dispute ? What would it be about ? Maybe a little fic about it ? :D (sorry if my english is bad)

—–

 They were both tired. Genji had been off-watchpoint on several missions that had taken days at a time, only to return to the watchpoint to find Mercy pulling all-nighters at the lab. He couldn’t blame her, exactly–and what could he ask her to do? Put her lab work on hold so she could coddle him? With Talon breathing down their necks? That was one of the hard parts about loving someone so devoted to their work, someone who insisted on shouldering so much of the team. He was used to distance with her, more used to than he liked to be, but on the third night he found himself alone in their apartment, he decided enough was enough.

Usually Genji treasured their late-night talks in the lab, but tonight the lights overhead were cold, sterile, flickering and annoying.

“…still working on the Reaper samples?” he leaned his head into the lab.

“Nanites, and yes. Sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner,” Mercy was frowning through her microscope, 

“It’s okay,” said Genji, leaning on the wall of the lab.

A few beats of silence passed between them.

“So,” said Genji, “How goes progress?”

“It’s difficult to say,” said Mercy, still looking through the microscope, “From what I can tell, without biotics or a stable host body, or, cloud, the nanites quickly destabilize. They affect human cells like a retrovirus, essentially rewriting it to be able to switch between an organic and a nanite state, so the question is, how can I force nanites back to an organic state?”

“They would… probably need to be a part of their host body to do that?” Genji suggested.

“Maybe I could replicate the neurological signal,” Mercy muttered, more to herself than to Genji, “But presumably neurological cells are converted to nanites as well… ugh!” she pulled up from her microscope and rubbed her eyes, “The nanites can’t seem to infect themselves cross-species, I can’t make rat nanite cells from scratch, and even if I could make a nanite-infected rat, I still don’t have any idea what compounds were used in the SEP program and–and–!” she grunted in frustration, “I’m going in circles.”

Maybe it was the jet-lag from the last Orca trip, but the words fell out of Genji, “If you’re going nowhere, you don’t have to keep going, Angela.”

Mercy looked up at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I know nanites as a technology is a big threat, but it’s one only wielded by Talon. If we just… focus on taking out Talon, then we take out nanites along with it,” he shrugged, “Seems fairly straightforward.”

“…you’re saying don’t bother figuring out what went wrong with Reaper, and just kill him,” Mercy said flatly.

“Well… he tried to kill us,” said Genji.

“I can’t believe you,” Mercy brought her eyes up from the microscope, “I can’t believe you—!”

“I’m only saying it’s okay to back down from—”

“This is my technology, Genji! I have a responsibility to it! I’m the only one who can figure out a cure for him!”

“You said this wasn’t about curing him! You said this was about stopping his condition before Talon could replicate it!” Genji paused, “I mean, and considering they have Moira, it’s not unlikely they haven’t already replicated it.”

Mercy visibly bristled at the mention of Moira and Genji realized what he was saying wasn’t alleviating her annoyance in the slightest.

“I do have to do this, Genji,” said Mercy, pacing around the lab counter.

“You’re burning the candle at both ends, it’s already impacting your infirmary work here on the watchpoint, if it starts impacting your performance on missions–”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You missed two appointments with our fellow agents because you were busy with that… stuff–”

“These nanite samples are time-sensitive! God forbid one of the junkers is stuck with the sniffles for another day though!”

“…Angela, you’re obsessed,” Genji said flatly.

“Obsessed!?” fury deepened her voice.

“You would never put something like this over a patient! I know you still feel guilty about what happened at Zurich–”

“Stop–stop–don’t–don’t pull that Shambali nonsense–”

“Nonsense!?”

She huffed. “You know what I mean–”

“Oh so because I’m able to grow past my problems in a way you can’t control, then it’s nonsense!”

“NONSENSE IS YOU PSYCHOANALYZING ME ON SOMETHING YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA ABOUT BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T THERE!” Mercy shouted and then immediately caught herself. She shut her eyes and furrowed her brow, taking a few breaths to try and collect herself. “Genji–Just… let me do my work.”

“I’m worried about you, Ange–”

“Please.”

Genji took a deep breath. “I’ll be back at the apartment.”

—-

Mercy didn’t come back to their apartment that night. She swore to herself she would just take a quick power nap on the couch in the break area near the lab, and ended up passing out. She slept until a shaft of sunlight fell on her through one of the windows, then grunted in her sleep and turned away from it, only to have a warm liquid splash on her side, sending her awake.

“Hey!” Mercy looked at the tea stain on her lab coat.

“Good morning,” Ana stood over her.

Mercy rubbed at her eyes and sat up, “Unless it’s an emergency, Lúcio is fully capable of looking after the infir–”

“This isn’t about the infirmary,” said Ana.

Mercy’s brow furrowed and she pulled herself up further, no longer splayed across the couch and allowing Ana to take a seat next to her. Ana sipped at her tea.

“Here’s the thing,” said Ana, “The insulation between your lab and Athena’s main monitor room is very thin. And Jack and I tend to burn the midnight oil just as much as you.”

