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toyybox · 7 months

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Spiderwebs #14: Tape VII (Perception)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, starvation

By now, Heather had a fairly good idea of Jackie’s limits. That was to say, there were none. Unless she found something specific, a kind of kryptonite to crack him. Until then? Fire, extreme temperatures, physical injury, and all manner of poison—all of that was on the table.

She was not interested in pointlessly wounding him, however. Heather had many pet projects, synthetic drugs she'd been developing here and there alongside the cancer treatment. The problem with testing them was that she never knew how much damage they'd do. What seemed like an innocuous compound would rupture the subject's liver or clot all their blood, and it was a hassle to replace them afterwards. One could only buy so many dogs, after all.

But things were different now. The only damage she could do to Jackie was emotional. And what was there to be upset about? It was only a few pills. The effects were temporary, anyway.

Her subject was awake that fine Tuesday morning. Her last experiment took place on Friday, so it had been four days. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, bright-eyed and ready, holding something in his hands. Before she could say anything, he spoke.

"Hi. I have a list of demands." He handed her a sheet of paper torn from the notebook. "Take your time, there's a lot to read."

She didn't accept the paper. "Demands? Excuse me?"

"Requests, if you want. Just read it." He nudged the paper forward. "Please?"

"Fine." She straightened the sheet. On it, there was a list written in a neat and slanted script. It read as follows:

Lamp Mouchette — Georges Bernanos Calendar Tea Fridge Telephone Blender Cake (chocolate preferred) Going outside?

"I can't tell if you're joking." Heather crumpled the paper into a ball. "Are you ready for the experiment, then?"

"Lady. Listen. Was there nothing on that list you could get?"

"No."

"Not a single thing? Come on, please? I'm so bored all the time. You can't imagine."

"Bored?" she repeated, incredulous. "What about the book and the—what was it, the notepad?"

"Do you expect me to entertain myself with a single book and a few pieces of paper?" He began to lightly pace the room, gesturing while he spoke, like a stand-up comic retelling a story. "That’s nothing. I can't even talk to anybody. You’re the most interesting part of my day."

"Why would you need a telephone to entertain yourself?"

"I—well, I need to call my coworkers, don't I?"

"No? Do you think I’m an idiot?"

He stopped walking—then began walking again in the other direction. "Okay, fine. I'll be honest, I just wanted to know if you'd do it. An experiment, I guess. It doesn't matter. What about the fridge and the blender? And the cake?"

"You don’t need those. I'm the one who gives you food."

"Yeah, unless you forget, and you forget all the time. You didn't give me anything yesterday."

"I didn't forget," she hissed. "This experiment requires an empty stomach. I'm not giving you a blender, or tea, or any of these other ridiculous things."

"Not even the book?"

"The book? Mouchette?" She unfolded the crumpled ball of paper. "No."

"Why?"

"You spoiled brat." She let the paper fall to the floor. "Ask me for one more thing. I dare you."

In his eyes passed a conflicted flicker, as he searched her expression. "But—"

"You're talking back." She stepped forward. To her delight, Jackie stepped backwards as well, as if her presence had its own kind of gravity.

"I'm not. I won’t ask for anything else, but—"

"I don't care. I don’t want to hear it."

"Wait. Please. Pretty please with a cherry on top and whatever. This last thing is really important." He paused, then swallowed, continuing when she didn’t make a move to interrupt him. "I want to go outside."

"I don't see how that's my problem."

"I’m being serious. I’m sick of staying in this room. It’s making me go crazy."

"You'll be fine."

"I won't be fine. You don’t get it, I’m—I don’t—" He began to falter under the weight of her stare. "It's—I'm not—come on, lady. Just for a few minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds, even. I can’t—“

"You can. You'll survive. Stop bitching for a moment, okay?" She stepped forward until his back was to the wall. "Why am I keeping you here? Remind me."

"For experiments?"

"Exactly. You're my test subject. Test subjects aren't supposed to complain. Test subjects are supposed to sit there and shut up and do the fucking test."

"And that’s what I have to do for the rest of my life?" His voice trembled with what could be anger or fear, or a nauseating mixture of the two. “Stay here and shut up? I‘m not even allowed to talk now?”

She had never met someone so theatrical. "Oh, calm down. I didn't tell you to go mute. You can talk. Just stop complaining. It won't kill you to be quiet for a second." She paused. "Well, I guess that's a given. My point is, you'll be fine."

"Really."

"Yes. Really."

Something sour but colder fell over him, as his shoulders slumped a little. That was all the fight he had, or he'd seen that this wasn't going anywhere. Or he was afraid of being vivisected again.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I wasn’t being serious, anyway."

"In that case, why did you ask?"

"Bored." His previously troubled expression cracked into a grin. "You're just so interesting to talk to."

"I'm sure. Let's continue, then? I’ll need you to take these."

She brought a bottle of pills from her book bag. He studied the white plastic container, barely an inch tall, completely opaque. Unlike regular pharmaceutical bottles, it was devoid of any labels.

"Another sedative?" he asked.

She unscrewed the safety cap, pressing down then twisting up. "No. Maybe. My results so far have been… inconclusive."

"What’s it supposed to do?"

"I'll tell you once the experiment's done. Hold out your hand."

In his open palm, she dispensed two tablets. They were as white as the container, circular, small as buttons. They were solid but surfaced with a powdery texture. He took them and, though he didn’t look thrilled about it, swallowed them with a gulp of water from his bottle. He stood still and waited.

“The effect won’t be immediate, you know.”

“I’m not stupid,” he said, although there was no heat simmering the words. “How long ‘til they work?”

“It depends. I’ll give it an hour.”

He nodded. “And you’ll bring food soon?”

“No.” She placed the bottle back into the bag. “Maybe tomorrow. I don’t want any interference with the experiment.”

“Amazing. Thanks so much.” He pushed past her, away from the wall, and sat in the chair. He crossed his arms on the table and buried his head in them.

He was quiet, at least. He stopped complaining. Yet, Heather felt no less irritated. Jackie was doing this on purpose. Sulking like a sullen child. It was all a ploy to get back at her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, then. She’d come back in an hour, she’d finish the experiment, and she’d get on with the rest of her day.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The minutes passed by. From the basement, she heard occasional, faint thumping sounds. She wrote it off as another of Jackie’s attempts at being as annoying as possible. There was too much work to be done to pay it any mind. The end of the hour arrived soon enough.

When she returned, Jackie was huddled on his bed.

“Tape number seven. Five-fifty milligrams of thermoregulation stimulant administered an hour earlier. Subject appears lethargic. Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. She discovered the source of the sound—he was hitting his head against the wall, repetitively, like he was trying to drown something out.

Heather cleared her throat as she stood over him.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Hi. Is this supposed to hurt?”

“Hurt?” This wasn’t going as planned. “On a scale of—“

“At least an eight.” He collapsed back into bed with a small groan. “Is this ‘cause I was talking back?”

“No, not at all.” Heather pulled the journal out from the bookbag and uncapped her pen. “What’s the pain like?”

“Bad.”

She frowned. If he was trying to be funny, this was not the time. Or maybe he really was in too much agony to think straight. “Is it a stabbing pain? Burning? Aching?”

“Burning, yeah.”

“How odd.” She wrote her findings down. “The drug was supposed to replicate the sensation of warmth. I don’t think it’s ever hurt before. It’s made a few guinea pigs die of hypothermia, but…” She pressed a hand to his skin. It was cold, even colder than before, nearly the temperature it was in the freezer. He was sweating a little, on his palms and the back of his neck. “I suppose that if the nervous system is targeted, the drug may activate pain receptors rather than thermoregulation. Jackie, you said it felt like burning?"

He nodded weakly.

"Oh, interesting. That points towards the stimulant being too powerful. The desired result is a mild heat, not enough to cause pain. It must have gone wrong somewhere.” She played with the pen between her fingers as she mused on this. “It’s also possible the dosage was too high. A few more trials may be needed.”

