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ohmylove--mydarling · 3 years

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It’s true what they say about your early-to-mid 20s. This particular span of ten blissful, wanton years is the only time in your entire life where you will ever feel truly invincible. And yes, you absolutely better enjoy it while it lasts. Lithe-bodied, hopeful, capable of both pounding an entire handle of rail vodka all while making it to your 8 am sociology class the next day, they’re a little like your teen years, with one prized difference. Your early-to-mid 20s are blessed with the seemingly novel, universe-bending element of freedom.

And freedom doesn’t simply mean the ability to make stupid decisions without the fear of getting grounded. It also means the freedom to live in an idyllic sort of vacuum, where you’re surrounded by friends – if we’re being honest, the family you get to choose – and cradled in this serene philosophy, this security blanket of an idea that hangs in the air but is never outwardly or directly expressed, that this, all of this, will last forever. That these people will always be there, they will always be around, floating with you in this bubble, as free and easily accessible as a coatrack or your neighbor’s WiFi. Always holding your beer, always holding your hair back (while you puke, or maybe while you cry), always holding your hand. Always at the very least in the peripheral, if not the forefront, of your vision.

During these years you know everything, and yet somehow you know nothing at all.

***

Like most of the sorority sisters I grew close with – and as is probably true with anyone else who pledged a very tiny chapter at an equally tiny school – I don’t remember much about how I met Taylor beyond the first night she “rushed.” Rush is an interesting social phenomenon, for multiple reasons. Picture a gaggle of young college-aged women who typically spend every waking hour of their day primping and glossing and adjusting for the sole purpose of the male gaze. Except this time, their attention is entirely drawn to a smaller group of girls (not that much smaller of a group, if we’re lucky this semester) that they want to impress instead. A frenzy of compliments and genuine interest, a dormant volcano of estrogen and hot girl energy and reciprocation, madly overflowing in a span of two hours over something as innocuous as an ice cream social or tie-dying a pile of crewneck t-shirts (I think we did the “hippie” recruitment theme every other semester). It is one of the very best parts of what is an often problematic-at-best Greek culture, and this rush was no different.

I’m not sure what my first impression of Taylor was, other than that we obviously had the same first name, and oh yeah, she was beautiful– effortlessly pretty but not the least intimidating. I could approach her and talk to her and not feel like a complete toad. She was a little soft-spoken, incredibly polite. I think she wore navy blue. And an aura of genuine kindness seemed to radiate from her with the soft glow of candlelight.

After rush ended and Taylor chose to join our ranks, where she belonged, it felt like she had been in my life from the very beginning. And, though this idea was never spoken, it felt like she would never leave.

***

In a sorority, there is sometimes a tendency, however unintentional, to categorize your sisters, and to turn to certain ones for different needs at different times. There’s the sister you study with, the sister you go on your morning run with, the sister(s) you are always down to party with. There’s the sister who makes amazing grilled cheese, the sister whose dorm is the only place you’ll binge-watch Supernatural. When you’re riding the waves of a breakup, you got mad options: There’s the sister who brushes your hair as you ugly-cry and choke on your own snot, the sister who pledges to hook you up with her brother’s hot friend the moment you’re ready for a rebound, the “dump him sis” sister who yanks your phone out of your hand in the middle of what is probably a very unwise text and threatens to stab him with her eyebrow razor if he so much as looks at you again, the sister who makes you forget the whole thing ever happened, that it ever even mattered.

There’s the maid of honor sister, the future fun wine-aunt sister, the sister you have on speed-dial even though speed-dial isn’t a thing anymore. There are the sisters who teach you how to do winged liner, how to hide a hickey with coral lipstick and concealer, how to chant, how to chug, how to memorize the Greek alphabet and the …numbers (at least for the ones who are most definitely going to ask). There are the sisters whose weddings you bawl at, whose babies you hold and immediately love as an extension of the incredible mother who brought them into this world.

And there are the sisters who teach you grace and humility, strength and resilience, kindness and self-love. The sisters who changed your life for the better the moment they put on your letters, the sisters who hand you the mirror and force you to see yourself just as they see you.

The thing about Taylor was that she was all of these. The whole package. Everything good, all in one.

***

Though our friendship was at its strongest during my college and immediate post-college years, Taylor remained a calming, grounding presence in my life. She married an incredible man who loved her for all the reasons we did and plenty more, and I went to her wedding and cried. She got a job as a nurse at the local hospice, a profession she seemed put on this earth to do. I could picture Taylor in her element there, literally surrounded by an entire ocean of grief, serving as an island of hope, a beacon of light and love for those who so desperately needed all those things, the things she provided us without question even when our lives were comfortable. Soon after – and this thought still makes something in my throat ache – she brought life into this world, a beautiful daughter with both her mother’s eyes and her genuine love and gratitude for life, a joyful curiosity coloring everything she did.

Taylor’s life, we knew, was finally the one she had always deserved.

***

I won’t, and can’t anyway, get into the details of Taylor’s passing. I can say that nothing about it was expected and literally every detail about it is horrific. Personally, it feels like a robbery, like something was taken from me; but on a grander scale, on a scale that actually matters, it is simply heartbreak. Riding the waves of grief not only for my own loss, but for a husband, a child, a family, a community whose lives were upended and whose hearts were crushed by something that simply should not have happened in a universe where they say justice and kindness exist.

Frankly, this grief is unlike any other I have experienced. It has a way of blanketing everything around me, like mosquito netting. It is as thick and choking as a cloud of black smoke, permeating my clothes, filling my lungs, making it impossible to see, so all I can do is desperately cling to whatever gives me the slightest amount of peace, no matter how fleeting. As someone who has always struggled with my faith (and moments like these certainly do not help), I try to remember Taylor’s. It brought her comfort and strength, the belief that God loves everyone so naturally she was going to love everyone, too. And all I can hope is that this belief of hers, this faith, manifested in her final moments. That there was a light, a voice, a presence, something there that reminded her that she was loved. That we knew she loved us, that her family will never be alone, that we will desperately miss her. That her legacy is as wide and expansive as all the oceans.

Her funeral is in a few days. Her funeral, a concept still as foreign as my own.

***

At this point it’s probably clear, but the things I want people to remember the most about Taylor are, quite simply, her kindness and her intrinsic ability to love. She was kind without questioning. She loved without strings or conditions, tirelessly and endlessly. At a time when an icy, impenetrable layer of cynicism seemed to blanket so many of our hearts – including my own – Taylor managed to crack it a little, to let just enough of her light and her warmth in to make a change.

I teased her often – probably too often – for her unbreakable habit of bringing home literally any stray cat she ever found (and then naming it something either really cute or painfully dumb, like “Moe” or “Cheese”). But even as someone who unapologetically hates cats, and more honestly as someone who spent most of her 20s thinking that if I hardened my exterior and never let love in I was somehow protecting everything it surrounded, I viewed this habit through a secret lens of adoration. I adored Taylor’s heart. I hoped to absorb some of it, its ability to love everything, to find beauty in the darkest and loneliest spaces and to also force people to see it and feel it for themselves.

I felt Taylor was going to be around forever. It was a selfish thought. I hadn’t physically seen her in over a year (there was a pandemic and she was a nurse and I was subsumed by my own now meaningless world). I am filled with an omnipresent regret that I have no control over. I miss her so much my heart feels swollen and achy with a pining, a real grief.

There is no happy ending to this, no concise, comfortable, heartwarming way to wrap this all up in a pretty package, though Taylor was the type to want everything to have a good ending. So instead I cling to the memories, the photographs. Our banquets, homecoming, Lana del Rey, cherry blossoms. The way she rapped that entire A$AP Ferg verse one night. The way she looked in her wedding gown. The way she talked about charity and good deeds. The way she talked about God. Her love, no matter what transgression I made or no matter if I failed to give it back. I hope to love harder now, and if I can, it’s because Taylor taught me how.

I love you, Taylor. DZLAM.

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littleoldrachel · 5 years

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i am burned out (i smell of smoke)

okay, look. I wasn’t gonna post this until it was FINISHED because i am trying to learn to actually finish my wips. but. the world is sorta falling apart and i hope that maybe i can help even one person feel temporarily less anxious about it all.

i wrote this for @gumnut-logic‘s birthday and am now over a month late, so! good! (so sorry nutty, you’re so incredible at blessing us with your words, i just wanted to do something nice for you since you’re so so good to us)

my love for virgil tracy + my silent lurking in this fandom have brought this about. i never thought i’d be writing thunderbirds fanfiction and yet. here we are (my father would be so disappointed in me).

this is my first time writing these characters, as will become painfully clear. pls be nice to me, i am fragile lol. i am horribly aware that my virg is probably too ‘floppy’ as per your post, nutty, so sorry in advance! this is me whumping your boy emotionally and mentally, but i’m gonna fix him, i swear! there are five parts (i have written the first three).

virgil is always written as being very good at taking care of his mental health, and it occurred to me that some of the best people at this have had to learn to be that way, and so I guess this is an exploration of that? anyway, have some virgil aggressively loving his family.

brains isn’t in this and kayo isn’t much either sorryyy. oh my GOd shut up, here you go:

i am burned out (i smell of smoke) [on ao3]

summary: in which virgil falls apart, learns how to put himself back together, and realises he doesn't have to do it alone.

word count: 2.8k ish (part 1/5)

warnings: mental health issues

timeline: i suppose this is set in early TAG verse? jeff is missing and nobody is Coping Well.

happy belated birthday, nutty!! <3

He isn’t quite sure where it began. Somewhere between three back-to-back rescues, pulling a child’s body from thick, black mud, and failing to reach the scientist before smoke ravaged her lungs, a weight settles in his chest that none of his usual coping mechanisms can shift.

To say it’s been a hard week would be an understatement, but then again, they’ve had hard weeks before. Any time a rescue mission turns into a recovery mission, they all feel it - how can they not? - but this time, this time is different.

Perhaps it was seeing the kid’s mother break down completely at the sight of such a small corpse. Perhaps it was the abuse hurled at him and his brothers by the scientist’s girlfriend for failing to rescue her soulmate in time. Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion and pain, perhaps it was feeling ribs break under the force of his CPR efforts, perhaps it was knowing that in spite of it all, it wasn’t enough.

It’s like he can’t quite draw a full breath. Like his throat has half-closed and tears are creeping at the back of his eyes, but neither is willing to break the damn. It’s the heaviest kind of emptiness he’s ever known.

And so Virgil forces it away - or if not away, then at least to one side - whilst he takes care of brothers who need to talk about the horrors they have just witnessed and the fresh guilt they now bear. He’ll take care of himself later (probably) and then he’ll finally be able to shift that god-awful weight on his lungs. It’s fine.

Alan is easy enough to handle; Virgil’s pedestal will never be as high as Scott’s or John’s but he’s still Alan’s big brother, and Alan feeds on reassurance and praise. Virgil knows that both Scott and John will be in later to check on their youngest too, but for now, Alan needs him.

“You did well today, kiddo,” Virgil says, leaning against the doorframe to Alan’s suite. His littlest brother is lying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

Alan blinks slowly, twists to meet his eyes. Overly-bright cornflower blues meet steady browns and Virgil catches the tremble of Alan’s lower lip with an aching heart.

“You did, Allie.” Virgil strides across the room and has Alan scooped into a hug within seconds. “All those people are gonna wake up tomorrow because of you.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough, Virg,” whispers Alan. “So many people didn’t make it.”

“I know.”

(The weight on his chest and struggle to breathe will never let him forget it).

Alan sighs, rests his head on his brother’s broad chest. “I just - I keep remembering her face. When she realised I couldn’t save her. I close my eyes and she’s just - there.” He closes his eyes and digs the heels of his palms into them.