“Ach du scheisse–” Mercy pressed her hand against her forehead, “You didn’t–”

“Jack passed out. I heard the whole thing,”

“Well it wasn’t any of your business–”

“Overwatch consumed one of the greatest loves of my life, Angela. It consumed both of Jack’s,” said Ana, “I think we all learned too late that half the fight is making sure the team is all on the same side.”

Mercy made a face.

“It seems obvious, but it isn’t. Not as much as you’d think. We’re all here because we want to stop Talon, but some of us have different ideas as to what stopping Talon looks like. Some of us get frustrated with the methods of the organization as a whole. I don’t think I’ve properly expressed to you that that’s why Jack and I value you as a part of this team now more than ever.”

“Because I hated the militarism of the previous Overwatch?” said Mercy.

“And you were well within your rights to. But now,” Ana clasped her hand around her teacup, “I… I don’t believe that, as an organization, we’ve ever been as single-minded as we are now.”

“…and this has, what exactly, to do with my fight with Genji?” said Mercy.

“What you and Genji have was forged in Overwatch’s fight. It’s not like the relationships Jack and I struggled to keep alive through the Crisis. It’s not part of a world we struggled to keep alive even though we knew our circumstances would leave it forever changed. It’s yours. And I can’t, in good conscience, let you make my mistakes.”

“Your mistakes…?”

“Pushing people away when you’re at your most scared,” said Ana, “Fearing the loss of the things you love so much that you sacrifice that love.”

Mercy snorted. “I’m not scared—”

“Work can be one of the few places we feel control. More than our relationships–”

“More than a watchpoint full of idiots constantly hurting themselves…” Mercy said quietly, but then she huffed, “More psychoanalysis—”

“Angela you should know by now this whole organization is a mess of traumas and neuroses,” said Ana flatly, “Fighting Talon is important–taking back your creations that talon has corrupted is important… but so is the life you’re fighting for.”

Mercy bit the inside of her lip. “I really bit his head off, didn’t I?” she muttered.

“Well to be fair, it wasn’t very thoughtful of him to just shrug off weeks of work for you like that and reduce our fight with Talon to something that simple, but yes. You bit his head off,” said Ana, “But Angela–this is the most important question: do you still see a life with him beyond this fight?”

“The… fight we just had…?” Mercy’s brow crinkled.

“The fight with Talon,” said Ana.

Mercy tucked her hair back. “Sometimes it’s so hard to imagine that this fight could someday end…” she said quietly, “But… when I come home to him… I know there’s no one else I’d rather see.”

Ana gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Take a nap and a shower,” she said, “Then extend the olive branch.”

“You threw tea on me,” said Mercy.

“A necessary sacrifice of a perfectly good cup of darjeeling to get your head out of your ass,” said Ana.

Mercy smiled weakly.

—-

Genji was meditating in his usual spot overlooking the sea cliffs when his visor brightened with alertness. He looked over his shoulder to see Angela standing a few feet behind him.

“Are my footsteps that loud?” Mercy asked quietly.

“No I just… I’ve… gotten good at telling when it’s you,” said Genji, turning back around to look at the horizon.

“Can I…?” Mercy started.

Genji glanced over his shoulder at her again, then scooted over to let her sit down next to him. She took her seat and another few beats of silence passed between them. Not tense, like the last time, but tired.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry for yelling at you and calling what the Shambali did nonsense. I don’t think it’s nonsense. I was just…angry.”

“I was treating you like a child,” said Genji and Mercy perked up.

“I was acting childish,” Mercy returned.

“No, I mean–well, yes, but… I was dealing with you the way Zenyatta deals with me, and I’m not your teacher. I’m your partner. And trying to take back your work from Talon, trying to undo what Talon did with it… that’s not an obsession, and… you put in so much work, it was callous of me to just say you should walk away from it,” he pressed his fingers to the catches of his helmet and took off his faceplate, showing his scarred face, “So I’m sorry too.”

“I was definitely more of the asshole though,” said Mercy.

“It’s not a competition Angela,” said Genji with a slight smirk. 

“Do you think I’m controlling?” asked Mercy.

Genji blinked.

“You just… that part about the Shambali being something I didn’t control…” Mercy trailed off, “If you need more space–”

“I wanted you to quit poring over those nanites because I missed you,” said Genji smiling a little, “Well, that and the infirmary and the lack of sleep… But… I don’t think you’re controlling. I think… the way we’re living now, it’s very easy to feel like things are beyond our control, so we take what we can get. In your case you dive into work and in my case I withdrew from the situation and ended up coming off as… a condescending jerk who treats you like you’re unstable.”

“I was on hour 33 without sleep. I don’t think you could call that stable,” said Mercy with a smirk.

His smile faded, “I am still worried about you though.”

“Mm,” Mercy nodded, “I’m… I’m glad you are. I mean, I’m not glad you’re worried, but I’m glad I have you in my life to care about me like this. I was thinking… I’d put the nanite samples on ice for a while.”