“Can you make it stop?” he asked, muffled through the fabric of the bed.

The answer was a resounding maybe, but Heather didn’t let the unknown get her down. This was nothing but another opportunity. For science! The nervous system was especially fascinating to Heather. The sparks and electric impulses that defined life. The body's only window to the world outside. And yet, nerves were so malleable. Delicate, for something so important. All perceptions and sensations could be altered, enhanced, or dulled, puppeted along by only a string of chemicals. Nothing more thrilling than that.

She had developed an opioid recently, one that could be strong enough to drown out the pain of an exposed bone. This was a perfect time to test it out.

“I can try,” Heather replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Hang in there. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

#whump #whump writing #lab whump #Spiderwebs toyybox #my writing

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project-einzige · 1 year

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The End of Fukuyamaism

“For the first time in this century, for the first time in perhaps all history, man does not have to invent a system by which to live. We don't have to talk late into the night about which form of government is better. We don't have to wrest justice from the kings. We only have to summon it from within ourselves. We must act on what we know.”

Bush Sr Inauguration Speech, 1989

“It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.

Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.

Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself. Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.

“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so asketh the last man and blinketh.

The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest. “We have discovered happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

In his 1989 essay “The End of History?” (which was later expounded on in a book entitled

“The end of history and the last man” in 1991), Francis Fukuyama predicted that the collapse of the Soviet Union would lead not only to political restructurings in the former Soviet Union, but also a restructuring of our minds. For Fukuyama, the collapse of the Soviet Union signified the End of History, forever establishing Neoliberal Capitalism as the ultimate manifestation of historical progress, writing that:

“What we may be witnessing is not just the end of the Cold War, or the passing of a particular period of postwar history, but the end of history as such: that is, the endpoint of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government… the victory of liberalism has occurred primarily in the realm of ideas or consciousness and is as yet incomplete in the real or material world… it is the ideal that will govern the material world in the long run.”

However, as he later expounded, with no grand historical conflicts of world-ending proportions to give our lives gravity, our society would attempt to fill this Soviet Union shaped hole in our minds with an endless string of smaller, petty conflicts and delusions of personal exceptionalism (as opposed to its ideological predecessor, “American Exceptionalism”). As a result, we would run the risk of becoming “self absorbed last men,” limp-wristed wimps with no sense of self or purpose in our lives.

Fukuyama gives no definitive plan as to how this situation could be progressed beyond, and gives us no assurances that these problems will not compound to a point which demands action; instead, he relies on his belief that, ultimately, Neoliberal Capitalism and its Ideology will both win out in the end and resolve all of our current social ills in the process, establishing themselves as the peak of human progress.

After hegel claimed that history had ended in 1806, this claim went in and out of popularity over the course of decades, but did not gain back any real intellectual significance until it was reinvented by postmodern philosophy to refer to this very paradoxical nature of historical time. Fukuyama's End of History thesis was simply the one that gathered the most attention and publicity, but of course this was itself the result of historical conditions. For example, Deleuze writes that:

“The idea that primitive societies have no history, that they are dominated by archetypes and their repetition, is especially weak and inadequate. This idea was not conceived by ethnologists, but by ideologists in the service of a tragic Judaeo-Christian consciousness that they wished to credit with the “invention” of history. If what is called history is a dynamic and open social reality, in a state of functional disequilibrium, o an oscillating equilibrium, unstable and always compensated, comprising not only institutionalized conflicts but conflicts that generate changes, revolts, ruptures, and scissions, then primitive societies are fully inside history, and far distant from the stability, or even from the harmony, attributed to them in the name of a primacy of a unanimous group.”

“Primitive societies are not outside history; rather, it is capitalism that is at the end of history, it is capitalism that results from a long history of contingencies and accidents, and that brings on this end.”

AntiOedopus

Like Fukuyama, Baudrillard theorized that we had reached the end of history, and agreed that the collapse of the Soviet Union would lead to a restructuring of consciousness as all reminders of the Cold War disappeared. The result of this would be an era of stagnation and repetition because without a conception of progress we lose the ability to eliminate bad ideas. As Baudrillard points out, the concept of the end of history is itself somewhat contradictory: with the end of history comes the end of the future, and with no future, there can be no ends, and therefore no end of history. In Baudrillard;s theories, “the end of history” is really the inability of history to end, which manifests itself as an inability to dispose of bad ideas:

“The end of history is, alas, also the end of the dustbins of history. There are no longer any dustbins for disposing of old ideologies, old regimes, old values. Where are we going to throw Marxism, which actually invented the dustbins of history? (Yet there is some justice here since the very people who invented them have fallen in.) Conclusion: if there are no more dustbins of history, this is because History itself has become a dustbin. It has become its own dustbin, just as the planet itself is becoming its own dustbin.”

The Illusion of the End

“Things have found a way of avoiding a dialectics of meaning that was beginning to bore them: by proliferating indefinitely, increasing their potential, outbidding themselves in an ascension to the limit, an obscenity that henceforth becomes their immanent finality and senseless reason… Beyond this point there are only inconsequential events (and inconsequential theories), precisely because they absorb their sense into themselves. They reflect nothing, presage nothing. Beyond this point there are only catastrophes. Perfect is the event or language which assumes its own mode of disappearance, knows how to stage it, and thus reaches the maximal energy of appearances.

The catastrophe is the maximal brute event, here too more eventful than the event- but an event without consequences, one that leaves the world in suspense.

Once the meaning of history is over, once this point of inertia has been passed, every event becomes catastrophe, becomes an event pure and without consequence (but that is its power)..

Fatal Strategies

Frederic Jameson probably believes in a literal “end to history” even less than the average person, describing our current social situation as dominated by a tendency he calls “the suppression of history” and claiming that all that has ended is a more direct experience of history as “world-historical subjects,” the result of which has been that it has become progressively harder to situate ourselves in history. In Jamesons theory of Postmodernity, the end of history ultimately amounts to a disruption in the function of time which he refers to as “the end of Temporality” to describe how in contemporary society the moments in time which make up our lives have begun to lose their coherence and significance as components of meaningful timelines and narratives. As Jameson writes in the very beginning of his book “Postmodernism or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism:”

“It is safest to grasp the concept of the postmodern as an attempt to think the present historically in an age that has forgotten how to think historically in the first place. In that case, it either "expresses" some deeper irrepressible historical impulse (in however distorted a fashion) or effectively "represses" and diverts it, depending on the side of the ambiguity you happen to favor. Postmodernism, postmodern consciousness, may then amount to not much more than theorizing its own condition of possibility, which consists primarily in the sheer enumeration of changes and modifications.”

“After the political turmoil of the sixties, Americans have retreated to purely personal preoccupations. Having no hope of improving their lives in any of the ways that matter, people have convinced themselves that what matters is psychic self-improvement: getting in touch with their feelings, eating health food, taking lessons in ballet or belly-dancing, immersing themselves in the wisdom of the East, jogging, learing how to “relate,” overcoming the “fear of pleasure.” Harmless in themselves, these pursuits, elevated to a program and wrapped in the rhetoric of authenticity and awareness, signify a retreat from politics an a repudiation of the recent past. Indeed Americans seem to wish to forget not only the sixties, the riots, the new left, the disruptions on college campuses, Vietnam, Watergate, and the Nixon presidency, but their entire collective past, even in the antiseptic form in which it was celebrated during the Bicentennial…

To live for the moment is the prevailing passion- to live for yourself, not for your predecessors or posterity. We are fast losing the sense of historical continuity, the sense of belonging to a series of generations originating in the past and stretching into the future. It is the waning of the sense of historical time- in particular, the erosion of any strong concern for posterity- that distinguishes the spiritual crisis of the seventies from earlier outbreaks of millenarian religion, to which it bears a superficial resemblance…

Hougan notes that survival has become the “catchword of the seventies” and “collective narcissism” the dominant disposition. Since “the society” has no future, it makes sense to live only for the moment, to fix our eyes on our own “private performance,” to become connoisseurs of our own decadence, to cultivate a “transcendental self-attention.”