He’s so young. It’s not the first time that Virgil has had doubts about forcing this responsibility on a teenager, but it is the first time Alan’s watched someone die in his arms and none of Virgil’s carefully crafted words will change that. Especially not now, whilst the pain is raw and jagged and demanding to be felt - no, Virgil and his brothers will be helping him to untangle this over the next few weeks.

“Wanna play something?” he asks instead.

The response is less enthusiastic than usual, but soon Alan has a fragile smile on his lips as he thrashes Virgil’s Princess Peach with Waluigi (and so what if Virgil deliberately chooses the tracks he knows he’s shit at just to make Alan chuckle when he falls off Rainbow Road again?).

His water-loving brother won’t be so easy (though of course, there’s nothing easy about watching someone so young trying to carry the weight of the world). Still, Gordon is at least predictable in his frustrated misery and rolls his eyes as he sees Virgil coming towards the pool with a towel in hand.

“I’m not in the mood, Virg,” he calls, before hurling himself underwater and sinking to the bottom of the pool.

It’s Virgil’s turn to roll his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes, sits on the poolside and dangles bare feet into the water, waiting. When Gordon finally emerges from the water, annoyance flickers across his face at the sight of his waiting brother, and he turns, kicking away from Virgil with a powerful breaststroke.

Virgil waits until Gordon’s swum four lengths before speaking. “How are you doing?”

Gordon’s perfect rhythm barely falters as he grabs his brother’s leg and yanks, pulling Virgil into the pool and immediately swimming away. Virgil shakes the water from his hair, internally cursing his stubborn-ass younger brother and treads water until Gordon reaches his end of the pool again.

“How many lengths is that?”

Gordon ignores him, switching fluidly into butterfly stroke and splashing away from him once more.

Virgil can’t help but sigh; his limbs are aching and his chest is heavy and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed. But his younger brother is hurting - emotionally, sure, judging by the way he’s slicing through the water like it’s done him wrong, but physically too if the minute winces are anything to go by. (And Virgil can’t stand it).

The next time Gordon comes by, Virgil is ready. He seizes his brother around the middle, and bodily drags him to the edge of the pool. He doesn’t often use his size and strength against his brothers, but this time calls for it. Once out of the water, the fight goes out of Gordon, and he staggers, murmuring “ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Come here, you idiot.” Virgil pulls Gordon into a shady spot by the loungers, and begins helping Gordon stretch out overworked muscles. Gordon hisses as Virgil presses down on his calf muscle. “Sorry, Gordo.”

“S’okay.” Gordon glares up at the sky. “Just stupid cramp.”

Rolling his eyes, Virgil shakes his head. “Yeah, that or the fact you’re reliving your Olympic training after having been up for forty-eight hours straight.”

“You know if you keep doing that, your face will get stuck.”

Virgil pulls a hideous face, then grins in response to Gordon’s laugh. It feels good to smile, it shifts the weight on his lungs the tiniest bit.

“Flip over and I’ll do your back.”

“Virgil Tracy, you’re a goddamn saint,” Gordon declares, obediently flopping onto his stomach.

There’s a pause whilst Virgil runs expert hands over the rock-like knots in Gordon’s back and Gordon melts into the mattress. When Virgil next speaks, his voice is gentle even as his hands dig in: “You know that punishing yourself isn’t going to bring them back.”

Gordon tenses then sighs. “Damnit, Virg. Can’t a guy get a massage without psychoanalysis?”

But his voice is a great deal lighter than it would have been even half an hour before.

His wrists are aching by the time he drags himself out to the cliff edge where Kayo likes to perch.

His brothers have different uses for this particular stretch of rock: Scott likes to end his morning runs here by stretching in the breeze off the waters. For John, it’s a spectacular place to stargaze, not least because it’s so very quiet and dark up here. Gordon can often be found diving off these rocks, cheered on by Alan, much to the constant stress of their oldest brother, who attributes more than seventy percent of his grey hairs to this cause.

For Kayo, it’s a watchpost. Her stormy eyes skim the horizon for non-existent threats, calculating, calm, controlled. And after a bad rescue (or three), she sits and waits for hours at a time, gazing into choppy waves and brilliant sunsets with the loneliest eyes Virgil has ever seen. He’s supposed to sit with Kayo in silence until she tells him what she needs from him, be it a hug, his presence, or just distance.

This time, she makes it clear the moment he pads towards her, fading into the rocks like she was never even there. Distance, then.

John is possibly the hardest to handle of all his siblings, purely because he’s the hardest to get a hold of. John knows Virgil’s antics only too well, knows that a meaningful conversation about how he feels is coming, and has therefore made himself scarce.

Virgil sighs as John misses (read: rejects) his third call in a row. Two can play at that game, Jonny.

Instead, he dials straight through to EOS.

She answers him immediately, as usual. “Virgil. I have been anticipating your call.”

“You have?”

“You have all had unsuccessful missions. You always call after missions with a body count.”

Virgil swallows, fresh guilt rising in his throat, and forces it back down.

“Please can you put me through to John, EOS?”

“Of course, Virgil.”

Silence for a second, and then John’s hologram appears. His red-headed brother is studiously avoiding eye contact, hands darting over controls in an anxious pattern.

“This isn’t a good time, Virgil, I’m busy rerouting some calls to local emergency services, and-”

“John.”

“-and there’s a call from Tehran that really needs me, so if that’s all-”

“John.”

Silence.

“How long since you last ate?”

John’s eyes meet Virgil’s and he looks away at once. “Uh… this morning?”

“Negative,” EOS chimes in, “last intake was twenty-six hours ago.”

John’s jaw clenches. “Thanks, EOS.”

“John, you need to eat.”

“Smother Brother.”

“I’m serious.”

EOS pipes up again, “John also needs to rest. He has been operating for twice the recommended period of time.”

John glowers, but says nothing.

“Don’t make me set Scott on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Virgil raises his eyebrows and John sighs loudly in frustration. “I will. I will. I just - thinking about food makes me feel nauseous. Like…” He swallows, looks away. “Like I’m eating mud.”

The sharp hurt in Virgil’s heart twinges violently and he wishes more than anything he could wrap John up in a bearhug and stop the world from hurting him. “What if I’m here whilst you try?” he asks softly.

Another sigh. “Fine. But only if you eat something too,” John says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that your stomach was growling even louder than Two’s engines on the way home.”

“Smother Brother,” Virgil’s voice is hopelessly fond, even as he goes to make a sandwich that he can’t face eating (which for him, is a bad sign - he who has forced down Grandma’s inedible chilli through sheer willpower and love). The bread is hard and tasteless, the filling bitter. He chokes down a half slice, focusing instead on the fact that his younger brother is carefully chewing at his toasted bagel, eyelids heavy. Eventually, John’s shoulders slump, and his head lolls back into slumber.

His work here is done.

Well, almost -

“Hey, EOS?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“Can you put that playlist I made him on a loop?”

“Of course, Virgil. Venus Bringer of Peace is now playing.”

There.

His oldest brother is hurting. Virgil doesn’t need ESPN or whatever freaky connection Gordon and Alan accuse them of having to know that.

There was a death toll, and therefore Scott will be hurting. Every life lost becomes a personal fault for the man, and nothing Virgil says or does will change that. They have this argument every two or three weeks, increasingly frequently as the months since their father’s disappearance have ticked into years. And he’s so very tired of rehashing the same words over again and again, he’s so tired of being utterly powerless against his brother’s borderline suicidal recklessness, he’s so tired of his uselessness in convincing Scott to stop treating his life like some replaceable trinket.

(So very, very tired).

And yet, Virgil stands in the doorway to his father’s office, bracing himself for yet another battle with his older brother.

Because taking care of the idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic is what he does best - especially when said idealistic, brash, self-flagellating workaholic least wants it.

Scott is hunched over the desk, poring over debriefs with an almost-empty glass of something amber in his left hand. Virgil makes a mental note to re-encrypt the code to the drinks cabinet - Scott had cracked it far too quickly last time, but he doesn’t stand a chance against John…

“Hey, Scott,” he finally enters the room, but his brother doesn’t even spare him a glance. Virgil takes the seat opposite him - the one he used to sit in as his father waxed lyrical about his dream of an elite rescue organisation (it hurts) - and waits.

After five or so minutes, Scott looks up blearily, blinking in surprise. “Virg? What are you - when did you-”

“It’s gone midnight, Scott. We agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

A muscle in Scott’s jaw twitches. He’s wound tight from alcohol and stress, and it hurts Virgil to see it. “I have to get this done.”

“Not at one am, you don’t.”

“Don’t start, Virg, you know debriefs are essential - you know I have to - to -”

“To what?”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you have to get done? What’s so important that it can’t wait till you’ve at least slept?”

Scott breaks - quicker than usual (thank you, whiskey) which is a relief, because Virgil’s energy is down to its last droplets; hell, it’ll be a miracle if he even makes it to his room after this.

“To figure out where we fucked up! To explain to the fire services that we did fuck-all for their rescue efforts! To figure out why I wasn’t fast enough to get to those children! I have to - to know,” he flings himself to his feet and begins pacing. “Fifty-four people died today, that’s fifty-four lives we should have saved, and I have to know why we failed so it never happens again.” He slams both hands down on the table, scattering papers to the floor. His eyes are wild and slightly bloodshot, and Virgil’s heart aches for the pain in those cerulean blues.

The fight leaves Virgil’s spirit, because for once, he’s having a hard time reconciling his own failings with the number of bodies he’s pulled from mud and rock today. Usually, he is the first to reassure his brothers that they did all they could. But on a day like today, with the weight of whatever-it-is on his chest, it’s just not good enough.

But that doesn’t mean he’s going to leave Scott alone in his pain.

“What can I do?” Virgil asks quietly, and Scott stares at him.

A pause. “Just - just be here,” Scott allows at last, sinking back into his chair.

“Always,” Virgil says, and he means it, even through the fog of this exhausted, low, heavy feeling.

“You okay?” Scott says, looking him over with a frown, and Virgil curses internally, because of course, Scott notices what none of his other siblings have.

“As much as any of us are right now,” Virgil answers, as honestly as he can. Scott clearly doesn’t quite believe him, because he keeps shooting Virgil surreptitious glances laden with concern, but he lets it go. Perhaps he too lacks the energy to fight him on this.

(It’s not enough and Virgil knows it. It’s not enough to stop his brother from working himself into an early grave and it’s not enough to blame poor construction work for the collapse of a tower block when he should have been able to save them).

(He’s not enough).

He’s exhausted. He had thought he was shattered before, but now -

The heaviness in his chest is a gaping wide hole, and the edges are raw and ragged from trying to hold himself together. His throat closes and clogs, but the tears won’t come, even as misery wells inside of him.

He looks blankly at the piano he sometimes uses to pull himself back from edges like these - edges that plunge down, down, down into an abyss he daren’t explore. Only the tug in his chest isn’t there. The canvas on his easel remains blank, his paintbrush untouched. Hell, even the idea of a nice, hot shower has him cringing at the effort and self-care involved.

What the hell’s the matter with him?

He can’t quite explain it, and for one usually so attuned to others’ emotions, this awful lowness is startling. Because it’s more than lowness, and it’s more than heaviness - it’s more like a complete absence of feeling, an emptiness that he doesn’t know how to name.

Perhaps, it will shift in the morning. Perhaps, this is the consequence of pushing yourself to over-exhaustion and beyond, and then expelling what little energy remains to support your loved ones. Sleep will help, Virgil tells himself. Rest makes everything better, you will be better in the morning.

#thunderbirds are go #virgil tracy #littleoldrachel writes #not wolfstar #happy belated birthday nutty!

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caltropspress · 4 years

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FEEDBACK LOOP #1: Armand Hammer’s “Flavor Flav”

What are the Black purposes of space travel?