“Would that work?” Genji tilted his head.

“Well, if Mei could survive, presumably we could find a way keep those cells stable. I just have to be willing to ask for help,” said Mercy, “If I’m getting nowhere pouring all this hours into obsessing over them, I probably need to step back.”

“You don’t have to do that for my sake–” Genji started.

“I’m doing it for our sakes,” said Mercy, “It wouldn’t be that long, anyway. Enough to get back on top with infirmary work and…” she glanced over at him, “Get back in touch with what I’m fighting for.” 

“And sleep,” said Genji, “Please.” he pressed his hands together in front of himself, “I’m begging you. Please sleep.”

Mercy snorted. “Fine, and sleep.”

Genji smiled and let his hands relax into his lap again.

“Genji?” Mercy spoke up again.

“Mm?”

“Do you see us having a life beyond this fight?”

“…the fight we just had?”

“No, the big fight. The Overwatch fight.”

“Remember that time we were at that gala, and we pretended we were married and I gave us three kids and a dog?” Genji arched an eyebrow.

Mercy snorted. “You were serious about that?”

“Well, not that serious but I did like the idea of it. Just… us having that little life together. Or maybe I just like the idea of making the Shimada clan roll in their graves by being a ninja-turned-househusband.”

Mercy grinned.

“But… to answer your question, yes,” said Genji, “A life with you is one of the things I’m fighting for. I mean, yes, of course there’s ‘Talon is evil and must be stopped’ but also I love you. And you want to see a kinder, more peaceful world. I want to see that world with you.” He reached over and took her hand.

Mercy’s eyes were wet and shining again. she blinked a few times and rubbed at them. “I love you too,” she said, smiling, “So we’re… all right?”

“We’re all right,” said Genji, “But, if you ever need to talk more about it…”

Mercy smiled. He gave her hand a squeeze and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“So we should probably call Mei to get some cryo storage for those…” Genji glanced down to see Mercy had closed her eyes and her breathing had slowed. He smiled a little. A short little nap probably wouldn’t hurt.

[redafi]

Sometimes i am overly aware of the fact that i have severe trust issues and absolutely no reason for them

like…. Why is it so important to me that my… friends(?) don’t know any of my fandoms beyond the most pg but also age appropriate ones

several of them are into mha, so ill send stuff from that fandom for example, but i panic sending anything from a fandom i know none of them know….

give me a minute while i begin to psychoanalyze myself lol, i havent really slept properly in a while so the mental issues are hitting harder than usual:

(hey this could possibly trigger you if you aren’t on good terms w your parents or any other authority figures. Be careful okay?)

theres just a part of me thats terrified that if my friends(?) know, information on my fandoms will somehow get back to my parents… and my understanding of my parents opinions tends to be shaky at best

in the past, ive gotten the following information (i dont agree with it, to be clear):

- lbgtq+ ppl *apparently* do not need even as much representation as theyre getting, and it apparently doesn’t make sense to support people who do show that representation because it doesn’t tend to be good representation. This came up in a conversation about shipping because both my sibling and i tend to lean towards more common ships…. Which tend to be lbgtq+

- got yelled at for shipping and for reading fanfiction, but they didn’t do anything ab it? Just showed a lot of disapproval

- it is heavily implied that if i read so much as characters kissing in a spicy way, there is no more fanfiction. Luckily for me ive been building up my appearance as someone who hates even the mention of kissing since i was about 6! I really hated the comments about how id get over it when im older so even before i learned fanfics exist, i had decided not to even think of dating until college out of spite.

- I used to get a lot of info on my dad’s opinions during long drives, and learned a lot ab our apparent family drama that absolutely should not have been told to me but was very useful. One of these conversations was my dad saying smth along the lines of how he thinks(thought) bi ppl dont exist. However ab a year later, he no longer says gross when men kiss on screen and apparently his first relationship was w a guy so… internalized biphobia/homophobia?

- my sibling is nb. After they came out, my parents barely acknowledged their pronouns, there was an implied threat when i was told not to correct them, my dad has outright said that they will not be changing what name they use for my sibling. This was around the start of quarantine and being trapped in that situation has completely killed any backbone i had: i reverted to 3rd grade mode lol

(3rd grade mode, blame the teacher my parents did not influence this but:

- disagreements are dangerous, if you need to disagree try to redirect by questioning jokingly with an *extremely* gentle voice

- getting angry can’t happen. Talking people down is the first priority in the case of a disagreement, not defending yourself.

- if it can’t be safely overheard it can’t be said

- basically i stopped feeling anywhere is safe lol…. my parents would never hurt me to be clear im just paranoid when it comes to possible rejection)

wait i got off track but i needed to talk a bit about that, sorry!