Christopher Lasch, The Culture of Narcissism

“It will always be a fault not to read and reread and discuss Marx… It will be more and more a fault, a failing of theoretical, philosophical, political responsibility. When the dogma machine and the “Marxist” ideological apparatuses (States, parties, cells, unions, and other places of doctrinal production) are in the process of disappearing, we no longer have any excuse, only alibis, for turning away from this responsibility. There will be no future without this. Not without Marx, no future without Marx, without the memory and the inheritance of Marx: in any case of a certain Marx, of his genius, of at least one of his spirits. For this will be our hypothesis or rather our bias: there is more than one of them, there must be more than one of them.”

Jaques Derrida, Spectres of Marx

“Nevertheless, among all the temptations I will have to resist today, there would be the temptation of memory: to recount what was for me, and for those of my generation who shared it during a whole lifetime, the experience of Marxism, the quasi-paternal figure of Marx, the way it fought in us with other filiations, the reading of texts and the interpretation of a world in which the Marxist inheritance was—and still remains, and so it will remain—absolutely and thoroughly determinate.”

“One need not be a Marxist or a communist in order to accept this obvious fact. We all live in a world, some would say a culture, that still bears, at an incalculable depth, the mark of this inheritance, whether in a directly visible fashion or not. Among the traits that characterize a certain experience that belongs to my generation, that is, an experience that will have lasted at least forty years, and which is not over, I will isolate first of all a troubling paradox. I am speaking of a troubling effect of “déjà vu,” and even of a certain “toujours déjà vu.” I recall this malaise of perception, hallucination, and time because of the theme that brings us together this evening: “whither Marxism?” For many of us the question has the same age as we do. In particular for those who, and this was also my case, opposed, to be sure, de facto “Marxism” or “communism” (the Soviet Union, the International of Communist Parties, and everything that resulted from them, which is to say so very many things . . .), but intended at least never to do so out of conservative or reactionary motivations or even moderate right-wing or republican positions. For many of us, a certain (and I emphasize certain) end of communist Marxism did not await the recent collapse of the USSR and everything that depends on it throughout the world. All that started—all that was even déjà vu, indubitably—at the beginning of the ’50s. Therefore, the question that brings us together this evening—“whither Marxism?”—resonates like an old repetition. It was already, but in an altogether different way, the question that imposed itself on the many young people who we were at the time. The same question had already sounded… It was the same question, already, as final question.”

Derrida, Spectres of Marx

“Many young people today (of the type “readers-consumers of Fukuyama” or of the type “Fukuyama” himself) probably no longer sufficiently realize it: the eschatological themes of the “end of history,” of the “end of Marxism,” of the “end of philosophy,” of the “ends of man,” of the “last man” and so forth were, in the ’50s, that is, forty years ago, our daily bread. We had this bread of apocalypse in our mouths naturally, already, just as naturally as that which I nicknamed after the fact, in 1980, the “apocalyptic tone in philosophy.” What was its consistency? What did it taste like? It was, on the one hand, the reading or analysis of those whom we could nickname the classics of the end. They formed the canon of the modern apocalypse (end of History, end of Man, end of Philosophy, Hegel, Marx, Nietzsche, Heidegger, with their Kojevian codicil and the codicils of Kojève himself). It was, on the other hand and indissociably, what we had known or what some of us for quite some time no longer hid from concerning totalitarian terror in all the Eastern countries, all the socio-economic disasters of Soviet bureaucracy, the Stalinism of the past and the neoStalinism in process (roughly speaking, from the Moscow trials to the repression in Hungary, to take only these minimal indices). Such was no doubt the element in which what is called deconstruction developed—and one can understand nothing of this period of deconstruction, notably in France, unless one takes this historical entanglement into account. Thus, for those with whom I shared this singular period, this double and unique experience (both philosophical and political), for us, I venture to say, the media parade of current discourse on the end of history and the last man looks most often like a tiresome anachronism. At least up to a certain point that will have to be specified later on. Something of this tiresomeness, moreover, comes across in the body of today’s most phenomenal culture: what one hears, reads, and sees, what is most mediatized in Western capitals. As for those who abandon themselves to that discourse with the jubilation of youthful enthusiasm, they look like latecomers, a little as if it were possible to take still the last train after the last train—and yet be late to an end of history. How can one be late to the end of history? A question for today. It is serious because it obliges one to reflect again, as we have been doing since Hegel, on what happens and deserves the name of event, after history; it obliges one to wonder if the end of history is but the end of a certain concept of history. Here is perhaps one of the questions that should be asked of those who are not content just to arrive late to the apocalypse and to the last train of the end, if I can put it like that, without being out of breath, but who find the means to puff out their chests with the good conscience of capitalism, liberalism, and the virtues of parliamentary democracy…”

Derrida, Spectres of Marx

But if this is in fact the current trajectory of our society, what caused this situation? What are the factors which facilitate it and make it possible? What is the significance of this transformation? Is there any way to render our thoughts and our relation to the world historical (or dialectical) again?

The cultural vacuum in which this Counterculture will develop is currently attempting to fill itself with a myriad of insane ideologies, religious apologeticism, conspiracy theories and online meme culture, but this cannot last. Eventually the more radical and well developed theories will win out, but not before a long process of confusion and disorientation in which the production of the narratives with which people make sense out of their lives itself becomes a major industry, as evidenced by the success of Jordan Peterson.

Section 2; The Millennial Shift:

“Human rights, dissidence, antiracism, SOS-this, SOS-that: these are soft, easy, post coitum historicum ideologies, 'after-the-orgy' ideologies for an easy-going generation which has known neither hard ideologies nor radical philosophies. The ideology of a generation which is neo-sentimental in its politics too, which has rediscovered altruism, conviviality, international charity and the individual bleeding heart. Emotional outpourings, solidarity, cosmopolitan emotiveness, multi-media pathos: all soft values harshly condemned by the Nietzschean, Marxo-Freudian age... A new generation, that of the spoilt children of the crisis, whereas the preceding one was that of the accursed children of history.”

Jean Baudrilard, Cool Memories

For the past 20 years or so we were repeatedly berated with online and magazine articles claiming both that Millennials were “going to save the world” as well as that they are “greedy, entitled narcissists who ruined everything,” yet in all of the myriad of articles and youtube videos on generational differences, the question of what actually separates these Millennials from previous generations and of what the consequences of this might be has been almost completely neglected. As these Millennials themselves become middle-aged, and as they are replaced with the next generation (the Zoomers) they have firmly established themselves as a generation defined by a mood and motif of stagnation. You could even say they “found themselves,” but not only did they not save the world, they have failed even to save themselves, because in every sense they are tangibly worse off than previous generations: from economic opportunities and income mobility to mental illness and suicide rates, our poor Millenials have had their asses handed to them by life in ways previous generations have not.

The only area in which they could be said to have progressed would be in the area of social progress (primarily in a reduction of the prevalence of racism, sexism and homophobia), but with the rise of Intersectional Feminism and its grand project to eliminate all competing versions of Feminism that had existed previously (such as Anarchist and Existentialist Feminism), its coorelate, the Alt-Right, combined with a recent authoritarian insurgence from both the “Right” and “Left” we have to question how much social progress has actually been made.

Generation Z has grown up within this situation, creating an atmosphere of gloom and doom, decay and despair, confusion and disorientation as we have transitioned to a society, culture, economy and political system absorbed by over-conceptualization and hyper-abstraction, and as the gap between the concepts and narratives that people try to fit their lives into and their actual material conditions and historical trajectory has become all the more obvious yet all the less recognized.