—Amiri Baraka, “Technology & Ethos”

Black futurism is a temporally troubled matrix Black futurism is a temporally troubled matrix that thrives on opposites and oppositions, flowing lines and nonlinearity, conflict resolution and asymmetrical warfare. It prefers the mad dash on shifting sands while in pursuit of higher ground and safe havens.

—Greg Tate, “Kalahari Hopscotch, or Notes Toward a 20 Volume History of Black Science and Afrofuturism”

Welcome aboard our spaceship, it’s so nice to have you here. —Newcleus, “Space is the Place”

Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all times, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together. —Walt Whitman

I’m so tired of being forced to promote the myth of white supremacy by performing works by old white men like Whitman who said blacks...didn’t have a place in the future of America. —Timothy McNair

Today is the shadow of tomorrow, today is the future present of yesterday, yesterday is the shadow of today. —Sun Ra, “Secrets of the Sun”

This highly allusive track from billy woods and ELUCID toys with itself—that is, allusions are a figurative means of collapsing time in and of themselves. Past and present history & culture don’t contend so much as support one another. A set of stilts to do the Dance of Death on, if you will. “Start downhill running.” The Seventh Seal hilltop silhouette danse macabre steez, though. The whooshing, metal-creaking beat—with all its haunted psithurism charm—is the backdrop for this sleeper Shrines track.

The name “Flavor Flav” is used metonymically here to mean time. This isn’t a braggadocio, low-key threat in the spirit of OC’s “Time’s Up.” This isn’t a Grandmaster Flashian “You Know What Time It Is” (though the hands on the clock tower do spin clockwise and counter-). Neither is this a Kool Moe Dee-esque rhetorical “Do You Know What Time It Is?” Armand Hammer are frustrated by time, by the “ideals and dreams that don’t work.” woods laments his “time machine [that] don’t go backwards.” This no-good lemon of a H.G. Wells contraption he’s steering. This isn’t some Christopher Lloyd-cum-El-Producto Delorean. There’s no Great Scotting going on, just stubbornness.

Progress isn’t made. Time stagnates. Like the “list of ill-fated quick licks under ’frigerator magnets.” And that “school trip permission slip”—likely a bus ride to a museum: a carefully curated collection of artifacts, most notable for its colonial muscling. The question remains: What is left out? What is excluded? What is ignored, discarded, or co-opted so as to not withstand the test of time? woods’ short-i assonance speeds the delivery up only to slow it down:

billy woods, son of a revolutionary, redefines Afrofuturism (re-re-re-defines—its brilliance is in how it remakes itself unconditionally). Afrofuturism becomes about birthing the next generation of Black revolutionaries, so he subverts the line and expectations when “big hand captured” refers to the clock, but “little man [not hand] chasin’” refers to a youngin. (Try to keep up.) Put the faith in the youth when our “ideals and dreams” stall out—when the days, months, years are fleeting and forceful (“It do tick faster / The hour coming rough”). The spliff that’s “[skinned] like an onion” turns the cypher into Perrault fairy tale “pumpkin,” Cinderella style.

“Don’t come ’round with that ‘Go slow’” is in conversation with Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddam,” of course. It’s Nina who said “[she] can’t stand the pressure much longer,” who objected to those who “keep on saying ‘Go slow,” who had her band ironically chanting Do it slow. billy woods, like Nina Simone, decries reformism, incrementalism. Don’t do things gradually. We’re at the point where Nina stands up from her piano bench and shouts That’s it!

Forego the telephoto lenses, he insists, this is the “Battle of Algiers with the GoPro.” Urban guerrilla warfare uploaded and disseminated via YouTube. Again, time collapses. The struggle to decolonize continues. Watch for the This video is no longer available dead-end.

billy woods’ Nietzschean “loathing and fear” reverses the hallucinogenic time-warp of Thompson’s (and, in filmic relation, Gilliam’s) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “History is hard to know,” Thompson writes, “because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of ‘history’ it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash.” That flash will reappear in ELUCID’s verse.

If “all roads lead to Rome,” we’re settling into the inevitability of our moves. It’s a fatalistic shrug, but homophonically, all roads lead to roam—that is, the journey is prolonged interminably. It’s nomadic. Much static. So, naturally, you’re going to “[shake] the hourglass like a snowglobe,” distort time, and splurge on the “JC Penny Timex,” which is appropriately “flooded with rhinestones.” Flooded, because no more water: the fire next time. Don’t “lose track” and don’t “get trapped in the future.”

The chorus quotes the Rolling Stones’ “Time is On My Side,” but it ain’t that simple, no. The history is as messy as we’ve come to expect amerikan music to be. “Time is On My Side” was originally penned by Norman Meade (Jerry Ragovoy), and trombonist Kai Winding first recorded it. Jimmy Norman, a Black songwriter, fleshed out the lyrics significantly, and Irma Thomas recorded that version in the same year as the Stones. The song followed a path similar to that of “Strange Fruit”—a composition written by a white Jewish man under a pseudonym (Abel Meeropol as Lewis Allan) but popularized by a Black female jazz singer (Billie Holiday). As author Jess Row has said about jazz—hip-hop applies, too—it is “by its very nature multi-racial, intermingled, and collaborative across color lines.” But this cognizance must always be contextualized with views of Black artists like that of Art Blakey: “the only way the Caucasian musician can swing is from a rope.” Hip-hop has always had its Paul Cs and Rick Rubins, but the racial heterogeneity of a genre, or even a single recording, can’t cloak the power dynamics still in play. The Stones’ version of “Time is On My Side”—undoubtedly the most popular version—is a rip-off of Irma Thomas’ version. Mick Jagger even jacks Thomas’ ad-libs, which is to say, her rawness and spontaneity. Even the band’s shadowed faces on the cover of 12 x 5, the album on which the track appears, suggest the racial problematics, the minstrelsy heist. Armand Hammer mock the British Invasion blues filchers by adding “they” to the chorus line: “They said time is on my side.” They being white institutions (especially within music publishing, production, and recording industries) who promised enough airtime for everyone. They who urged patience. (Go slow!) But, as history shows, the profits only lined certain pockets.

ELUCID begins at the “golden hour,” which is both the photogenic beauty of the sky after sunrise and before sunset—a beauty too good to behold. It’s the sun glare shining in your face on the winter commute from work. It’s your high-speed accident and then the golden hour is the paramedics and doctors trying to salvage your corporeal existence. ELUCID’s verse is a hypnagogic jerk, gasping for breath as he takes a “portal to Orangeburg, ’68.” It’s a reference to the campus shooting of young people in protest—South Carolina State University. Unlike Kent State, which came afterwards, Orangeburg didn’t get the attention keening white women in Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs do, despite “live ammunition,” three dead, 28 injured, and “nine acquitted assassins.” Unnoticed. Black invisibility. Not that H.G. Wells type of invisibility—the Ralph Ellison kind.

We’re told what this is: it’s the aggregate stress (“the load of the allostatic”) of Black life. It’s one’s personal Extinction Agenda, the “post-traumatic” of the gunfire “flashes” that double as flashbacks. The pain, stress, the brain that can’t rest, the pressure on the chest.

“The center won’t hold” lets us know this isn’t all PTSD reverie—it’s a rebel poem: surely some revolution is at hand. ELUCID channels Achebe channeling Yeats. Things might fall apart but not without struggle. The “Flavor Flav clock spins centrifugal,” as a gyre, as an apocalyptic (91…) voice. Turning and returning. The words have an air of insurrection, proclamation.

He misses “watching how a flat circle fold”—it won’t budge, won’t wrinkle. We’ve been here before: on “Hunter,” on Paraffin, when billy woods was on that “time is a flat circle” shit. That Nietzsche eternal recurrence shit:

What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain…will return to you. […] The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!

“Can you find the level of difficulty in this?” suggests game playing, arcades. Calls to mind more Walter Benjamin’s Arcades, though. billy woods and ELUCID are gleaners and magpies of cultural cadavers in Benjamin’s way. Their bars are play and critique both. We’re left with a modicum of optimism at the song’s end. Even “only [moving] the pen six inches” is something, is struggle. The “pale faces beyond the fire” are ever-present, though. The “flinching, panic, [and] confusion” are committed to continue.

Is it the fool or the insurgent who thinks time is on their side? We want the life we live to be “more brilliant than a sunbeam.” That’s to say, we don’t want to wait for the golden hour or the golden years. We want what they say we can’t have. We want what they say we shouldn’t imagine. But Armand Hammer helps us take solace in the “drum skin stretched”—the rhythm, the rebel. The oft-quoted Douglass gem, If there is no struggle, there is no progress, is played out for a reason. The reason is because it needs to be played again, and again. Like a mantra, like a song.

Images:

Sun Ra’s Space is the Place (screenshot) | Flavor Flav (detail), courtesy of archivist Sean Stewart | Grandmaster Flash “You Know What Time It Is” music video (screenshot) | Kool Moe Dee “Do You Know What Time It Is?” single cover | Nina Simone live at Antibes Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festival 1965 (screenshot) | The Battle of Algiers (screenshot) | The Rolling Stones 12 x 5 album cover | Flavor Flav, courtesy of Stewart

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lovelylogans · 5 years

Text

odds are

LORELAI: Oh, come on. This will be fun. LUKE: No way, not happening. LORELAI: But this is our first Halloween together as a full-blown, committed, soon-to-be-married couple. We need to start our own traditions. LUKE: Tell you what. I'll build you the chair, help with the test tubes, and then I'm done. LORELAI: But you would be so scary with smoke coming out of your nose. I really want to see that. LUKE: Well, we're gonna be together the rest of our lives, so odds are you will.

-gilmore girls, twenty-one is the loneliest number

part of the wyliwf verse | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: dogs, costumes, bittersweet nostalgia, homesickness, loneliness mentions, deceit

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 4,748

notes: HAPPY HALLOWEEN! we’ve hit the last prompt for 13 days of halloween prompts over at @sanderssidescelebrations! today’s prompt is costume party! this takes place about two years later after the events of cohabit and about nine months after the events of cocoa��so it’s logan and roman’s freshman year of college and don’t worry the whole Relationship Development and like, Other Developments that get dropped pretty soon in the story will be subject to a oneshot(s) or potentially multichap sideshire files, don’t worry boo i gotchu you can find the various foods mentioned throughout the story here.

seven days

patton has been well aware that halloween is virgil’s favorite holiday. it’s not even their first halloween since they’ve been together or lived together—but virgil’s really stepping it up this year.

“pat.”

patton makes a grumbling kind of noise—patton’s close to drifting off to sleep, which virgil knows, and virgil also knows not to really expect a lot of conversation from patton when he’s near sleep, either waking up or falling asleep—and squints. the only light on in the room is virgil’s phone.

“pat, we forgot to get a costume for cocoa,” virgil says.

patton mumbles something that’s supposed to be “we have a week,” but it comes out garbled. somehow, virgil understands it—it’s probably the almost-nineteen years of knowing him.

“i don’t even have an idea,” virgil says.

“can we figure this out in the morning?” patton mumbles.

“it’s cocoa’s first halloween.”

“cocoa doesn’t seem to care much right now.”

cocoa is, indeed, flopped out at their feet, snoozing happily away. patton’s kind of jealous.

“but—i don’t have an idea,” virgil says, and patton sighs, adjusting as much as he can without kicking their dog, and ends up flopping most of his body on top of virgil’s torso, pillowing his head on virgil’s shoulder. this also, conveniently, brings virgil’s phone out of his sight.

“sleep now.”

“patton—“

“sleep now,” he repeats in a kind of growl.

there’s a hesitation. then, the light clicks off, and there’s the sound of virgil’s phone being settled on his bedside table. patton almost smiles, and readjusts, getting comfy.

“...so, like, do you think we should dress her more cute or more scary?” virgil asks tentatively.

patton lets out a huff that’s the closest thing to a snort he can get, when he’s this close to dropping off. “definitely cute,” he mumbles.