Anyways! The opinions of my parents towards lbgtq+ stuff, which is what most of my interactions within fandoms are based on, are hard to figure out. I also can’t risk them looking into fandoms like mdzs and thinking ive been getting into non-pg stuff lol, the chances of my coping methods being taken away are too high.

because of this im quite paranoid ab who in my life has info about my interests: aka my sibling is the only person who has up to half of my list of fandoms, because they honestly dont care and will keep my secrets bc i keep theirs.

this leads to none of the people who are sort-of-friends with me knowing practically anything about me, which does make me sad sometimes

im lonely ):

also im very touch-starved but hate being touched by ppl i dont trust, and theres not really anyone i trust around me? So uh… i could really use a hug lol

[paulmccartneyofficial]

i’ve been keeping my lips mostly sealed on this matter for a while now and i just want to say here that it is very clear that many of you talk about this subject from a place of inexperience. i pray none of you ever do have to live these experiences, but theorizing about something like this and trying to psychoanalyze a situation you did not witness and you do not know enough information about and insisting it’s something that the “victims” insist it wasn’t, is actually harmful. you are not being socially conscious. you are treating real lives like entertainment and it needs to end.

believe it or not, many of us have experienced what paul experienced as a child. and many of us maintain loving relationships with our families despite it. family dynamics are personal, family relationships are personal, family stories are personal. no, it’s not okay to have harsh punishments towards your kids. that’s why, since the 1940s and 1950s, people have started talking about old parenting methods and started changing and setting new standards for parenting methods. and while it’s no excuse to hit your child ever, parents have stern, learned behaviors from their own parents. parents make mistakes. parents can change. and it’s okay for someone to love their parent, to grow with their parent, to forgive their parent for the way they were raised.

but the kind of torture this community seems to fixate on is the kind that comes from a place of evil, a place of hate, a place that no one else should ever be dragged into. to compare someone that paul loved and respected and cherished to someone of that nature is… wrong. and it both romanticizes and diminishes actual abuse, which is a very real and horrifying thing. i am the first person to victimize the hell out of paul, but i speak from experience, if paul was treated the way you all think he was by his father, he would never even mention his name.

this topic of discussion is highly inappropriate and it needs to stop immediately.

fwiw, even setting aside the fact that severe physical punishment of a child certainly does constitute abuse (and some of what mike mccartney has described does sound severe) paul has also spoken about his father striking him across the face during arguments well into his teens: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fs1TYtUjoiI&t=2219s nobody’s living out victimization fantasies, fans are just interested in him as a person as well as a musician and it’s a valid line of analysis about his childhood! and one that is relevant to the history of the beatles and the dynamics within the band, since paul’s involvement with john was a major point of contention between paul and jim. i don’t think anyone’s suggesting that it was a matter of serious ongoing physical violence, but abuse takes many forms and there are plenty of indicators that paul’s relationship with his father was not 100% positive and had a dark side that paul tends not to discuss

so have we considered the swaggy fact that if paul doesn’t want to talk about it, maybe y’all shouldn’t pry into it?

while i agree that being physical with your child is not ok, let me lay out the difference for you: abuse is irrational, punishment has purpose. abuse leaves victims feeling worthless and questioning sanity. even with different definitions, the leap between harsh punishment and abuse is not yours to make for someone else.

paul has insisted time and time again that he loved his father. that he was harsh, but he’s forgiven him for it and maintained a good relationship. nothing about that indicates ptsd. ffs, if you wanna talk ptsd, talk about the loss of his mom. watch him shut down over that.

and even IF this was 100% abuse, and you’re convinced, why the FUCK are you obsessing over it? you absolute freak. do you think it’s some sort of game? that someone suffered for your theorizing? for your entertainment? does that not make you sick?

or have you experienced abuse and truly need help? is this a way of projecting? i’ve been there, and i promise you that it is not healthy. you deserve to feel worth again. if you feel this way, please talk to someone. here’s the DV helpline in the US: https://www.thehotline.org/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=domestic_violence

i appreciate that you care about him as a person. you seem young and sweet, and i know i was harsh with you, but i truly don’t think you feel the weight of the words exiting you. i encourage you to go into the real world, live life, have experiences, talk to the older generation, and learn some boundaries and respect for the person you claim to love.

now, can we PLEASE shut down this horrendous line of discourse? it’s shameful.

[materialgirlsfanfic]

Chapter 10: Affordable Prices To Pay...(Pt. 1)

KIERSTEN

“Boy you’ll be the death of me, you’re my James Dean you make me feel like I’m seventeen…” - BEYONCE X RATHER DIE YOUNG

TWO MONTHS LATER…

“Sweetie, like always when you get into one of your moods you dip off, and close everyone off  like we can’t resolve things like adults. Call me back.”

…..

“Bitch! I want to actually see you, IN person for brunch this weekend, mmmkay!? You got London on the verge of tears talking about you keep blowing her off, and even my dad has been asking for you! The project is not that deep, ain’t nobody about to be playing hide and seek with yo’ ass either. Call me hoe!

…..

“Hey Kiersten, its Jessie. Just checking in to see if we’re still good for Friday, at 7pm. We still have to discuss the little things like donors, designs, and the guest appearances for the show. But no worries! We’re almost done with everything. See you soon!”