People today spend more time on the internet than engaging in any other activity (it has become the single largest form of both social interaction as well as of self-isolation) and even our economy has itself undergone a process of hyper-abstraction as most of our GDP today consists in mortgage payments, subscriptions, media productions and the service industry. In the area of politics and culture the situation is so bad that they have become almost completely absorbed by dead abstractions and inert ideologies. Through culture we are subject to endless sequels, prequels and spin-offs, derivative musical styles and Intersectional propaganda, while through politics we are subject to an endless stream of meaningless slogans and hyperbolic nonsense.

What used to be heavily abstract Postmodern concepts such hyper-reality, the simulacrum, the disappearance of the social, hauntology, the rhizome, incredulity towards metanarratives, late capitalism, the end of history, etc., have in recent decades become simply descriptions of our daily lives. The attempts to make sense of this historical situation will provoke a widespread social transformation as Millenials scramble to situate themselves historically after having their lives put on hold by economic conditions and COVID, and as Zoomers do likewise in preparation for the utter mindfuck that will be the rest of their lives.

The necessity to restructure our ideas according to our historical reality will force itself into social discourse, and we can already see this beginning to occur in a variety of ways through the growing discontent with the current set of economic, political, social cultural conditions.

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l-artemisia-del-secolo · 3 years

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Belonging to another, pt. 2

5 almost kisses

Masterlist, Yelena Belova masterlist, latest fic, hit my inbox

Pt.1

Loving you was never a choice for Yelena. It was a part of who she was. As if this grand feeling always was at her core. She was waiting for you to reveal it, to let you both bask in it.

But upon meeting you it wasn't a reason for her to rejoice anymore. Stings of jealousy and disappointment became her ordinary companions. Other woman was the lucky one. Not her.

Still you were her ray of light. You became her friend. Innocent and pure. Something she could never have in her life. Something she lost long ago. Of course you chose someone better than her.

Lying was the worst thing. Even though she was a professional, hiding her thoughts from her sister was a nightmare. Whenever Nat was talking about you, all Yelena could do was just nod and squeeze out a smile, albeit a phony one.

Nat knew something was wrong. She tried to establish a connection between her sister and her girlfriend. This was becoming even worse for Yelena.

Affection

It was only a few days till your birthday. By that time you were already so deeply rooted in Nat's life. And by extension in Yelena's.

She was anxiously waiting for this day. Seeing you outside the compound. Not on avengers' territory possibly could make it easier for her to be around you.

She found a perfect present. With your very specific weird tastes it wasn't hard. Others would often joke that they didn't get your references. But Yelena enjoyed them, frantically searching for information about them afterwards. Slowly getting deeper into your world of plays, novels and music.

You mentioned a few times your favorite novella. The one that you always kept close on the bedside table in case you wanted to reread it.

It was a famous piece of Russian literature. "Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District" by Leskov.

Luckily for Yelena she was, well, Russian and she had the right contacts. It didn't take her much time to find the first edition of that book.

She didn't plan to attend the party itself. Just give you the book and leave. As usual allowing herself mere seconds of closeness.

Nat wasn't around. She had to attend one of the assessments of the new recruits.

Yelena tried to channel her inner confidence, but it wasn't easy.

She was immediately taken aback by how gorgeous you were. Cozinessssuited you. You thrived in it, creating peace.

Yelena couldn't help, but feel warmth and calm replacing pain and anger in her veins.

As soon as you saw Yelena, you smiled. You were waiting for her. You wanted to share this day with her.

But she couldn't stay. She knew that a few more minutes in your world would break her heart even more than it already was.

Her weak excuse was that she had to prepare for the next assignment. She watched as your smile disappeared and you frowned.

Yelena reassured you that she would make it up to you. She would do anything. If Nat heard her last words, she would clearly understand everything.

Yelena gave you your present. She read the title for you. You were at a loss for words, giving Yelena only a silent "thank you" with your eyes.

She could feel her heart becoming too big for her chest, the air too hot to breath and gravity not strong enough to hold her.

As she saw the tears running down your cheeks, her only desire was to kiss them away. So that nothing ever could cloud your eyes.

You hugged her, saying that you didn't expect anyone to listen to you mumble about this book.

"Will you read for me?"

"Wouldn't you ask Nat to do it?"

"This will be our book."

"Than yes. I will always read our book for you."

She left without any other word.

Support

Sometimes she would reread messages from you. Short ones, in which you asked how her day was. Long ones, in which you explained something casual that she didn't have awareness of.

Whenever Yelena was getting a new message, she always hoped it was from you.

There were the days, when she herself wanted to write you. Write everything that was in her heart, everything that was on her mind. Tell you the truth. But whenever it was the time to hit "send", she was always stopping herself with one thought. You could never be hers. You loved Nat.

She was sure of that. Whenever Nat wasn't around, all you could was think about her, hoping that she's ok.

Often you were paralyzed with fear, that something could happen to the redhead. You tried not to show it, but with Yelena you usually failed.

Yelena hoped that her sister appreciated that, giving you so much more in return, when she was around.

She herself would definitely give you everything. If she only had a chance to show it.

During one of those missions, Yelena decided to check up on you.

You opened the door in your robe with your eyes red and hands shaking.

You let her in, pouring a glass of something for her. You didn't want to cry on her shoulder, but she was the only one who could understand.

Yelena was caressing you, lulling you to sleep. Saying to herself that any other person would do the same. Nat would understand why she was here.

But then you said something that you wouldn't say in any other circumstances, to any other person.

"I have a selfish feeling that I'm never going to be as important to her as Avengers are. She would always choose to save the world, not return home."

"Don't you ever think that wanting your person to be safe is selfish. And I'm sure Nat would choose you. Always."

Your silence was a sign of doubt. Doubt that you didn't deserve. Doubt that Yelena would spend all her life to get rid of.

But it wasn't her, who had to do that. Everything that was left for her, was her desire to kiss your forehead when you finally fell asleep.

Gratitude

Not every Yelena's mission was successful. Of course she was one of the best, but it was never a guarantee.

Usually her decisions would bring success. But not this time. Because of her people were in danger. Ordinary men and women, who couldn't protect themselves.

They all survived. But the terror in their eyes stayed with her. And it would stay with her forever.

She wanted to hide from everyone, feeling guilt crushing her every bone. She deserved that, deserved to be alone.

Your voice snapped Yelena from her thoughts. She could barely wave her hand. Only in her most intimate dreams she shared such moments with you.

You hugged her from behind.

You knew she would allow it, you knew she needed it.

But what you didn't know was that Yelena wanted to keep this sensation with her forever.

You whispered, that it wasn't Yelena's fault. That she was doing everything she could to make this world a better place.

Your voice was soothing her, making her forgive herself. Gradually helping her feel you even under her skin.

"Do you say such things to Nat?"

"W-what?" You faltered. "No. We never talk about such things. Nat doesn't bring her job home. She doesn't share."

Yelena shrugged. Nat was strong unlike her.

She felt tears forming as she focused on your hands on her chest. She would give anything to kiss your gentle fingers.

Care

Your relationship with Nat was progressing. She spent every single second with you. And you spend more and more time in the compound. Yelena hated that. She never felt comfortable there, unlike her sister. And you were becoming part of the world, that never invited Yelena in.

You were laughing and smiling with others. If only your attention belonged only to her. Your curiosity, your liveliness, your heart. You even started staying there for nights. Usually during those visits Yelena was becoming a recluse, spending time in her bedroom. Skipping even her trainings.

Others would ask what was wrong. She was saying she was just tired. Easy to believe in that. She looked devastated. And she was.

Once you caught a flu, while staying in the compound. Nat was so protective of you, never leaving you even for a second.

But unfortunately she was asked to join a rescue mission. She didn't want to leave, but she had to. As usual. Yelena on the other hand said no. She couldn't leave you like that. And someone else took her place.