“okay,” virgil says. there’s another long pause, and patton’s about to slip off into sleep, before—

“is it too on-the-nose if we dress her up like a cup of cocoa?”

“darling,” patton says, “i love you, and i will super definitely listen to your rambling as you try to narrow down your costume ideas, because that is what fiancés slash almost-husbands should do, but if you do not let me get to sleep there might just be a halloween-themed murder.”

there’s a pause.

“so no to the cup of cocoa idea, then,” virgil says, and patton laughs, pressing a kiss to virgil’s shoulder before he nuzzles against his chest.

“so if we’re thinking cute, then we’ve got a lot of options since she’s pretty ambiguous about clothes, she likes the jacket we put on her when it’s cold out, so that’s not a limit,” virgil muses, and patton falls asleep to the gentle lull of his voice as he talks about dog costume ideas.

...

six days

logan really shouldn’t still be doing this, by now. he’s been at college for nearly three months, now. it only took twenty-one days to form a habit, and it seemed the twenty-one days had snuck up on him, and now—

“hi, dad.”

“hey, kiddo,” his dad says, and logan leans against the wall of his lecture hall, closing his eyes tight. “how’s your day going so far?”

“mostly good,” logan fibs. “i just got done with my history course, so i’m done with classes for the week.”

his dad makes a sound of celebration, and logan smiles, just a little, avoiding the gazes of the anonymous sea of people flooding forth from the lecture hall.

“but i’m going to the library soon,” logan adds, and his dad lets out a familiar sigh.

“well, as long as you’re not overworking yourself,” his dad says.

logan hums, because if he says something about how he’s going to be plotting out an essay that’s due right before thanksgiving break his dad will tell him to take a break and that he can take a weekend to relax, but he absolutely cannot do that. instead, he says, “what plans do you have for the weekend?”

“oh, not much, really,” patton says. “hang around the diner, take cocoa for some really long walks before it gets too cold, try to talk virgil out of turning the front yard into a graveyard for the trick-or-treaters, you know, the usual.”

“trying to talk virgil out of what,” logan says.

“halloween,” patton says, by way of explanation, and logan makes a noise of understanding.

it’s virgil’s absolute favorite holiday—logan remembers thinking, as a kid, that whenever virgil started getting excited about halloween, it meant his birthday was coming soon—and logan attempts to forcefully quell what absolutely was not disappointment at his first halloween approach away from sideshire. the setup’s half the fun.

“you still don’t know what you’re dressing up as?”

“nope,” his dad says cheerfully. “he insists that all of it’s gonna be a surprise, so—”

“you don’t even have the slightest idea?” logan pushes.

“well, i’m no you,” his dad points out, and laughs when logan sighs.

“are you doing anything fun, this weekend?” his dad asks, and logan ignores the little squirming guilty feeling in his stomach, the same way he always feels when his dad asks the question, and when he answers.

“i think i might go out to dinner with some people on my dorm floor,” logan says vaguely, thinking of the meal that he’ll pack away from the dining hall and eat alone in his room, “or see a movie,” he’ll be making flashcards and quizzing himself over and over and over again, “we haven’t decided yet.”

“oh, that’s great!” his dad says, sounding pleased. “let me know if you see a movie, if it’s good or not, yeah?”

“yeah,” logan says, making a mental note to look up movie reviews in case his dad asks, in their call tomorrow. “how’s work been?”

he leans against the wall, listening to his dad prattle cheerfully on, and he sinks further and further back into the shadows, relishing the autumn chill, the news of home, and the slightest balm that his dad’s voice offers against the gnawing presence of homesickness and loneliness that’s been in his chest since he was left alone in his dorm room for the first time.

...

five days

“hello?”

“hey! hey hey hey hey hey hey. hey.”

“hello. are you drunk?”

“i’m at a halloween party, and i’ve had a couple drinks.”

“mhm.”

“not many! just a couple.”

“of course.”

“a man drunk-dials you one time...”

“it’s been three times, but i’ll allow a pass, since your memory recall is clearly impaired.”

“were you sleeping?”

“no, just reading.”

“s’late. you should be sleeping.”

“roman, why would you have called if you thought i was sleeping?”

“get your logic out of here, i love you and i wanted to check in.”

“ah, okay. have you hit—what was the phrase?”

“...i might be in rambly drunk territory.”

“what a shock.”

“hey.”

“it’s true!”

“seriously, though, what are you doing up? usually you’re all about the whole... getting eight hours of sleep thing. or at least you always tell me to get eight hours of sleep.”

“i have an essay—“

“it’s the weekend.”

“that does not change the fact i have an essay, roman. in fact, it indicates the nearness of the due date. besides, i’m working ahead so i can better focus when we’re both home next week—”

“ugh, fine, fine. i’m sure i’ll remember this when i can more coherently bring a point together to tell you why taking at least one day off a week is better for your mental health and general productivity, but—“

“roman, was there a point to this call?”

“i love you and i wanted to hear your voice.”

“...you’re pouting.”

“am not.”

“are too.”

“am not!”

“are too.”

“am—“

“i’m cutting it off now, or we’ll keep going in circles until the sun rises.”

“fiiiiiine.”

“....are too.”

“hey!”

...

four days

"okay,” virgil says, checking the list that he’s taken off the wall as patton pushes the cart behind him, with the squeak-squeak-squeak of a wheel that needs to be oiled.

usually, when he and patton go grocery shopping, they go to taylor doose’s shop in town, but since they need to get decorations and bags of candy and a ton of other stuff, they’ve driven a little closer to the city so they can go to a bigger grocery store that’s got everything they’ll need.

squeak-squeak-squeak, and virgil glances up at the listings hanging from the ceiling.

“so this is food, and i guess over there might be decorations?”

“mhm,” patton says, squeak-squeak-squeak.

“we’ve gotten candy,” patton had snuck at least three extra bags into the cart and virgil pretended not to see, “we’ve gotten streamers, we got banners, i was thinking about getting some spare fabric in case my idea for cocoa’s costume doesn’t pan out and i have to go to my back-up plan, and we still need to get—”

the squeaking’s stopped. virgil turns back, curious, and sees patton stopped in his path and staring at—

oh.

virgil plods back a few steps, so he’s hovering near patton’s shoulder. patton doesn’t seem to notice, though, as he’s staring at the racks of superhero costumes—from onesies for babies to about the size logan was, when he was seven or so.

“sweetheart,” virgil says, soft and gentle, and patton jumps just a little.

“sorry!” he says, and shakes himself, reaching out a finger as if to brush it against a baby onesie, but thinking better of it, hand curling back toward him. “sorry, sorry, just—i wondered if...”

“yeah?” virgil asks.

“i was just thinking about,” patton says, and swallows. “logan, y’know. when he was this tiny.”

virgil had figured. over the past few months, he’s found patton lost in thought and staring at any number of things—the jam shelf in doose’s grocery, whenever he sees rudy out and about in town, the telescope logan had gotten for his sixteenth birthday that he’d had to reluctantly leave behind since there wouldn’t be enough space for it in his dorm room, any time he passes the press—and it’s just...

it twists at virgil’s heart, every time it happens, a bittersweetness that surges unexpectedly to the surface for him, too—making jam tarts three times a week is an exercise in making sure he doesn’t cry at work, which feels stupid, they’re just tarts, but every time he rolls out dough he thinks of all the times logan had helped him with it, the smiles he’d get whenever virgil snuck him one, and it—

it’s just. hard. kids grow up, and that’s natural, and good, but...

but, well. it didn’t stop the nostalgia.

“do you think he would have been a big superhero fan?” he asks, soft. “if they were as big a market then as they are now.”

patton swallows, leans his head against virgil’s shoulder, just for a moment. “the science ones,” he says softly. “he’d like—he’d like the science ones.”

virgil smiles a little, feeling that familiar lump in his throat. “the reporters, too. he’d have the alliteration thing going, too—lois lane logan. and roman would be superman.”

patton lets out a laugh that’s really closer to a sob, and virgil wants to wrap him up in a long, lingering hug, virgil’s general shyness about public displays of affection be damned, but before he can do that, patton turns. he’s smiling at virgil, just a little, but it’s fake around the edges.

“sorry,” patton says, and swallows. virgil nudges him, just a little.

“he’ll be home soon,” virgil reminds him, soft and quiet.

“i know,” patton murmurs, and a slightly rueful smile twists his lips. “i know, i know. it’s just—”

“i know,” virgil murmurs, and allows himself to lean over and press a chaste kiss to patton’s cheek. “it’s okay to miss him.”

it’s been a common refrain.

“i know.”

that’s been common, too.

“i miss him too,” virgil admits, quiet, and patton squeezes tightly at his wrist, before he takes a deep breath and forcefully turns away from anything resembling a baby clothes section.

“okay,” patton says, and maybe he’s forcing himself to sound a bit brighter and perkier than usual. “what else do we need to get?”

virgil lets it slide, and if he maybe hangs back so that he can hold patton’s hand as they walk through the store—well, patton’s clinging to him tightly enough that it’s clear that he needs it, too.

...

three days

"i’d had no idea you were so fascinated by halloween,” logan comments, from where he’s holding up the banner as dee affixes the other side.

“you think my spooky bitch aesthetic wouldn’t be all over this?” dee says, voice studiously bland.

“well, you were never ‘all over it’ at chilton.”

“you wore those uniforms for three years,” dee says pointedly. “and you know how strict they were with dress code.”

“true,” logan acknowledges, and steps back when dee comes to attach the other edge of the CREEPIN IT REAL banner to the wall. “are you sure you don’t want to come to sideshire?”

“i’d have to visit my parents,” dee says, with an eye-roll. “i have an invite to get wine-drunk with some poetry majors—“

“i thought it was whiskey-drunk with pre-meds?”

“—so i’m afraid i’m booked, and cannot upstage your little boy-toy with my clearly superior costume.”

“it’s roman,” logan says. “you know it’s roman. you got drunk and spilled a lot of your life story with roman, even if it directly conflicts with the varying life stories you’ve told me. you can no longer pretend that you are not on a first-name basis with him.”

“of course, sanders,” dee says, and logan rolls his eyes, before he draws his hand back from the pile of decor.

“um,” he says, and then winces, because dee can detect any sense of uncertainty in anyone’s tone, like a shark smelling blood.

“what?” dee says, glancing at him.

“would you,” logan says, and his mouth twists, since he knows he can’t pass this off as anything but sentimental. “would you be willing to keep the fake spider webbing to your room?”

dee narrows his eyes at him. “you’re not afraid of spiders.”

“no,” logan agrees, and hands it over, conscientious of the lack of spider webbing in his halloweens all his life—because his dad’s afraid of spiders, and virgil has always catered to him. “but i’d prefer you kept it to your room anyway.”

...

two days

"all right, what’ll it be?” virgil asks, leaning a hip against the counter and readying his pen to write down patton’s order.

“thiiiiiiis whole section,” patton says, outlining the special insert of halloween-themed foods with his pointer finger. “oh, and a hot cocoa/coffee, too.”

“patton.”

“c’mon, pleeaaase?” patton pleads, batting his eyelashes at virgil. “i’ve barely tried any of them, and you only do it once a year—”

“you won’t be able to eat all that,” virgil starts.

“sample sizes, then,” patton says. “little bits of everything.”

virgil pauses.

“you can control my portions, that way,” patton points out. “and i’ll be taste-testing everything, and i won’t be wasting food. win-win.”

virgil hesitates, tapping the pen. “bigger serving of the butternut squash risotto, so you’ll have an actual meal, a side of vegetables of my choice that you’ll eat, and only one cup of caffeinated hot cocoa/coffee, it’s already late in the day.”

patton beams at him, handing him back the menu. “you’re the best.”