….  

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s dad, I know you may be busy with school, and your work but I wanted to discuss some things with you. I don’t like going this long without out talking to you sweet pea. Let’s do dinner Sunday. Love you, call me soon.”

…….

“Honey, I’m doing an interview with Vogue for Models On Duty, and I’ll be teaming up with June Ambrose and Ashley Graham, I’d love you to be involved. June asked for you. Being as though you aren’t answering me at least. Call her. Back.

……

“Baby girl, I’ll be swingin’ your way shortly. Give me like an hour. I had to meet with this nigga to discuss somethin’ for the club, you know how that goes. But I’m ‘bout to stop at your favorite spot. Let me know what you want.”

……

“It’s your mother again, you know the one that brought you into this world. That was in labor for 16 hours over you Kiersten Stephanie Whitaker! You’re really behaving despicably! Two months! People are asking questions and growing concerned honey, Please!

…….

She was never fond of pet names. Terms of endearment made for coddling, or pacifying sometimes expressed in a  condescending manner that made her blood boil. Well pet names from her. She placed her phone down after shooting a few texts out, and deleting the majority of voice messages.

Amongst the seven, three voicemails belonged to the woman that birthed her that bordered hysteria, even at the calmest level of her tone. She could picture Fiona Whitaker swallowed in the high priced mansion where the walls were caving in with her stricken with loneliness. Where she was accompanied solely by a wine bottle, Marlboro cigarettes and a broken heart. Coping methods to perpetuate the sickness that will certainly take more than medical assistance to cure. She was sweetie in a drunken slur on most nights, honey when anger was on the surface of aggravation, and love when on the brink of being dismissed for what her mother deemed as a trivial manner.

Kiersten grimaced, setting down the chiffon material meant for sewing, that she couldn’t even attempt to make happen. She wished the internal battles didn’t always make her the common casualty from her mother’s assaults.  So much so, the name coddling was salt poured onto more opened wounds. I’m not a child. Slightly started, she felt the calloused hands caress her shoulders that trailed to her wrist, and finally her hands, spreading them out beneath his large ones.

But when he called her baby? Mmm. Spoken in that gruff bravado was enough to make her knees buckle. The warm  fuzzy feeling of contentment growing fonder these past months as she inhaled his distinctive scent of wood and spice.

“What you in here stressin’ about? I can feel that shit all the way from the other room.” Was her transparency that evident? Kiersten smiled smally as his lips reached her temple causing her to get further cocooned.

“I’m not stressing.” What a lie, Kiersten. Do better.

“Oh, yeah?” She could feel Messiah’s eyes boring through her as she attempted at pulling away. The makeshift desk on her vanity made up of her sewing machine, and kit only providing but so much room for her to find an escape out of her gratefully enormous walk in closet. Or as Messiah would put it: ‘Your couture bedroom’. His pronunciation of couture (CAH - tour) always causing to giggle like an idiot.

“Yeahhh.”

“Nah, stay your little ass in place.”

“Come on‘ Si, I’m working. No interruptions when we’re in our zones remember?”

“Na. I ain’t tryna hear all that baby girl. You been in here too quiet, for too long…” She felt the scruffiness of his beard nestle close to her face as they both looked into the vanity mirror, cheeks pressed together. “Damn you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that soooo much. Now, move. I wasn’t quiet but moreso focused.” She pointed down to the mop of materials to sew in front of her. “As you can see.”

“Come on mami. Come take a break.”

“Nooo, Messiah I have a deadline. You’ve been distracting me enough!” She was becoming accustomed to this… routine of there’s for lack of better words. Conforming to the ways of a hermit, Kiersten for the past month shielded away the outside world as she remained ducked and hidden in her condo. With only the exception of classes, work, and random trips to Mood fabric store, she limited herself of any social interaction. Her excuses being senior projects, creative assistant duties, and lastly the silent emergence of depression coasting that she couldn’t get a hold of. So like usual she figured solitude the best remedy. But not to London, and Brooklyne who have boarded stalking by the definition. And she couldn’t blame them. The only form of communication she was accepting was rushed over phone convos, scarce FaceTime calls, and texting at best. But a particular gentleman, a Brooklyn specimen, who wasn’t accepting the limits Kiersten was dishing out, wanted all in.

So from random pop ups, to persistent contact of the physical kind, he was the only one she was really allowing access.

But having a man of Messiah’s caliber coexist in her presence, and actually wanting to be there, was still mind boggling. Wanting to provide an ear, offer consolement to even something so trivial as a missing earring. Where, as if it was second nature or a necessity for the completion of his day, having to know the condition of her well being, and being in close proximity to receive it. Not to mention he always wanted to touch her. Always.

She inhaled a soft breath feeling herself being lifted and pulled to his steel chest, where a pinch to her ass cheek was then given, causing her to squeal.