Yelena stayed with you. She hated herself for that, but she secretly wanted to be near you, to help you, to take care of you.

Your whole body was burning and in pain. You couldn't sleep or eat. High temperature was destroying you from inside.

Yelena was by your side, giving you pills and syrups, keeping you cool with cold water.

"Why is it always you who's with me when I need support the most?" You asked with your eyes closed.

"I just feel it."

She took your burning hand in hers, imagining how she could pepper your face with healing kisses.

Regret

in time you and Nat decided to live together. You found a perfect cute house, that you could make your own.

Yelena was the first one to know. That night all she could was to howl in her pillow. She was losing you. But how could she when you were never hers. It was Nat's idea to leave the town. You both had to try to live without other people controlling your life.

She agreed to help Nat pack the suitcases. Seeing you flutter around your old house, planning, dreaming, leaving your past behind. Leaving her behind. You were glowing. Yelena loved you even more. Let it be not with her. Let it be with the best woman, who would cherish you.

"Nat is ready. We gotta go." You didn't want to leave Yelena here alone.

You both were standing in the front yard. Not knowing exactly how to behave.

"Well, then it's time to say goodbye. Are you excited?" Yelena couldn't read your reaction. With Nat you looked happy, but now...

"Sure." You didn't sound excited at all. "Isn't there anything you want to tell me?"

She looked right into your eyes. "I will miss you."

"I will miss you too."

Your lips were trembling. You wanted her to calm you down. You wanted her to kiss you. But she didn't. You were never hers to kiss.

Pt.3

#the mention of this particular novella by leskov is not accidental #first of all it's a brilliant novella #sexond of all it's a nod to a movie with Flo which was loosely based on it #black widow 2021 #black widow fic #marvel self insert #yelena belova #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you

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noladyme · 3 years

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La Cuervo - Chapter 1

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, assault, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming" - though in a different universe (I couldn't screw with Jax and Cat's happy ever after) - this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on on Mayans M.C. are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive.

It was an especially hot day for a bike-ride. The man in front of her on the bike might have been used to these trips, doing them often and in leather no less; but Nina was beginning to feel like a rotisserie chicken under the scorching sun. She was wearing jeans and a jacket over a tank top, knowing from experience that road-rash was especially shitty, when you went down without anything covering your skin. She sighed heavily, and tried to shift in her seat. “We’re almost there, luv’”, Filip called out over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the roars of the engines behind them. “Uh huh…”, Nina replied, and couldn’t help but dream of air-condition and shade. Her backpack was heavy on her shoulders, in spite of the fact that she hadn’t brought much with her; just clothes, and a book or three. Filip patted her thigh comfortingly and sped up, probably as eager as she was to get this ride over with; though she knew that neither of them were looking forward to reaching their end destination.

She hadn’t gone on this trip willingly, but there had been no other option. Her chosen family had made it clear; she needed to disappear, and keep her head down. Going south was the best option for now, as she’d be out of Charming, but not so far away that they wouldn’t be able to reach her if needed. They were trying to keep her safe, even if safety currently meant being roasted alive on the back of a motorcycle, by the southern California sun. Looking back at their companions, both Happy, Tig and T.O. smiled at her. She forced herself to smile back, and was happy she was wearing sunglasses, as she knew the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was feeling quite a bit overwhelmed by the situation.

Nina used to love riding on the back of Jackson's bike when she was younger, would squeal in excitement when he made sharp turns, and went over bumps. He’d given her the first helmet she’d ever owned. Now, she wore his own helmet. The one he’d not put on, on his last ride. After what had happened – the choices Jax made that had led him to colliding with that truck, and killing himself, on the same highway his father had died on years earlier – bikes were merely a means of transport, and the thrill of rushing down a road on one, was gone. She wasn’t afraid of them by any means, she just didn’t get any joy from them anymore.

Just as she had convinced herself she was literally about to melt together with the seat, Filip finally turned down a gravelly road, and slowed down to a halt. In the distance she saw a group of men on bikes, driving towards the murder of crows she’d travelling with up until now. “You remember what we talked about?”, Filip said. “Yeah, but I don’t get it. Don’t you trust these people?”, Nina asked, and pulled down the scarf she’d used to cover her mouth and nose from road-dust. “We do, and you can as well; but this thing you’ve got yourself caught up in, is complicated”, he replied. “Alvarez, the president and his VP knows everything, but they don’t want to get tangled up in it more than necessary. If you find yourself talking to anyone else, all you say is…”. “I’m in need of a fresh start after a bad break-up”, Nina sneered. “I know. Fucking damsel in distress…”. Filip squeezed her knee. “We’ll be in touch, luv’. Promise�� You’ll be back home in Charming before you know it”. “Yeah… home”, Nina muttered, and used his shoulders as support, as she got off the Harley.

Stretching her back, she felt a tap on her butt from a familiar hand. “How are you feeling, princess?”, Happy asked. ”I feel like I did, after that time I won the mechanical bull-riding competition, at Tig’s birthday party”, Nina chuckled, and pulled at her jeans, to get them in place between her thighs. The curly-haired biker in question joined them, with a grin on his face. “Yeah, that was a beautiful!”, he exclaimed. “Well worth the 500 bucks I spent on renting that thing”. “You didn’t pay for that shit”, Filip said. “Screw you, Chibs”, Tig said, with jest in his voice.

Nina took off her sunglasses and helmet; and looked towards the arriving bikers. Two men on road kings – handlebars as high as the sky – led the incoming group. Nina recognized Alvarez right away, having seen him a few times at club parties. The other man she figured was the president of the South California Mayans. Behind them, came a group of bikers, in a caravan formed much like the one she’d ridden in with; arranged by status. She made short eye-contact with a bearded biker somewhere in the middle of the group. He had dark and intense eyes, and his lips twitched into a smile, just before she looked down at the ground. “Stay by the bikes”, Filip said, and squeezed her hand. The gravity of the situation and the dust from the road was beginning to get to her, so she grabbed her inhaler, and took a discrete hit from it; before putting it back in her pocket.

Alvarez and Bishop got off their own bikes, and the bikers behind them halted as well. Filip spread out his arms congenially. “Hola, señors!”, he hollered, and walked up to the other group. Nina cringed at his exclamation. T.O. came up behind her, and patted her shoulder. “Some things never change in this world, kid”, he muttered. “You’d think people would learn… evolve”, she replied. “You think letting brothers in to the club was just gonna magically make Scottie and the rest of them stop being idiot white-boys?”, T.O. chuckled. “Nah. This is as good as it gets. Let’s just hope the next generation does better”. He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Nina. “You’ll let me know if Wendy is in touch, right?”, she asked. “You know we will”. “Thank you…”, she whispered. T.O. nodded solemnly.

“Englishman…”, Alvarez smirked, and reached out his hand to the SAMCRO-president. “Like a bullet to my Scottish heart”, Filip said, and took his hand; pulling him in for a friendly hug. He greeted Bishop in the same manner, and Happy, Tig and T.O. followed suit. “You have our merchandise?”, Bishop said. He was a short and serious looking man, but he didn’t seem as menacing as she’d expect a Mayan president to be. “Straight to the point, then…”, Filip said. “Yes, we brought your merchandise; as much as we could carry. The rest will be here in a van in two days. You get your discount as promised, as payment; and in return…” Bishop glanced towards Nina. “We got you”, he muttered, and patted Filip’s shoulder.

Nina swallowed thickly as the Mayan president approached her. “Obispo Losa. Bishop”, he said, and reached out his hand. “You must be Nina…”. “Just Nina”, she replied quickly, and shook his hand. Bishop nodded. “You’re going with us to Santo Padre. We have a trailer set up at our compound. My prospect uses it normally, but we’ll kick him out for the time being… Just until we figure something else out for you”. Nina felt her cheeks burning. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t want anyone on the street on my account”. “He’ll be fine”, Bishop said quietly. Nina shuddered suddenly, feeling the weight of the situation wash over her. Seeing her expression, Bishop put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be safe with us”. “Ok”, Nina muttered. “Thank you”. A smile ghosted the man’s face, and he nodded towards Filip.