“yeah, yeah,” virgil mutters, and patton blows him a kiss, just for extra measure.

virgil rolls his eyes, trying to act like he’s not grinning like a lovestruck idiot, and retreats back into the kitchen to stick the ticket into the deck.

“i really should make a halloween sampler platter next year,” virgil muses aloud, and taps the idea into his phone for later, so he remembers it, before he starts readying patton’s dinner—caramel apple slices, cheesy spiders, monster pizza bites, mummy jalepeño poppers, spooky spinach dip in a bread bowl cauldron, a saucy spider, ghost toast. he adds on a couple decorated cookies that he’ll default are part of the menu, if patton teases him about it.

and, when patton makes the same happy noises that he always does whenever he eats anything that virgil makes him, well. if he’s smiling to himself as he clears out the coffee filters, then it’s no one’s business but his.

...

one day

“i got it,” virgil says triumphantly.

“got what?” patton says absently, taking out the various kinds of candy they’d bought earlier in the week to put into various bowls.

“cocoa’s costume,” virgil says. “i got it.”

“yeah?” patton says, glancing up at him and grinning. “can i see?”

“nope,” virgil says, and drops a kiss to the top of his head, before he drops into the opposite chair at the kitchen table. “but it is very cute, and it ties in with ours.”

“which i’m also not supposed to know about,” patton says.

“exactly,” virgil says, and he frowns at the bags of candy. “are we mixing or sorting or...?”

“stuff with nuts in red, stuff that’s allergen-safe in blue,” patton says, gesturing to the bowls.

“got it,” virgil says, tugging a bag full of fun-size skittles toward him.

cocoa, loyally, takes up her regular seat under the dining table, where she begs for scraps, and patton laughs, reaching down to pet her, tousling her fur and sending her ears flopping.

“no, cocoa, honey,” patton says, smiling, “no candy for you.”

cocoa, however, lives in eternal hope, so she sets her chin on his thigh and lets out a little sigh.

patton does sneakily pop a fun-size snickers into his mouth, though, because he’s an adult and he can eat candy if he wants.

and a milky way. and a three musketeers. and a reese’s. and—

“it’s cute you think i don’t notice you doing that,” virgil says, not looking up from where he’s opening another bag of candy, and patton smiles at him, only a little guilty, as he tosses a handful of m&ms into his mouth.

“aw, babe,” patton teases, “you think i’m cute?”

virgil looks up at him, fond and jokingly exasperated all at once. “we’re literally engaged.”

“yeah, but,” patton says, and grins wider. “you think i’m cu-ute.”

virgil huffs, before he leans over the table, standing, to press a kiss to patton’s lips, and patton can’t stop smiling for long enough to let him do it properly.

virgil doesn’t seem to mind all that much.

...

halloween

"okay,” virgil says, and hands over a vast bunch of black fabric. patton accepts it with eager hands.

“my costume?”

“your costume,” virgil confirms. “i figured i’d do some makeup too, as we’re waiting for trick-or-treaters, if that’s cool with you.”

patton makes a distracted sound of agreement as he unfolds it—he can’t quite unparse what it is right now, but it’s virgil-made in both idea and fabric-wise, so he’s sure he’ll love it.

“okay,” patton says, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “i’ll change and take the first shift of babies trick-or-treating while you and cocoa get everything ready for the party, yeah?”

“yeah,” virgil says, looking pleased, and patton ducks into the bathroom, untangling the fabric.

it’s a black shirt, a black jacket, black pants—they all have feathery-looking accents, subtle and yet so clear, and patton tilts his head at it, trying to figure it out. it’s some kind of bird, definitely, but—

patton shrugs, and tugs it on, before he stares at himself in the mirror—it’s a bit low-cut, front-wise, but there’s threads criss-crossing in the front to seal it up, so he does. there’s a long, duster-type coat that patton really likes and might wear regularly, too, since the feather stuff is maybe subtle enough to pass off in the middle of the regular season.

“do you have a shoe preference?” patton hollers through the bathroom door.

“black ones!” virgil calls back.

“is this a sneak method to make me look goth?” he calls, and he can hear virgil’s snort through the door.

“just for today,” he calls.

“am i a crow?”

“raven, actually, but there’s a specific one, you’ll realize it soon enough,” virgil says, and patton opens the door to see virgil gathering up his own swaths of dark fabric in his arms, cocoa sitting politely at his feet. patton does a little spin to show off.

virgil smiles, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “you look great.”

“thanks,” patton says, and flaps his arms, and the duster makes it look like wings. “i really like this coat.”

virgil’s smile turns a bit more pleased. “thanks.”

“okay,” patton decides, and makes some last-minute adjustments, making sure his costume sits on him right, and virgil reaches out to correct his collar. “i’ll go out on the porch, just come on out when you and cocoa are ready, yeah?”

he presses a kiss to virgil’s lips, and the last thing he sees is virgil ducking down to cocoa’s level, unearthing a dress-looking thing.

he tries to brainstorm what it is, even as he gives out generous handfuls of candy to the tiny, toddling members of sideshire—mostly toddler-aged kids, at this time, so they don’t have to stay up late—exclaiming over mermaids and superheroes and princesses and witches and ghosts and video game characters, winking at them when he slips them extra.

when their parents ask after him, what exactly he is, he simply shrugs, beaming, before sending the kids on to the next house.

the sun’s just dipped below the horizon when he hears the door open, and the familiar click-click-click of cocoa’s nails on hardwood, then on the porch.

patton whistles lowly, and pats his lap, craning his neck to see her.

she does, indeed, look very cute. patton had been right—it had been a dress, with a kind of vest, maybe, and a tiara nestled amongst the fake flowers on her head that’s already knocked askew.

“you look so cute, baby girl!” patton gushes, getting onto his knees, all the better to pet cocoa without dislodging her costume and to adjust her tiara—it’s ringing a bell in his head, what exactly she is, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

that is, until—

“the princess shall indeed grow in grace and beauty, beloved by all who know her,” virgil’s voice rumbles, and patton looks up and immediately feels his mouth go dry. “but, before the sun sets on her sixteenth birthday, she shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die. or, uh. prick her paw, i guess.”

patton makes a noise that kind of sounds like guh?

virgil is... wow. he’s dressed in sweeping black robes that make him look taller and slimmer than he already is, imposing, somehow, absolutely towering over everything in sight. the robes have a v neck and a pointed, sharp collar that brings attention to the horns emerging from his head. his cheekbones are absolutely chiseled, his lips ruby red, his skin pale and smooth and flawless, his hair—what peeked forth from the horns, anyway—dark and lush and just begging for patton to run his fingers through it.

there’s only peeks of skin—his hands, his neck, a bit of his chest, his face, of course—but he looks so...

patton tries to swallow as he rises to his feet, mouth slightly agape.

virgil’s lips—so red, so full—quirk, and he adjusts his robes, looking self-conscious. “it doesn’t look that bad, does it?” he asks cautiously.

patton reaches up, and scratches lightly through the thin, delicate hairs at the nape of virgil’s neck. he shivers.

and then patton tugs virgil down to his level, and tries his best to kiss him absolutely silly. he threads his fingers through whatever bits of virgil’s hair he can grab, tugging him close, the other closing possessively over virgil’s hip and he just pulls him in, as hot and close and tight as he possibly can, and virgil’s lips part under his and he tastes like snuck chocolate and caramel and nougat, and he bites at virgil’s lip, almost half-hoping it’ll taste like what the color reminds him of—candy-coated apples.

when patton manages to let go of him, once he’s at least a little satisfied his emotions on virgil’s costumes have been almost-adequately conveyed, he leans back to see virgil’s slightly-smeared lip gloss that sends a thrill up patton’s spine.

“oh,” virgil says breathlessly.

“yeah,” patton says, grinning, “oh.”

somehow, they manage to haul out the two rocking chairs and sit out on the porch for the express purpose of ease of access for trick-or-treaters without patton getting distracted, though he does, for most of the rest of the time they wait for the ebb and flow of floods of kids, keep a hand on virgil’s knee, occasionally squeezing virgil’s thigh.

virgil flushes, just a bit, behind his makeup. he ends up fixing up his lips, and making sure that there aren’t any remnants on patton’s face that give away what they’d been doing, lest any of the children ask why maleficent had been kissing her raven, diaval, as they looked up from petting sleeping beauty.

and, as the promised time inches closer and closer, patton can’t stop himself from fidgeting, and virgil snickers.

“excited?” he teases.

“don’t pretend you haven’t planned out all of logan’s favorite meals for the weekend,” patton says, unable to stop his own smile at the thought—since logan’s birthday is on sunday, he’s come home early with one of the default absences that his lecture professor on friday’s given him, and roman’s coming home, too, so the kids will be around and they might have a big dinner with isadora (and probably one with his parents) but he’ll be able to spend time with his son.

their daily phone calls are great, true, but he’s missed just hanging out with logan—their companionable silences, seeing his son furrow his brow with interest when he reads a book or an article, the meaningful, wordless quirks of his brow or twists of his lips that patton’s spent eighteen-almost-nineteen years deciphering—so he’s just. he’s really excited.

when the first guests come—emile and remy, dressed up as steven and connie—patton welcomes them perhaps a bit too eagerly as cocoa barks, tail wagging wildly, and patton tries to correct her tiara again.

he throws himself into hosting as virgil handles the last of the trick-or-treaters that’ll be face-to-face—he makes sure their spooky cauldrons of punch are full, that the platters of themed snacks that virgil had spent most of the day preparing (and mostly preventing patton from eating) are out from the fridge and ferried about the room, and that everyone is having a good time, that he greets everyone and exclaims over their costumes, before—

cocoa starts barking excitedly from the porch, and patton grins, setting down the platter on the nearest available surface and dashing for the door, half-hanging off the ledge in order to see virgil letting logan out of a hug, and tugging roman into an awkward, one-armed kind of thing.

“kiddo!” patton says eagerly, and wraps his arms tightly around logan’s shoulders. logan tolerates it with something less than his usual stiffness—he hugs him back, and patton draws back to grin at him.

“happy halloween.”

“happy halloween,” logan repeats, and patton takes a look at him. he’s wearing a suit, and a dapper hat, and he’s holding a candy cigarette between his fingers, the box with the rest of them tucked away in his breast pocket.

“who—?”

“walter burns, from his girl friday.”

patton snorts, just a bit, because of course logan stuck so stubbornly to his interests for a halloween costume, before he looks for roman—who has matched with logan, as hildy johnson, because last year they’d dressed up as two prince charmings and it’s logan’s year to pick—and hooks him into a hug, too.

“i tried convincing him to do black-and-white makeup, but he wouldn’t go for it,” roman says.

“we were already running late,” logan begins, and they barely pause in their bickering to pet cocoa—patton’s given up in keeping her tiara and flowers straight on her head—before they disappear inside, and patton turns to virgil, grinning.

“happy halloween,” virgil says, and leans down to kiss him on the cheek, and patton beams up at him.

“happy halloween.”

(patton doesn’t wash off the bright red lip print on his cheek until he’s getting ready for bed that night.)

#my post #text #my fic #sanders sides spooky month 2019 #wyliwf #the sideshire files

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sasorikigai · 4 years

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“ don’t you understand? i love you. and nothing you’ve done, no matter how much of a monster you think you are, is gonna change that. ” (@ Hanzo, pretty much any verse o o f)

more prompts for your feels || @sonxflight || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Nothing is everything, and in order to grow strong, Hanzo must first sink his roots deep into nothingness. He had strenuously tried to face his loneliest loneliness, and at times, he feels the need to tear the flesh from his bone, to peel it back; layer by layer, from the epidermis down to the periosteum, expose the organs beneath the cavity of the body’s center, let nature come claim them as their own for he has no need any longer. Hanzo Hasashi would be free of that prison, he would be free of the prison that weighs him down, free of the shell that traps him inside. Then he’d be finally liberated, free to roam the unknown and unseen, free to not exist.