“Eeeeee! Messiah, stop! Wha- for one I’m entirely too heavy for this, what are you-?”

“Shut that shit up, it look like I’m having a hard time holding you?”

“I didn’t say that, Messiah. I just…okay. I can spare an hour then I have to get right back to work. You’re so impossible, like seriously.” Wedged between the rock solid arms of him, was Kiersten escorted to the confines of her kitchen and sat down on the cool surface of the countertop, causing her to tug at her shorts. Exasperation was displayed as she watched him pull out various items from her cabinets and freezer. So much for that hour break.

“You know what you need, Keeks?” It wasn’t a guess that the question was posed rhetorically, but she now found herself contemplating heavily. What do I need? Her feet swung back and forth waiting, while allowing her eyes to latch onto the define muscles of his back as he maneuvered around the kitchen preparing a meal she had yet to identify.

“Besides these cute fuchsia Manolo pumps I seen, today?”

“…To get out this house…a peace of mind.” They were face to face now. Him coming towards her with a bowl filled with mixed vegetables, and a neutral expression that bordered him examining. Kiersten figeted reaching for the bowl to occupy her hands that she nervously toiled together looking back at him. But he dodged it out of her reach, and locked her in between his hands that framed her, setting the bowl by them. “How long you gon’ be hidin’, usin’ work as a scapegoat?”

“That’s not what I’m doing. So don’t…don’t try and psychoanalyze me, ‘kay?”

“That’s what you think I’m doin’? ‘Psychoanalyzin’ you like you some nutcase, or I’m a shrink?”

“Messi-”

“Nah, fuck that. So I’m not ‘spose to ask these questions? Like I’m not hip to what you doin’. You’re buying time, and shit to avoid what? Tell me why I’m here, if it’s not to be concerned but your damn well being Ki?”  

“Listen, okay? I just need you to be…” Here. For as long as I need you to be. With me not having to feel like the other shoe is bound to fall any day now.She felt the emergence of tears, and gritted her teeth, now pushing him back lowering her head.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ coward. We not doin’ that shit. I told you that. Talk to me. Finish what you was about to say, and look at me. You need me to what? Be here? Hold you? Feed you? What? Pacify you? Keep you locked in and throw away the key? What, Kiersten?”

“Just be present!” From that tiny place engulfed in her stomach where the grueling feeling of turmoil resided, was the shout’s source. Messiah remained unmoved and focused, waiting for her to continue. “…like now. Messiah, just continue to make me feel like I’m not going crazy, and by myself. Please.”

He nodded. She exhaled. He cooked. She watched, and the night continued as was.

BROOKLYNE

97…98…99-

“Sorry to disturb you baby girl, but you got a minute?”

Benjamin Pierre’s presence, just like his coffee, was served strong. Like the emergence of the rigid taste of the straight black caffeinated beverage on one’s tongue, as expected it was, it still took you aback. The distinction being that stern. Her father’s deep brown melanin seemingly glowed under any light that further highlighted his strikingly handsome features; the eyes that matched her own stared at her for moments of intensity, with urgency in the midst of. She placed a halt in her morning exercise of 100 plies, and barre work giving him her full attention.

“For my favorite old man, of course. What’s up, pops?”

“Fiona contacted me…” Aw, shit. “What’s this I hear about Kiersten’s blatant refusal to go home?”

“That’s what she told you?”

“Yes, so much more. But that’s just the half.” In Brooklyne’s bedroom at an early 9:43am was a stare off. Meddling in normalcy, but she was sure wasn’t to last much longer as that thick bushy brow of his rose. Following the cross of his arms, and the tilt of his head. But Brooklyne wasn’t London. She didn’t crack under pressure easily or allowed any of Benjamin Pierre’s typical courtroom intimidating tactics to shake her the least bit. After all, I am my father’s child.

“Hm, not sure daddy…that’s strange. Last I spoke to her things were fine. And she was definitely home. FaceTimed her and everything seeing she was right in her bedroom.” Yeah, to pack the last box I was to swing by and pick up to finish decorating.

“Is that right? So when was this?”

“A…couple days ago? Yeah, Tuesday.”

“Hm. Interesting. Look, Brooklyne…two things I need you to understand if you haven’t by now…” Through a sip of her chilled bottle of Fiji water, Brooklyne concealed a gulp of concern. It’s one thing for her father to intimidate for answers, it’s another when he already knew them, she supposed, and was behind the fire of checking. “I find out everything. No matter the time of delay it maybe. No matter the circumstance, I…do. It’s what I get paid for, as you know.”

“Dad-”

“So, if and when you hear from Kiersten again and she turns out to actually be “fine” like you say she is? Tell her to call her mother. Thanks, babygirl.”

Brooklyne flopped on the bed huffing heavily.

“This too much.”