The two groups of bikers finally merged, and greetings were shared, before some bedrolls were spread out on the ground. Guns of different types were hidden in pockets of the fabric, and Nina sighed deeply; looking away, as if doing so would protect her from the truth of what was going on. The bearded biker walked up to Bishop. No longer on his bike, he was strikingly tall, and admittedly handsome as hell. A shorter Mayan, slim and looking a little jumpy; and a friendly looking prospect joined them. “Should the girl be seeing this?”, the tall one muttered to Bishop. “The lady is as trustworthy as they come, amigo”, Filip said. The biker raised a brow at him. “Well, okey dokey, Robert the Bruce”, he said. “You know who Robert the Bruce is?”, the prospect asked. “I got my GED, bro”, the tall one replied. The prospect chuckled quietly. “Cool it, Angel”, Bishop said. “She’s coming with”. “What, she’s like part of the merchandise? Since when do we deal in trafficking?”, the slim one asked, and gave her a confused once over. Nina drew her lips back in a sneer. “Fuck you, asshole!”, she hissed. The biker frowned at her. “That’s Coco to you, ma’”, he grunted. “Who are you?”.

Bishop went to stand next to her, and nodded at Filip once again; as if saying it’s ok, I got this. “This is Nina. Just Nina. She’s the package we’re taking care of for a while”. “La cuervo is the package?”, the biker he’d called Angel said, letting his eyes trace her form with a pleased expression. “Not the kind of package I’d expected”. “Crow or not, we’re setting her up in the trailer at the yard”, Bishop said. “Prospect, you gotta take a hike for a bit”. The prospect sighed, and nodded; making Nina feel guilty beyond belief. “Really, I can…”. “You’re safer at the compound”, Filip muttered quietly.

“Time to say goodbye, man”, Alvarez said. “We saw cops a few miles out. Need to move”. Nina instantly felt her heart fall to her stomach, as the bikers rolled up the bedrolls, and began reloading the bikes, with the Mayans taking over the guns; and from now on, her. She turned to face the men she’d arrived with. “Fuck…”, she sighed. Filip pulled her in for a tight hug. “You’ll be fine, luv’. It’s just until this thing blows over, to keep you out of sight. Treat it like a holiday; enjoy the desert sun, relax…”. He looked towards the Mayans observing them. “And try not to end up losing your panties at another biker-party”. Nina pulled back, and punched his shoulder. “That happened one time!”, she muttered. She noticed Angel and the shorter biker, Coco, smirking at each other, from the corner of her eye. “And we had to kick that prospect’s ass for it. He was never the same”, Tig said, pulling at her arm, to take over from Filip, and give her a hug. “Don’t offer to cook. They might think we sent you to poison them”. “Kiss my ass, Trager”, Nina scowled, and kissed his cheek. “I love you too, kid”. Squeezing Tig tightly, Nina then let herself get enveloped in Happy’s arms. “You got your .38?”, he asked. “In my jacket pocket”, she sighed. “And your inhaler?”, Happy added. “The other pocket. With my cigarettes”, Nina muttered. “Good girl”, Tig said from behind Happy. “Maybe take the time to quit smoking as well; huh, sweetheart?”. She gave him a crooked smile, as he lit up a cigarette himself. “Anyone messes with you, call us. I’ll carve their eyes out”, Happy said, and kissed the top of her head. She noticed a stray tear in his left eye. “Allergies…”, he grunted, and wiped it away quickly. T.O. gave her a quick squeeze as well.

She turned towards Filip again. “I love you, little sister. Say hi to Chucky from us, ok?”, he said. She nodded, and her mood brightened slightly when she was reminded of the fact that there would be at least one person that she knew, where she was going. Even if he was a weird, chronic masturbator, without fingers. Filip kissed the corner of her lips. “Now go… We’ll be in touch if anything comes up, yeah?”. Nina nodded. Filip looked towards Bishop again. “I’m trusting you with someone very special, here”, he said. “You have my word. She’ll be treated like family”, Bishop assured him.

SAMCRO got back on their bikes, after Bishop had handed them an envelope with a wad of cash inside. “Do not let this woman near any tequila, fellas”, Filip said as a parting comment. “Not unless she’s got her underwear superglued on”. “Fuck you, Filip”, Nina smiled embarrassedly. With a final wave at her, they started their engines, and rode off, leaving her behind with a group of strangers she was supposed to trust with her life and secret from now on. She forced her mind to go blank, to avoid tears, and to be able to focus on the ride ahead.

“You ride with the prospect”, Bishop said. “I’d offer you the ride myself, but Marcus and I have another meeting, so we’ll be splitting up about 20 miles from here. Taza will lead the group taking you back to the compound”. He gestured towards a long haired, serious looking biker, with a Vice President patch on his cut. The prospect walked over to her, and reached out his hand. “EZ…”, he said, and smiled congenially. Nina took his hand, and shook it. Angel eyed her with an undefinable expression; when he called out to Bishop. “Yo, jefe. The prospect is a shit driver with a passenger. Maybe she should ride with someone else”. EZ scoffed at him. Bishop narrowed his eyes at Angel, before replying. “Yeah, ok. Nina, go with Coco”. Angel looked disgruntled, but didn’t say anything. Nina put her backpack on, and was about to walk over to Coco, when Bishop grabbed her arm to halt her; giving Angel a look out the corner of his eye. “I’d rethink that superglue, sweetheart”, he said, a slight smile ghosting his face. “I’ll be fine. Word around Charming is I got mace spraying out of my nipples, when my bra comes off”, Nina replied. A murmur of laughter went through the group, and she put on her helmet again, before walking over to her new chauffeur.

Scooting forwards a bit, Coco let her use his shoulders for support, as she got on his bike behind him. “Hold on tight, niña”, he said. “It’s Nina. And I’ll be fine”, she replied, and put her hands on his waist. He grabbed her hands, and pulled her arms all the way around him. “These ain’t no sports bikes”, Angel said, and Coco started up the bike. The roar of the engine made Nina jump slightly, and she noticed Angel had a gleeful smirk on his face. “Told you”, Coco laughed triumphantly.

The bike didn’t have an actual pillion-seat, so to sit comfortably, Nina had to sit closer to Coco than what she was used to with other riders. Angel drove along-side them. The exhaust of the bikes in front of them and the dust from the road hit her nose, and she was about to let go of Coco with one hand, to lift the scarf over her mouth and nose again. He slowed down, and grabbed her wrist. “Told you to hold on!”, he exclaimed. “I know how to ride bitch”, she replied. “Is that what SOA calls it?”, Angel asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of the engines. “I prefer the term riding queen”. “Bullshit”, Coco cried out with a grin on his face. Angel shook his head, and laughed. “Yo, who’s crow you got, ma?”. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, Nina said. “Which SAMCRO-member is your old man?”, Angel reiterated, making clear his Coco’s meaning. She shook her head, and didn’t reply. “Just trying to figure out how precious the cargo is", Angel said, and sped up the bike again, letting Coco and her pull in behind him.

Bishop, Alvarez, and a few of the Mayans Nina hadn’t been introduced to yet, pulled off the highway after a few more miles; and Taza took the lead of their caravan. They were silent for the rest of the ride.

---

Santo Padre seemed like worlds away from home. The smells and sounds were so different from what she was used to. Charming was full of middle-class, small-town people who all looked reverently at the patches usually going through town; and everyone knew everyone. Nina noticed some of the residents of Santo Padre nodding at them as they passed; but theirs weren’t the same respectful gazes. The Mayans didn’t have the same history with the area, as SOA had in Charming; and were still building their reputation here. She felt like an alien in a strange world.