Pain lingers and seeps through his facade, as it had been his entire world as he had perceived it with such normalcy. How can he ever look at this differently? For he had been defacing and defaming himself in this futile breathless realization that paints deathly hues upon the soulful intensity his amber eyes? The midnight embraces him nonchalantly, much like the way his life’s mirage snatches his whole being without warning as the scalding saltwater silently descends his closed lids.

Still entrapped in the vertigo of whirling heatwave and tornado with debris flying off at him like a burst of rapid-fire gunshot exploding too close to his core as the world had deconstructed itself, his elemental and unrestrained need to sustain himself is the only thing that silences that calamity to briefly halt in a ceasefire. His form would be always that shattered piece of mended kintsugi vase, enable to encompass whatever it would be thrown at him, yet he still has to patch whatever holes there may be, as they consume and devour him.

“I am a twisted person, Ryou,” the unending tremor becomes an earthquake, as the barricaded ribs tighten, becomes a mandible against his heart. “The only way I can know my capacity for love is from my capacity for anguish before even suffering in perpetual suffering. I just want my hands to do something other than to wreak havoc and destruction, and my despair and ideal don’t synchronize well with your pristine goodness.” his grim lips becomes the descending sickle curve of the moonlight, his temperamental moroseness etching through his darkest hours as Scorpion endures the pain of having to deal with such unfamiliarity of Ryou’s words. “I would hate to incinerate you in my blackening hellfire.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv)#(hanzo.exe has crashed)#sonxflight

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chocafe · 6 years

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muse — lee byounggon

summary: an empty studio filled with nothing, but love. genre: fluff word count: 1.5k pairing: boyfriend!byounggon x reader a/n: i combined two anon’s requests together which were 1. a cute byounggon bullet scenario and 2. late night studio visit with byounggon. i hope everyone enjoys this and i personally believe that this is a little sloppy, so sorry about that!!! ( ᵘ ᵕ ᵘ ⁎)

“you don’t know how badly i want to see you right now” byounggon mumbles into his cellphone

“you’re not the only one feeling this horrible pain.” you spoke into the other line as you agreed with him

it was midnight

the loneliest hour of the night

at this time, byounggon was pulling another all-nighter in the studio as he worked on a self-composed song

you were awake solely based on the fact that you wanted to keep byounggon company by talking to him on the phone (it may also be because you messed up your sleeping schedule by playing so much games during the late night)

“you know, you can come over right now.”

“to the yg studio?” you exclaim since you’ve never stepped foot in such a luxurious building before. “i thought you all weren’t allowed to bring visitors in?”

“who said i was bringing in a visitor?” byounggon began to chuckle in a mischievous manner. “listen, it’s twelve at night and the security guards could care less about who walks in. trust me, you won’t get caught.”

in a matter of minutes, you found yourself standing right outside of the building

after all, you would do anything for byounggon

“over here!” byounggon tried his best to stay quiet as he called out for you

in order to not get caught by the security guards, you entered through a back door, which was only used by people who were the most familiar with the structure of the building

byounggon clenched onto your hand as he guided you through the deep, yet empty, hallways

when the two of you encountered a security guard, you both began to dash, but that couldn’t hide the fact that you were both giggling like little childrens

in all honesty, the security guards weren’t bothered by your presence, even though visitors weren’t allowed at such an hour

if anything, fellow security guards thought you two were trainees who were secretly dating when they checked the cctv footage

“see! those were the two trainees i saw last night in the hallways. man, if only our lives were that simple.”

“once their managers find out about them— bam! it’s game over.”

the studio was quiet

maybe too quiet

it wasn’t how you imagined it to originally be

there were no groups of crazy, yet youthful, boys in sight

and instead, the only person you saw, was byounggon

you didn’t mind that and if anything

you really enjoyed the view you had of him

“now that you’re here, i can finally focus and work on these lyrics.” byounggon gripped onto your chair, that you were already currently sitting on, and pulled it closer to him

the less space

the better

he wanted to be close to you

physically and mentally

“you said that you can finally focus on your lyrics, but why is all of your attention on me?” you jokingly claim while staring directly into byounggon’s eyes

you knew his weakness

and it was you

“well,” his eyes creases into mini crescent moons as he reaches out to grab a hold of your hand “my lyrics are being written after you, so i need my muse with me in order to get the full effect.”

not only were you his significant other, but you were also his muse

little did you know about all of the songs that he has written about you in the past

if you’re really curious about the songs, then you can just scavenge through his bag and read through his journal, which has all of his song lyrics, written about you, with his pen ink smeared across

byounggon didn’t lie

having you directly next to him made him more productive than he was for the past three hours

he continued to write lyrics one after another

all while holding your hand with his other hand that wasn’t occupied by a pen

you two remained silent in the moment, but as usual, you didn’t mind

every moment when you two are together is enjoyable, even counting the silent moments too

you were both blinded by love

by the seconds that past by, you began to become curious as to what exactly byounggon is jotting down in his notebook

you slowly approached him and slid his journal out of his sight and into yours

you proceeded to read what he came up with, and you immediately knew it was about you

there was no doubt

but you still asked “who is this about?”

“hyunsuk.” byounggon jokingly responded back, squeezing your hand a bit tighter while breaking into a mini laughter

“then i guess you wouldn’t mind me writing about junkyu too, right?” you teased him right back

as the name ‘junkyu’ spewed out of your mouth, byounggon instantly stopped laughing and narrowed his eyes at you, pretending to be annoyed

but he could never be annoyed with you

it was a joke after all and you two regularly pester each other

“wanna hear a song i made a month ago?” byounggon asked even though he was already in the process of opening the music file

it was more like a “im going to show you a song i made a month ago.”

“yedam helped me with this one.” he added on, officially clicking the play button

once more, you two sat in silence and listened to the self-composed song

you were immersed in the song while byounggon was staring at you the whole entire time, wanting to see your facial expression to see whether or not you enjoy it

the song was more on the mellow side

byounggon rapped for the first and second verse while yedam sang the chorus

if you really put some thought into it, their voices contrasted one another

yedam’s voice is known to be as sweet as honey while byounggon’s voice is raspy and deep just like a black hole

when the song finally reached it’s ending, byounggon impatiently wanted your feedback “so?”

“yedam’s voice is seriously out of this world!” you gushed out loud while clapping your hands in excitement

that wasn’t exactly what byounggon wanted to hear

but as long as you liked it in some form

then he’s happy

his happiness revolves around you

the moon is still in the sky

and you’re losing track of the amount of hours you’ve been awake for

you lay your arms out on the desk and rest your head on top of them, laying your head sideways, so you can look up at byounggon

byounggon notices your action and stops what he’s doing

by doing the complete same as you, resting his head while looking directly into your pupils

you both don’t say a single word, but you both grin at each other

as if you both knew the other one was going to smile at the same exact time

byounggon lifts up his hand and runs it through your lock of hair

it was soothing and all you did in return was continue to smile for him

everyone smiles and it’s simply a natural thing to do

but why does byounggon’s heart race whenever he sees you smile?

his heart beats faster and faster

he sure hopes yours is beating just as quick as his

to cure his poor heart, he leans in, breaking the space

and kisses you softly on the lips

straightaway, you kiss byounggon’s lips back, reassuring him he’s not the only one alone in this feeling

everything goes quiet

there were no one knocking on the door, no footsteps and no music playing in the background

the only visible sounds were your’s and byounggon’s lips smacking against each others

and perhaps, your heart was beating just as loud

byounggon definitely knows how to steal your breath and give it back to you all in one

both of your hearts were blossoming like a field of flowers

maybe byounggon will make a song based off of this

the one thing you disliked about leaving byounggon was that you were unsure when will be the next time you’ll see him again

the two of you stood outside the building as you both waited for a taxi to stop by

his arms were wrapped around your waist as he dug his face in between the area between your shoulder and neck

“you really need to go back home. it’s already three am and you have school in the morning.” byounggon reminded you even though he was the one clinging onto you

“i can’t leave if you’re clinging onto me like a koala.” you chuckled, causing him to embrace you even tighter than beforehand

a taxi driver passes by, asking if you need a ride home

you both knew this was your call to leave

before you break the embrace to enter the car

byounggon leaves a quick peck on your forehead

the two of you wave goodbye to one another

the goodbye is more of a “see you later”

you both didn’t know when that day will come

but you’ll both make it work somehow

because you and byounggon would do anything for one another

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rotschopf-thedrow · 9 months

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Tiny Scene Tuesday

Today's menu: Valid, flavour, tongue

[Create a short piece (art of fic) that encompasses those 3 words.]

Thank you, @mallaidhsomo, for the prompt @ the Big Place server.

The flavour was rich, dark, and sensual, and Kaidan was addicted. He couldn’t remember ever trying something as creamy and velvety as what he was currently experiencing. He closed his eyes in bliss, not caring one iota that he was moaning like a whore.

Which was a totally valid sound to make in his not so humble opinion, especially when tasting something this pleasurable on his tongue.

He was in heaven.

“Good?” Coats asked, his voice raspy.

Kaidan nodded. He didn’t want to swallow, wanted to keep that taste on his tongue for as long as possible, but it already started to diffuse.

Coats chuckled. “More?”

Finally, Kaidan swallowed and grinned. “You bet. Didn’t know you were into making chocolate fudge.”

“Old recipe of me mum’s,” Coats replied, offering another square of those delicious treats. “And she got it from my grandmother.”

Kaidan grinned. “I’m doubly glad, then, that I’m marrying into your family,” he said, before he took the sweet morsel from Coats’ fingers, and he just knew that his mum would get along with his mother-in-law-to-be just fine.

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #kaidan alenko x major coats #the loneliest hour!verse #tiny scene tuesday #rotschopf writes

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jcmorrigan · 5 years

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Another f/o ramble...but this time, not a selfshippy one. This one’s more about ficfam, so I guess “ficfam” is another tag to block if you don’t wanna see my ridiculousness (and I do wanna come up with a weird name for our family unit as well for tags)

But lately, I realized I kind of...needed a certain type of parental f/o. Sometimes you just...feel there are parts of you the RL parents don’t get, even if the RL parents are extremely nice. And sometimes you just want somebody to tell you they’re proud of you in a very, very big sense at a time when it wouldn’t be convenient for RL parents to do so. Or maybe “you” is “just me.”

I’d kind of accepted Archibald Snatcher as a distant father-mentor figure a while back because I managed to pick up some of his silver-tongued manipulation skills to talk my way out of minor sticky situations and resolve work stuff, and I always imagine him thinking I’m just a wonderful little protégé...but I wanted some imaginary ‘rents I could rely on for affection anywhere, anytime, and Archie isn’t that.

So this time, I thought about Giovanni and what contributed to him being such a good romantic f/o, and realized a big part of that was that he was in a morally gray place - I like having someone around who’s kind and sensitive and fun, but also lets me do some BAD THINGS and allows me freedom. So I realized my ideal parental f/o’s had to be somewhere in that range. I had thought about Globby and Felony Carl, but it didn’t quite click (even though I think they have super Dorky Dad vibes). But then another idea hit me...and I think I have the answer? I’ve been liking it for almost 24 hours, anyway.

I think Moxxie and Millie from Helluva Boss are my parental f/o’s now.

They fit the moral gray spectrum - they have intense loyalty to each other and display the love of the sweetest family units, but they’re also trained assassins who solve problems with guns. And, just, thinking about it, giving myself an AU where I was an imp raised in VivzieHell (I imagined myself as a kiddo being raised by them from youth, so a lot of these will sound kiddish)...

-Millie is just a bundle of love. She’s always chipper and singing and dancing with me, playing games.