———

You’re missing me, I’m missing you

Whenever we meet, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

When I get to be together with you

It’s fait accompli, we ain’t gonna get no sleep

Slick. The droplets that trailed down his steel abdominals, flexed and illuminated his cream complexion. Under the soft light in the studio his shadow trailed closely behind as it remained in sync with Janet Jackson’s “No Sleeep”. Brooklyn seeped in light breaths, as she remained tucked away and hidden by the barre. Taking peeks was growing tiresome like her thighs, she surpassed a little warm up to get started. At this point she was truly stalling. Why am I even doing this?

“So, we startin’ from the second verse…you ready?” Lord knows I’m not.

“Mind explaining to me what’s this for again? I’m not a hip-hop dancer, we know this.”

The heat of his body radiated onto her own as he stepped forward and stood behind her. There in the ceiling to floor mirror was the detection from Brooklyne’s view, trouble. Not a simple attempt of a duet or a pas de deux rather insisted by his mother, her instructor from hell.

“As you know The Joffrey Ballet intensive my mother is instructing has a hiplet component. A mix of hip-hop an-”

“…and Ballet, Tahj. I know, hip-hop on pointe shoes. Yes, she explained this. But why me? Did you insist this little arrangement?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brooke. She did, actually.” She turned to him and searched his face. “I don’t know…for some strange reason she has this idea that you’re good enough. Let’s get this shit over with.”

She sneered at his sarcasm, tying her hair back. An hour in as she began feeling perspiration coat her skin, she was finally able to blur out the ridicule she felt. Taking this exactly for what it was which was simply a dance demonstration for a bunch of high school students that should last no more than four minutes.

“Shit!” A stub of her toe caused her attitude to look less than stellar, as she tripped into an awkward fourth position. From her peripheral she could see his bemusement.

“Don’t overextend your back like that. The fuck you tryin’ to do? Break it?”

“Since when did you become an expert of ballet? Focus on poplockin’ nigga.”

“You forgettin’ who my mother is? You been in her class long enough, to just be makin’ common fuck ups. What…” He walked closer to her side of the studio. “You nervous?”

“I twisted my ankle, right before the senior showcase…the senior showcase that had Juilliard talent scouts, and the director of Ailey in the audience. Guess who was accepted to both? Tahj…don’t insult me. Can we start from the top, please?” She went to her cue in stance of releve with her arms in Egyptian pose.

“…You were perfect.” She would’ve missed it, had it not been so quiet you could hear a mouse piss on cotton, as he muttered it so quickly.

“What?”

“You heard me nigga…that’s what got you accepted, right? Now, from the top.”

[calculatefinal9-blog]

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Comments on “The Magical Rationalism [...]“ by Mark O'Connell

[I quote article quite freely. My inserts are in brackets. Big “thank you” for invaluable help with proofreading and editing to Luke.]

The Magical Rationalism of Elon Musk and the Prophets of AI by Mark O'Connell is an interesting read. Full disclosure: I am totally for temporary or long-term voluntary improvement of human condition through use of science and technology, so my nitpicky comments may be biased. Without further ado I want to point out a few possible misconceptions:

[...] there’s a nontrivial risk of this superintelligent AI taking the commands it’s issued far too literally. You tell it, for instance, to eliminate cancer once and for all, and it takes the shortest and most logical route to that end by wiping out all life-forms in which abnormal cell division might potentially occur.

It’s worth taking into account that it's not because ASI is somehow unable to correctly interpret our commands - superintelligence would be perfectly capable of understanding what we mean by "eliminate cancer cells". The problem is, in the default scenario, it just doesn't care. It has no reason to care because it isn’t aligned with our values.

Because if computation is the ultimate value, the ultimate end of intelligence, then it makes absolute sense to become better versions of the computers we already are. We must “optimize for intelligence,” as transhumanists are fond of saying — meaning by intelligence, in most cases, the exercise of pure reason.

I can’t speak for all but I am fairly sure that for many transhumanists computation isn’t "the ultimate value and the ultimate end of intelligence". In my opinion it makes sense to become better versions of the computers we already are, not because it would increase amount of computation per unit of time per person, but because it would enable us to explore new and arguably richer modes of being. Also, being smart is useful.

And now let’s talk about bulverism that, sadly, seems to be the gist of the whole article. It starts with:

[...] As I listened to him [Nate Soares, the executive director of MIRI] speak, and as I struggled (and failed) to follow the algebraic abstractions he was scrawling on a whiteboard in illustration of his preferred doomsday scenario, I was suddenly hit by the full force of a paradox: The austere and inflexible rationalism of this man’s worldview had led him into a grand and methodically reasoned absurdity. [...] With many of these transhumanists (the vast majority of whom, it bears mentioning, were men), I had experienced some version of this weird cognitive dissonance, this apprehension of a logic-unto-madness. I had come across it so frequently, in fact, that I wound up giving it a name: magical rationalism.

I applaud the fact that author was able to admit that:

The key thing about magical rationalism is that its approach to a given question always seems, and in most meaningful respects is, perfectly logical. [author describes one of the arguments for AI risk] As far as I can see, there’s nothing about this scenario that is anything but logically sound,

but then he states (which is kind of understandable, if you encounter these ideas for the first time):

and yet here we are, taken to a place that most of us will agree feels deeply and intuitively batshit.