They pulled down a smaller road, just outside town, and were met by a large gate; which – after a holler from Taza – was opened by a pretty teenage girl. Coco slowed down to almost a halt, and looked at her. “You’re supposed to be at school, mija”, he said. “Gym-class… But I got cramps”, she replied. “That’s a bad excuse”, Angel said, having pulled up next to them. “What do you know about that? You got a uterus?”, Nina said. Angel frowned at her, but the girl smiled slyly, and waved at her, as Coco continued onto the lot. “That’s my kid”, he said over his shoulder. His voice had a hint of pride to it, and she noticed his back straightened.

They went through a scrapyard, and pulled up at a wooden building – the Mayan clubhouse. Nina got off the bike, and took a second to stretch her legs. She took off her helmet, and looked around; feeling very out of place. Suddenly, a familiar voice caught her attention. “There was a beer-delivery while you were away; but the man was very rude. He says he wants payment up front from now on, and he didn’t even say goodbye”. Nina turned towards the voice, and a smile spread on her face. “Chucky!”, she called out. The balding man lit up, and walked towards her. “Miss…”, he began. “Nina… just Nina. You know that, Chucky!”, she said, and patted his shoulder. “Chibs says hi”. “He’s not here?”, Chucky asked. Nina shook her head. “Then why are you…?”. “It’s a long story. I’m going to hang out here for a while”. EZ gestured for her to follow, and with a final smile at Chucky, she followed the prospect towards a trailer outside the clubhouse. Angel was about to trail behind them, when Taza patted his shoulder; to talk to him.

The trailer was small, and clothes cluttered the table and cot inside. EZ scrambled to pick up his stuff. There was a pile of old novels strewn on the counter. “Sorry…”, he muttered. “If I’d known…”. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you out”, Nina said apologetically. “I’m just a prospect. I do what my president tells me”, EZ smiled crookedly. “It’s fine, really. I’ll stay at our pap’s place while you’re here”. “Your?”, she asked, questioning the plurality in his words. “Yeah. Me and Angel’s. He’s my brother”, EZ replied. Nina dropped her backpack and helmet on the cot. “Is it ok if I leave some of my books here, though?”, he asked, and gestured towards the stack of books on the counter. “Absolutely, as long as you don’t mind me reading some of them”, Nina replied. EZ raised his brows, and seemed pleased at her response.

He found Nina some clean sheets from somewhere, as well as a blanket. “It can get cold out here during the nights”, he said, as she took it with it a thankful smile, and placed it on the cot in the trailer. “This far south?”, she asked. “Yeah, it varies. Some nights I have to wear two sweaters and socks; other nights, it’s like sleeping in an aluminum can over a lit stove”. He knocked the roof slightly, letting the sound of metal fill the tiny space.

There was a roar of laughter from outside, as Angel and Coco shared some inside joke. “So, is your brother your sponsor?”. “He was. Took care of me, and got me in to the club, after I got out of jail. I was having kind of a hard time, and he helped me out… But Bishop took over, after some statute changes…”, he said, before halting himself. “… Which is stuff you shouldn’t even know about. Does SOA let their old ladies in on club business in Charming?”. She chuckled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t know".

“You just a croweater then?”. Angel had appeared in the door, and Nina jolted at the sudden interruption. “Sorry… Bishop is back. He wants to talk to you in his office”. “What does he need me for?”, EZ asked. “Not you. Her”, Angel said. He stepped inside the trailer, his head almost hitting the ceiling of it; and picked up the helmet on the cot. “Your helmet looks worn… Doesn’t fit your head either. It’s not safe”. Nina felt bile rise in her throat, and yanked it out of his hands. “Don’t touch it”, she hissed. She held the helmet protectively in her arms. Angel furrowed his brows at her, and licked his lips, as if he was about to say something. “Sorry… It’s an heirloom”. “Ok…”, Angel said. “Didn’t mean to overstep”. EZ cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable at the tension of the situation. “Don’t want to keep the prez waiting”, he said.

All three of them stepped out of the trailer, and EZ went ahead of Angel and her, as they walked towards the clubhouse. “How do you know about the way a club runs? Your old man lets you in on stuff like that?”, Angel asked. “Why do you keep asking about my old man?”, Nina said. Angel smirked. “So, you do have an old man”. Nina took a second to think. She wasn’t in Santo Padre for a long time; but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a good time. Besides, Angel didn’t seem like a long-time kind of guy. “No”, she said, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His smile widened. “Good to know”.

---

The Mayan clubhouse had similar decorations to the ones in SAMCRO’s clubhouse; though clearly inspired by their proud Mexican and latinx roots. Nina instantly felt at home there, surrounded by leather-clad men, and inhaling the scent of motor-oil and beer.

Bishop was seated by a table, and spread out his arms to greet her, as she entered with Angel. “Step into my office”, he said, and gestured towards a chair opposite him. Nina sat down, and Chucky appeared from somewhere, planting a mug of coffee in front of her. “Black as sin…”, he smiled. “Just the way I like it. Thanks, Chuck”, she said. Chucky scuttered off, leaving them to it. Alvarez hadn’t come back with Bishop, but Nina knew not to comment on it.

Bishop took a sip of his beer, while Angel settled on a bar-stool, taking the cold one EZ handed him from behind the counter. Most of the charter seemed to be scattered throughout the room. “I’m sure you understand why we’re not having this conversation in templo. We don’t allow women at the table, and even if you weren’t one, you’re not wearing a patch”. Nina nodded solemnly. “I understand”, she said. Bishop gave her a short smile. “Here’s the deal. SAMCRO is paying us to look after you, while you stay in Santo Padre for a while”. “She’s the package we’re guarding?”, a bald Mayan asked. “Not what I expected”. He leered at her. Bishop sent him a hard look. “Nina left Charming to… start new”, he said, and looked meaningfully at her. “Right?”. “Yeah… I won’t be staying long”, she said. Angel chewed his lip, and looked quizzically at her. “Why does she need us, though?”. “She is used to an MC having her back. It’s just for comfort and peace of mind for SOA”, Bishop said.

Taza sat down next to Bishop. “You’re not familiar with the area, so you should stay on the lot. Only leave if you have someone with you”, he said. Nina knew what he was really saying; that she was more or less on lockdown, and if she did leave the compound, it needed to be with a patch. It wasn’t anything new. She’d gone into lockdown with SAMCRO before; though on a club-wide basis. “It’s your house… Your rules”, she said. “Good”, Bishop said. “You’re welcome to the facilities here, and if there’s anything you need, you let us know”. “The prospect is used to going on tampon-runs”, Coco grinned from his own stool by the bar. His daughter, who was standing behind him, hit him over the shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything you can’t trust these idiots with. I’m Letty… Leticia”, she said. “Control your kid, Coco”, Bishop said, but smiled at the teenager none the less. “We expect you to pull your weight around here. Chibs tells me you have experience behind a bar, and that you would sometimes help Chucky out in the office, back when their auto-shop was still running. You can do the same with the scrapyard. I trust I don’t need to tell you about keeping your nose out of our other business”. Nina eyed the pack of smokes on the table, and Bishop pushed it towards her. “Anything you need”, she replied, and took a cigarette. “Anything?”, the bald biker neck smirked. Angel got on his feet, and smacked him over the head. “Stop being a creep, Creeper”, he said, and walked over to light her cigarette. He kept eye-contact with her, while she took in her first lungful of smoke, and let a smile ghost his face, before stepping back again. Nina stifled a smile, and felt a rush of blood to her head; as well as other parts of her, that were even more intriguing.