-Moxxie is a bit more straitlaced, and he’s not exactly the “fun parent,” but I can’t stay mad at him for too long, because he’ll personally come into my room and sing me a song he wrote especially for me on his guitar until I fall asleep.

-I was a very...emotional child, even more so than I am now. I had anger issues. Unfortunately, living with these two would not have solved that, as their resolution to problems is to 1. scream at it 2. kill it with fire, but in this AU, I kind of like being able to just get angry and be a loose cannon and just LOSE all decorum and get it off my freakin’ CHEST. Let me have some more meltdowns to achieve more calm-down time.

-Speaking of which, Moxxie and I would be cut from the same cloth in that regard, and if Millie can handle Moxxie’s mood swings, she can handle mine!

-I also think Moxxie being so neurotic would also give him some sympathy for having a hypochondriac daughter who thinks she has cancer every five months or so. (Even if his first reaction is always a very deadpan “You don’t have cancer.”)

-But during purges, we’re all three scared and just huddle in the back bedroom together.

-When I get a new crush, Millie wants to hear all about THE BOOOYYYYY and goes on a big old quest to get him and me on a DATE!

-They’re Viv characters, so I have no doubt they’re 100% A-okay with having an ace daughter...even if I have to be grossed out with constant reminders that my parents FUCK ALL THE TIME

-Anyone hurts me? Oh, they’re about to meet the business end of every single one of Moxxie and Millie’s weapons.

-That person’s double dead if it was a boy who broke my heart.

-(Shared universe? Giovanni is safe. They LOVE Giovanni. Actually, XR is enough of a “sinner” that Millie would think of him as a perfect bad boy, and Tony knows he’s gotta play the gentleman around these two or the Moxxie-bomb will explode. So I think all three of my romantic f/o’s have an in.)

-From the time I was small, both of them were so ready to praise anything I did creatively and mean it. “You drew this? This is beautiful! I’m gonna put this on the fridge!” Now that I’m older, they actually check my fanfiction word count. “THAT’S A WHOLE NOVEL! THAT’S SO GREAT!”

-When I was a child, it took me a LONG time to learn to swear because I thought it was Against the Rules and therefore a very bad thing. Growing up with these two, I would not have had that problem. Baby Rachel’s first word is “Fuck” despite their every attempt to make it “Moxxie”

-Actually, growing up in Hell might be a weirdly good thing for me? Because I could get exposure therapy for my fears and also see that The Rules aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And this society doesn’t mind if I break a few.

-Basically, I grow up a lot more boisterous than I am now, for better or for worse. Maybe my character arc has to be about softening up enough to keep friends.

-But Moxxie and Millie would be loyal to me even at my loneliest and keep checking in on my emotional state. No way I get a depression spell they don’t notice.

-I feel like they would call me “Our little poison-dart frog!”.

-Also they teach me the art of murder and dismemberment. This is a dark AU. But I can finally exact REVENGE whenever I want REVENGE (note: I WOULD NOT WANT DEADLY REVENGE IRL)

-Blitzo is my weird uncle who Moxxie keeps trying to keep away from me because he thinks he’s being a “creep” but Blitzo means well and ends up taking me out to have some fun hang-out days because we all know he wants a kid of his own too if Loona is any indication

-Also, so long as I’m in VivzieHell, I feel like working concierge at the Happy/Hazbin Hotel would actually be a perfect fit for me so I can actually move OUT of my imp parents’ house? Charlie would need all the help she could get and is the ideal type for one of my BEST FRIENDOS. Also this would allow me to interact with people, get up and get moving daily, work unconventional hours, and be in the one part of Hell where a sense of morality actually matters.

-As for even WEIRDER crossovers...ever since Helluva Boss debuted, I’ve been dying to stick Moxxie/Millie and Nergal/Sis from Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy on a double date (and YES, Nergal would use his fourth wall powers to figure out that Moxxie has his nephew’s voice actor). Like, this is the subject of a whole other post, but you have Millie and Nergal skipping through the oceans of blood together while Sis and Moxxie make sardonic comments about passerby. Anyway, if I can blend these two ‘verses (or do something about giving my Twilight Town s/i to this crew for TBTC), then I get to have Uncle Nergal, Aunt Sis, and Cousin Junior (WE DON’T. TALK. ABOUT MY CRUSH-ON-NERGAL PHASE. HE’S MY FICFAM NOW). And I just love all three of those prospects so much.

I don’t know if I’m going to flesh out a full impverse for myself (anyone got a demon-maker Picrew that will let me have crimson skin and horns on hand?) or if I’m going to find a way to shoehorn this into TBTC with Rachel Inlustris, but right now, I just like imagining that at the end of a hard day, Moxxie comes up beside me, puts an arm around me, and says, “You did so good, little poison-dart frog.”

#ficfam

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morning-walk · 2 years

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I just came in from a walk with my Friend. Our talk led me to this.

It was right comical.

Our friends were Gathering with our Friend Tuesday last. There was a goodly number, by our standards, and the chairs got taken.

Except for the front row.

Because of the odd hour of our Gathering (what else could it be?) folks kept arriving for quite some time. They looked around and then headed for the chairs folded against the wall. We just kept adding rows to the back.

I was right amused. It is a long standing joke among churchy types that the two loneliest things in the building are the third verse of the hymns and the front pews of the sanctuaries.

Thinking about this took up a substantial portion of my walk.

If Mick Jagger or Beyoncé were “up front” the crowds will pay a fortune to sit on the front row.

Football game? The 50 yard line is the premium ticket.

Truth be told, the front rows are less vacant where there are rock star preachers and performers.

Then it came to me. It jolted me. It stopped me in my tracks.

The front row is supposed to be vacant - except for maybe the hard of hearing.

Get a load of this teaching in the Book…

If someone comes to the meeting with resources to buy the vip seats and you say “welcome” and quickly usher them to the visible place and another person shows up who is poor and dressed out of style and you say “there’s a good seat in the dark corner - well, that’s just wrong and can be considered evil.

Our faith instincts kick in.

At least that’s my theory.

Did you ever hear the word “innate?”

It means something that exists in us from birth. In this case rebirth.

When we are born anew into the Peaceable Kingdom things like humility and grace become as identifiable as the nose on your face.

Or, better said, as identifiable as the spirit in your heart.

Maybe we need to lighten up about that front pew. It’s relative emptiness may well be a sign we are on the right track.

Only the needy need go there.

I don’t know what to tell you about the third verse of the hymns.

You know what I mean?

Your move.

Brother Pat

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finishinglinepress · 5 years

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FINISHING LINE PRESS BOOK OF THE DAY:

Gravel Road Ahead by Sue Fagalde Lick

$14.99, paper

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/gravel-road-ahead-by-sue-fagalde-lick/

Sue Fagalde Lick spent many years working as a journalist in California’s Bay Area before relocating with her late husband to the Oregon coast, where she enjoys life as a writer, musician and dog mom. Her books include Stories Grandma Never Told: Portuguese Women in California, Childless by Marriage, and the novel Up Beaver Creek.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR Gravel Road Ahead by Sue Fagalde Lick

Although the title hints at what’s in store, readers may not be prepared for the heart-wrenching journey ahead. Sue Fagalde Lick knows this rocky terrain well after accompanying her husband of 25 years down the circuitous path of Alzheimer’s disease. In moving poems that range from darkly humorous to heart-breaking, she is unflinchingly honest in her chronicling of both the bitter and the sweet moments. For those traveling this road with a loved one, Lick’s a guide to be trusted, offering a lifeline of patience and forbearance gleaned from their journey. But there’s plenty of insight here for any couple growing older together—and a reminder of just what we sign on for when we repeat “I do.”

–Holly Hughes, editor of Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose about Alzheimer’s Disease

Lick’s poems are sensual and raw— dry-eyed and weeping. These narrative poems tell it as it is and don’t hold back. They reveal how Alzheimer’s devastates the spouse of the afflicted, and the husband who is losing his sense of self and tragically knows that he is. The progression of this brain enemy becomes a memoir-in-verse, a survivor’s tale and a love story. From the poem “Love Remains,” “I kiss you/when your mouth/ tastes like ice cream/ or spoiled eggs. …your words get stuck,/and you don’t know/who I am— because/you do know/I’m the one you kiss.

–Willa Schneberg, psychotherapist & recipient of the Oregon Book Award for In the Margins of the World.

A rich testament to the power of the human spirit and the patient love involved in living with and caring for a beloved partner who suffers from progressive dementia, Lick’s debut chapbook is filled with stark, realistic poems that paint an intimate portrait of loss, grief, and the ever-present need for courage. Even in this collection’s loneliest hours, still there is a pull toward hope, like a flower intrinsically bent toward light. Even when most hesitant, most lost and groping in the wilderness of identity, these poems expose a resilient heart and a rooted center. “I slide into your arms like a latch / falling into place.” Gravel Road Ahead gives us both wounds to suffer and strong arms to fall into.

–John Sibley Williams, author of As One Fire Consumes Another

Gravel Road is an emotionally-wrenching collection of brave, honest, straightforward narrative poems that describe how the poet dealt with her husband’s descent into the shadows of dementia. The book is unflinching, and often terribly sad, but there are grace notes too – the ocean below a nursing home in Memory Care sparkling “blue and silver in pale April sun,” or the startling moment in Alzheimer’s Activity when a yellow balloon floats around a roomful of patients and “Eyes bright, they catch it, / amazed, then send it off, a / bubble in the air.” In the end, Sue Fagalde Lick addresses the wives who one day will face what she has faced, and she offers them a glimmer of hope: “I staggered on. And so will you.”

–Tim Applegate, author of At the End of the Day and Fever Tree

“I reach for his fingers/dry-skinned and cold/and hold on as tight as I can.” From words of Sue Fagalde Lick’s first poem in her chapbook, Gravel Road Ahead.” Lick navigates a journey of hard of truths that have no happy ending. In intimate detail she travels the course of Alzheimer’s with her beloved late husband. These are courageous poems about pain and struggle, each line honest and heartfelt. “and you don’t know/who I am—but/you do know/I’m the one/you kiss.” These poems are a testament to the humanity of loss and love.

–Lara Gularte, author of Kissing the Bee

In this unflinching study of a marriage unraveled by Alzheimer’s Disease, Lick navigates the anguish of diagnosis through the penuries of loss that rewrite both speaker and reader. As we witness the intimacies of each stage of diminishment, what can’t be saved reveals what can’t ever be lost. Love is the centrifugal force through which this “Alzheimer’s wife” accepts and attends to the halving of her shared life. And as she travels to the brink of her known world to the other side of disappearance-then-death, her courage to keep going beyond where the pavement ends illuminates the path for the rest of us.

–Sage Cohen, author of Writing the Life Poetic and Fierce on the Page

PREORDER SHIPS OCTOBER 11, 2019, RESERVE YOUR COPY TODAY

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/gravel-road-ahead-by-sue-fagalde-lick/ #flp #poetry #chapbook

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docholligay · 7 years

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Howling

Okay so @seolh tells me there’s probably not going to be a comic and the video exploring the Lunar Colony didn’t directly contradict any of my thinking in a way I can’t live with SO here’s some sweet moon angst and friendship, with bonus Lena/Emily. 2500 words. The entirety of my OW Verse is here, and you can support me via Patreon, ko-fi, or my amazon list. Also by leaving a comment!!

The sun was out in London, and that should have been signal enough that it was going to be an unusual day.

But Tracer did not look at the joys of her life with suspicion, simply enjoyed them for what they were, and the bright of the sun, coupled with the happiness of the weekend, allowing for Emily’s companionship, and paired masterfully with the picnic she’d packed that morning, blended together into the sort of day that Tracer could only describe as brilliant.

“I ‘ave a mission.” She stared intensely at Emily, as she sprawled on her stomach across the blanket. “Something all of London, the world, even, is counting on.”