Interestingly, author seems to understand that relying on absurdity heuristic isn’t always a smart choice:

(The obvious counterargument to this, of course, is that just because something feels intuitively batshit doesn’t mean that it’s not going to happen. It’s worth bearing in mind that the history of science is replete with examples of this principle.)

Unfortunately, he fails to follow this caveat, and then starts considering what could have gone wrong in people’s minds to make them believe something so wrong.

Magical rationalism arises out of a quasi-religious worldview, in which reason takes the place of the godhead, and whereby all of our human problems are soluble by means of its application. The power of rationalism, manifested in the form of technology — the word made silicon — has the potential to deliver us from all evils, up to and including death itself. This spiritual dimension is most clearly visible in the techno-millenarianism of the Singularity: the point on the near horizon of our future at which human beings will finally and irrevocably merge with technology, to become uploaded minds, disembodied beings of pure and immutable thought. [...] [presents Kurzweil’s vision of the Singularity] This is magical rationalism in its purest form: It arises out of the same human terrors and desires as the major religions — the terror of death, the desire to transcend it — and proceeds toward the same kinds of visionary mythologizing.

The problem with psychologizing is that, to quote E. Yudkowsky, you’re trying to forecast empirical facts by psychoanalyzing people. This never works. Let’s take a look at another desire that once was in the realm of religions and myths: ability to fly. How humanity is doing on that front?

Or let’s consider what Elon Musk said in 2012:

So, after that third trip, I had learnt a lot more about rockets at that point, and I held a series of meetings - just sort of brainstorming sessions - with people from the space industry, to try to understand if I was missing something fundamental about the ability to improve rocketry. This is where I think it is helpful to use the analytical approach in physics, which is to try boil things down to first principles and reason from there, instead of trying to reason by analogy. The way this applied to rocketry was to say, okay, well, what are the materials that go into a rocket, how much does each material constituent weigh, what's the cost of that raw material, and that's going to set some floor as to the cost of the rocket. That actually turns out to be a relatively small number. Certainly well under 5% of the cost of a rocket and, in some cases, closer to 1% or 2%. You can call it, maybe, the magic wand number. If you had piles of the raw materials on the floor and you just waved a magic wand and rearranged them, then that would be the best case scenario for a rocket. So, I was able to say, okay, there's obviously a great deal of room for improvement. Even if you consider rockets to be expendable. That's what I mean about thinking about things from a first principles standpoint. If, on the other hand, I just analyzed it by analogy and said, okay, what are all other rocket companies - what do their rockets cost, what historically have other rockets cost, and that would be sort of an analogy thing, but it really doesn't illustrate what the true potential is. I think a first principles approach is a good way to understand what new things are possible. This is a good framework. It doesn't mean you'll be successful, but it means that you can at least determine if success is one of the possibilities. That is important, I think. [...] So it's extremely important in rocketry to achieve full and rapid reusability. This is not an easy thing to do because of Earth's gravity well and just the basic physics of things. There have been many attempts to create a reusable rocket, but they've all sort of been cancelled along the way once people realized they would not succeed. In fact, usually they got cancelled quite some time after it became obvious that they would not succeed. But, the essence of the problem is, if you design an expendable rocket and do quite a good job of it, you'll get about 2% to 3% of your lift-off mass to orbit. Then if you say, well, how much mass is needed to return that rocket and be able to fly it again quickly? Well, about 2% to 3%. So you basically get nothing to orbit. That's how it's been in the past. In order to do something useful, what you have to figure out is, how do you get a much larger percentage to orbit? Let's say, ideally, on the order of 4% of your lift-off mass to orbit, in an expendable configuration, and then compress the reusable elements down to about 2%, so you have a net payload to orbit of 2%, and then you could really have something that's quite useful.

“Magical rationalism!” someone could say...

Because something belongs to realm of myths, sounds weird and alien, or currently doesn't exist beyond imagination of some kid or billionaire, doesn't mean that it is absurd. Of course, I didn't pick ideas that didn't pan out, e.g., philosopher's stone or Back to the Future-style hoverboards. The point is, that the way to distinguish unrealised from unrealisable is to carefully examine both arguments for and against some proposition - we should evaluate claims on object level, not by their surface characteristics. To state the obvious: the act of thinking serves us well in our daily lives (except for known failure modes) and is indispensable in extraordinary circumstances like designing interplanetary probes. Why not use it to analyze even more remote matters?

To stop asking questions is to submit to dogma. I don’t understand why someone would want to say: “Here we draw the line - beyond that point reasoning and extrapolation from known facts are prohibited”. Why at this particular point and not another? Why should we surrender to dogma at all? I am somewhat disappointed that after all this research what author gathered is: “There are those ‘magical rationalists’ and they think this Big-Technological-Thing will happen. This doesn’t make any sense, because people always wanted some Big-Thing to happen and it never happened”