“Oh do you now?” Emily smirked at her, popping a chip into her mouth.

“Critical, really.” Tracer set aside the bag of chips, “You want to know what it is?”

“Don’t think I have the clearance, Lena,” She reached over and stroked her hair, “Secret agent, aren’t you?”

“Just guts me to say this, it does, but it involves you, love,” she sighed heavily, “not the sort of life I wanted for you.” she shook her head and looked at Emily woefully. “I ‘ave to kiss every freckle on your body.”

Emily laughed. “We’re in the middle of Hyde Park, Lena. You’re gonna no do--”

Tracer tackled her in a single quick pounce, Emily squealing in surprise as she did it, and covered her with kisses, over her shoulders and neck, Emily laughing and half-heartedly telling her to get off, now. But Tracer would not yield, and bounced from spot to spot, when she lifted Emily’s dress just above the thigh and kissed the pale spots there.

“LENA!” Emily glowed red and pulled down her dress, Tracer giggling happily and rocking back, swinging forward in a grin. “Fuck’s sake.” but she laughed as she said it, playfully pushing Tracer to the side, who collapsed dramatically into the grass.

“Gave me all for king and country, let it be said.” She paused only for a second, then rolled up quickly to seated again, ruffling her hair, all bounce and joy. “We ‘ave more of the chicken salad?”

Emily peeked into the bag, rummaging around, as a pair of passers-by carried on a conversation Emily could barely hear, and wasn’t paying attention to besides--something about the news and the moon.

When she looked up, the play had dropped from Tracer’s face, her eyes wide as she scrolled through her phone.

“I ‘ave to go, Emily.” She gathered up her bag quickly.

“For why?” Emily got nothing in response, just Tracer pulling back on the front of her own bangs and springing to her feet, a world away from Hyde Park now. “Lena? You a’right?”

Tracer half-dashed off, and then turned back, trying to form the words. “I ‘ave to be with Win, just now, Emily.” She looked apologetic, but her foot still racing to leave. “‘E needs me.”

Emily nodded. “Then go to him. Don’t have him waiting on you. Not for me.”

Tracer nodded so many times she looked like a bobblehead in the back of a bumpy car, and touched the edge of her temple nervously. “Thanks, love.”

She sped away as fast as she could go, and Emily looked at the remains of their picnic, and a bit sad. Her phone vibrated as a news article came in.

Failed Moon Experiment Returns? Gorilla Life Likely at Colony, New Transmissions Find.

Emily looked up where Tracer had been, as if her feelings could be carried on Tracer’s feet.

“Oh, poor Winston.”

___

“Calling: Tracer.” Athena’s voice echoed through the room.

“Cancel call.” Winston commanded, giving a wave of his hand, as if the emphasis mattered at all to Athena.

“I believe it is typical, to have friends nearby, in a time of emotional unrest.”

Athena was only a program, and Winston knew this. Winston had made her. She called Tracer because that was what Winston did when he was upset. It wasn’t just that she was non-biological--she did not have the spark of self-awareness omnics had. Truly, a machine.

And yet, she still had a way of sounding insistent and annoyed, when Winston ignored her.

It was a beautiful day, and Tracer would be off enjoying it. She loved the sunshine and the outside, and she didn’t have many opportunities like this one. She likely hadn’t even heard the news. She likely wouldn’t for hours. And, in any case, she couldn’t make it go away, the feelings of it, the pain of it, something that should have been resolved years ago.

Winston had always assumed the other gorillas had died, after everything that had happened at the colony and he’d left. How to grow food, how to fix the colony, all of these things were incredibly complex, and Winston had always believed they would not have been able to handle them. It had been easier, that way, imagining the moon as nothing but the vast graveyard that held the only thing he had known as family, shining in the sky every night, reminding him of how he was an outsider and an oddball there as well as here, never belonging to either world.

But now, the dead rose from their graves.

Simon had been dangerous and unkind, even when they were children, and he had led the rebellion that left the scientists dead, that forced Winston to see his father crumpled in a ball, broken and murdered, the screeching and laughter of the others a terrible soundtrack to his worst moment.

He had not been able to be angry then, only afraid. The anger came later.

But this feeling was neither anger nor fear, nor even, really, sorrow, but some undefinable burst of pain and longing and terrible emptiness. He had searched for so long to rid himself of the ghost of the colony, and he had, he’d thought. He had left behind fear and anger and found happiness, and optimism. He had a team that cared about him. He made a difference in the world. He had family with Tracer, and with Emily, and with all of Lena’s assorted aunts and uncles and cousins.

And now those old feelings, the ones that made him feel the loneliest, had returned.

He thought of Tracer, who would call him silly for not calling her. Who might even be angry about it, wondering why he didn’t think she would want to be there with him. He could already see her argument, the way she would pop around hm as she declared that she had every right to take care of him, and he wasn’t going to say anything about it.

But no. It was better if Tracer stayed away.

There was a knock at the door, and Athena seemed smug, if that were possible.

“Tracer is at the front entrance.” She announced.

Winston would not have needed Athena to tell him that--Tracer was sometimes disorganized in mind as well as office, but she had a particular gift for sensing Winston’s need for companionship and for affection, no matter how little he wanted to see her at the moment.

And her knock was particularly insistent.

Maybe, if he stayed quiet, she would leave, he thought, proving that we may know something for years and still think things might be different, just this one time.

“Wiiiiiiiinstooooooooon!” She called through the door. “It’s Lena!”

There was a certain charity in Tracer imagining anyone else would come to him, but then again, she was the kind of person who simply had that inner charity. If she loved Winston, it made sense to her that everyone else would, even if he was a gorilla, born of a failure, a failure that still lurked, a failure that might hurt others.

“WIIIIIIIIINSTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!” her voice pierced the very walls.

“Tracer is at the front entrance.” Athena added helpfully.

Winston huffed and went to the front door, swinging it open. He looked down to see a tiny, grinning face staring up at him, clutching her overnight bag and a bag from Tesco.

“I brought me pajamas and such! Figure’d we’d ‘ave a nice sleepover.” She did not wait for Winston’s say-so, but bounced through the door. “Bit of food, as well, there’s bananas and peanut butter, I went all the way to the Tesco with an American section so as to get your brand. S’why I’m be’ind, a bit. That, and,” she chuckled, “got a bit distracted. Is me, innit?”

Winston shook his head and turned away from her. “I don’t want anything.”

Tracer set down her things in the door and followed Winston. “We could order takeaway, if I ‘aven’t picked well. Anywhere you like, I’ll even get it, if I ‘ave to.”

“You should go home, Lena.”

Tracer ignored him, and walked over to her charging base, flipping it on as she slipped out of her accelerator, the room humming with the pulse that kept her anchored. “I am ‘ome. I live ‘ere.”

Winston snorted. “I let you stay here while your house was being renovated for your accelerator. That doesn’t make it yours.”

“Win, the little bedroom still says ‘Lena’ on the door.” Her face changed for a moment, her eyes going back and forth as she thought. “Win, did I do something? Or didn’t? I came fast as I could, when I ‘eard. I just wanted to make it a bit better, so I stopped. I don’t mean to take so long.”

She was actually worried that she had hurt Winston, somehow, and he could hear it in her voice. He knew, if he turned around, if he looked at her, her wide brown eyes would be searching him, trying to discern what she’d done, and how she could undo it.

“I love you, Win.” She reached over and touched his back. “Please tell me.”

Winston turned around, and Tracer embraced him, hugging as hard as she could, burying her cheek into his body.

He went to put his arm around her, to return her affection, to sweep her up in the crook of his arm and tell her to put her pajamas on, that it was so kind of her to have brought things for him and her little sloth sleeper was hanging in the closet, if she wanted to bundle up.

But instead, he pushed her away. “It’s not you. I just want to be alone.”

“You ‘ate being alone. What’s wrong, love?” She toyed with her earring. “Whatever it is--”

“It’s nothing!” He stormed away from her, toward his small kitchen.

She followed in hot pursuit, refusing to let him go, annoyed now instead of hurt. She stayed by him. She took care of him. She loved him.

He could hear Simon, laughing.

“Win, I don’t know why--”

He could see him with a tiny orange parcel in his hands, see him dumping Tracer in front of Winston.

“--you’re being so bloody difficult about this. We’ve--”

How her body was at odd angles, the way he’d twisted her spine and crushed her ribs.

“--gone through everything, we have, you and me--”

He could see the look of pain in her eyes, how he hadn’t been quick with it.

“--and I ‘ave every right--”

“He’ll kill you!” It roared out of his mouth, a shout that was more like a cry, if gorillas could cry, if he could be human, and Tracer stopped for a moment, looking at him with mild confusion, her head cocked.

“What?” Her face twisted in consideration.

“Simon. Who led the rebellion.” Winston sighed heavily and slumped onto the couch, his brow heavy. “If Simon knows about you,” he touched her shoulder, not looking at her, not able to look, “he’ll kill you, Lena. He killed Dr. Winston. He--” Winston looked off, “he wanted to punish me. He thought I was the favorite, and he wanted to punish me.”

“Well, ‘e sounds a bloody treat, ‘e does.” She patted his hand. “Bit offended by the lack of faith in me, love.”

Winston shook his head. “I’m serious. He’s as smart as me, but bigger, and more cruel. You shouldn’t be here.” He took a picture of him and Tracer, sitting on the end table, and flipped it facedown. “You need to go.”

“Well, that ‘urt me feelings,” she flipped the photo back up, “this is a good picture of us, Win.” She jumped up onto his shoulder and laid her head on his. “”E won’t get the better of me.”

“And if he does?”

“People die for their families all the time, love. It’s a noble way to go, and I’ll be proud for it.”

“For their family.” He mumbled it to himself.

Tracer slid down and took his forehead to hers. “For their family. We’ll do it together, Win.” She pulled away and grinned. “Aside from all that, number one, we know I’m rubbish at dying, better people than Simon ‘ave tried. Completely lack the focus required, I think. And number two,” She jumped down onto the ground, “So far e’s still on the bloody moon, Winston!” She shook her head. “Don’t borrow trouble, it’ll come for you without the ‘elp.”

You can die, though. I almost watched you do it. It was easy to forget, as Tracer bounced into her pajamas and zipped up the front of the sloth lounger against the chill of London’s night air, the warm of the day having been replaced with a cold, damp feeling. And I can’t do that, Lena, I can’t have found my person, my family, again, and have someone hurt you, because of me. Those years of loneliness--

As if sensing his anxiety, She jumped next to him on the couch. “Winston,” she patted his leg, “I won’t let you be lonely. No matter what becomes of me.”

The doorbell rang, and Athena’s voice came overhead.

“Taste of Nawab is at the front entrance.”

Winston shook his head. “I didn’t order delivery.”

Tracer nodded as she quickly shuffled toward the door, as if this proved her point about the possibilities of the world. “Well there we are, then, born under a lucky star. And I’ll bet,” she waved her finger at Winston, “There’s pakoras.”

She swung open the door to bags of food, held aloft by a weighed down delivery boy.

“Oxton and Winston?” He looked at her, his eyes desperately pleading that the answer was yes.

“Brilliant!” Tracer began to take some of the bags, never doubting for a second that the universe had sent her Indian food. “Win, I need your ‘elp!”

“Compliments of Emily. She hopes,” he took a note out of his pocket, “Winston feels better, and you have a proper night in together.”

“See?” Tracer grinned, taking a pakora (for there were, as she predicted, pakoras) out of the bag and taking a big bite.” Ou oh W’ffs,” She chewed and swallowed “World’s chock full of beautiful moments, Win, so let’s don’t worry about something that might never ‘appen.”

Winston took the rest of the bags, stared up at the moon in the sky, and hoped.

#HON HON HON #ANyway I #think this turned out okay?

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