Bishop got on his feet. “Templo. We got some shit to talk about”, he said. “How did things go with Palo? He know who did in his cousin yet?”, Creeper asked. Taza stared daggers at him. “At the table, fuckhead”. The Mayans all went towards a beautifully ornate door, leaving Nina with EZ, Letty, and Chucky. Angel sent her a final look, and shot her a sly smile before closing the door behind him.

---

While EZ helped out Letty with what looked like some homework, Chucky was running in and out of the clubhouse, lugging cases of beer and soda. Nina slipped behind the bar to help him fill the fridges. “You don’t have to do that”, Chucky said. “I need to do something to pass the time”, she replied.

As they worked in silence, she noticed Chucky looking at her occasionally, as if wanting to say something, but not quite having the courage. “Ask…”, she said. “It’s not my place”, he said. “Why not? We’re friends, right?”, Nina smiled. “I’m happy you’re here, Chucky. It would have sucked not having even one familiar face around”. Chucky lit up. “We’re friends?”. “Of course we are. In spite of the fact that you used to tell Jax on me, whenever I was doing anything he might not like”. Chuck blushed. “He asked me to keep an eye on you when he wasn’t around”. “Yeah… Just keeping you safe, darlin’”, Nina imitated the former president of SAMCRO. Chucky smiled. “He was a good man”, he said. “I wish he’d believed that about himself”, she sighed. “So… ask”. Closing the fridge, Chucky looked at her hesitantly. “Why did they bring you here? Did they lose you in a bet, like me?”. “No… nothing like that”. “Then why?”. Struggling with opening a bottle of soda for Letty, who’d stepped over to the bar with EZ. Nina took it from him, and opened it, before giving it to the girl. “I know Chibs took over from Jax, both as president, but also as your…”. “Yeah…”, Nina sighed. “Why would he let you out of his sight?”.

EZ accepted a bottle himself, and was unsuccessful in pretending like he wasn’t listening in on the conversation. “I needed a fresh start. Wanted to get out of Charming for a while”, Nina said. Her cheeks were beginning to burn. “Why? Did something happen?”. Nina’s eyes travelled the room, finding it hard to reply. “Bad breakup…”, she said, almost like a line from a manuscript. “Chibs lets you date?”, Chucky said. “Happy lets you date?”. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t mentioned Tig. The man had gifted her a 6-pack and a case of condoms for every birthday, since the day she turned 18. “I’m a grown ass woman, Chuck”, she almost giggled. “Yeah, but Jax…”, Chucky began. “Isn’t around anymore”, she replied shortly, feeling immediately guilty. “I’m sorry… It’s still a sore subject”. “I accept that”, Chuck said, his eyes letting her know she was forgiven for her tone.

Nina smiled softly, and went to open another box of beer.

---

#angel reyes #angel reyes x oc #ez reyes #coco cruz #bishop losa #mayans mc #angel reyes fic #mayans mc fic

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skarlette1 · 3 years

Text

The Hotness of Hypnotized Hero(in)es

Photo by Mahdiar Mahmoodi on Unsplash

Time for another essay question, sponsored by Dedicated Procrastinator’s generosity with coffee. He asks:

What is it about the hypnotized hero(ine) genre you love so much?

There’s a lot of things, obviously. One doesn’t write a dozen e-books and hundreds of flash fiction pieces in a genre without a lot of fuel in the tank. Some inspiring aspects of my chosen sub-sub-subgenre:

Familiarity: I’ve mentioned reading a lot of comics over the years. I’ve never counted but I’m sure I’ve read thousands of issues, certainly. Add to that the fact that we’re living in a golden age for superhero media. So I can watch high-quality, well-written superhero TV shows and movies and animated off-shoots whenever I want. They say “write what you know” and I know superheroes (which is not to say I know everything about all superheroes, there’s just too, too much).

Sweeping Breadth: As a genre, “superhero” stretches to accommodate virtually any and every other genre. Every sort of non-realistic, flamboyant extravagance is on display. Ultra-advanced technology that breaks the laws of physics. Magic learned from musty, ancient tomes. Aliens with powers unimaginable. Hard-boiled vigilantes with hearts of gold. Monsters lurking in every shadow. Gods of myth and legend. Robots yearning to understand their creator. None of it is out of place in a superhero story. Whatever weirdness my muse can come up with will fit just fine.

Optimism: Corny, I know. But I like that all my superhero stories end with the heroine winning in the end. It gives me a little hope and puts a smile on my face. Plus, there’s a creative challenge that’s fun in every story I publish: I get to put the heroine in a worse and worse situation, and then figure a way for her to get back out again! Sometimes it’s really tricky, but a hell of a lot of fun!

Insulation from Reality: This one is hard to find the right words for, but I’ll try.

Power: Superhero stories are about power. Who has it? What do you do with it? What do you do without it? What does it do to you?

Sex is a real thing that happens with real people in the real world. Genuine, living human beings delight in, and get hurt from, sexual issues every single day. Sex is important. The way we talk about sex is important. The way we think about sex, our own and others, is important.

But making things important is a guaranteed way to get my muse to pack her bags and head for parts unknown. I write for a lot of reasons but the most important one is stress relief. The pressure to address an important issue in an appropriate and responsible manner compounds my stress, rather than relieving it.

So, I write stuff with lewd lasers, erotic explosions, horny hypnosis, ribald robots, and spells of sexual sorcery. Writing the wacky superhero stuff allows me to let myself off the hook of always addressing important topics with appropriate gravity.

That said, I try to address the emotional reality of my characters as best I can. That’s where real erotic thrills come from, I think. Only you, as my readers, can judge how well I do that.

Folks in kink communities talk about “power exchange” of the dominant/submissive relationship. Who has power over your actions? Is the sort of question that comes up in hypno/MC-themed erotica all the time. There’s a lot of subtlety and nuance to be explored in the lines between consent and coercion, of giving into persuasion and being freed from one’s inhibitions. Those can powerful stories.

But they are not the type of stories I write. My brush is too broad for such fine-grained psychological realism (all those comic books, surely). My muse provides me with a big special effects budget and expects me to spend every dime. Being hypnotized into not wearing underwear just lacks the spectacle and pizzazz of being hypnotized into taking over the world.

Those are my thoughts on hypnotized hero(in)es. What about you? What do you like about the supehero genre?

---

Like what you read? Have you taken a look at my longer fiction?

My newest erotic novel, Libido League #12: Invasion from Planet Lust, is available now from Smashwords and Amazon!

#essay #superhero #writing #skarletteone

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withastolenlantern · 3 years

Text

What do you think it was like?” Rafael asked as he hacked at the tough vegetation with his hoe, pulling the dense vines into a pile in the pathway. The soil was nitrogen poor, even when heavily fertilized, and the local flora had a fibrous root that was always threatening to choke out their transplanted species. The ground cover was too thick for the harvesters to handle, so the crops were still pulled by hand at the end of the wet season.

“Why do you always ask that?” I said, stooping down to the ground and dusting the dirt from the now exposed potatoes, gently brushing them clear like an archaeologist might some ancient, precious treasure. I pulled the tubers from the ground and put them into the cart.

“You don’t wonder?” He leaned on the handle of the hoe, brushing the sweat from his dark brow.

“I try not to.”

“Come on, Shan. If I have to have one more meeting about soil nutritiation, I’m going to kill myself. And you’re down there all the time…”

“We’re not having this conversation again.” I hadn’t come out to the fields looking for a fight, but I was always prepared for one. “Stop changing the subject.”

He frowned. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m just saying. The season’s almost over, and we’re not getting any younger.”

He put down the hoe and knelt down next to me, lifting another potato and cradling it. He looked at me plaintively. “I just… are you sure this is what you want? To spend your life toiling in the dirt? I mean, your father…”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “My father is a drunk, and he has nothing to do with this.”

“He didn’t used to be. He might snap out of it. Some of them do,” he said. “I’m just worried you’ll get bored of me, of this. It’s not a glamorous life.”

“No, but it would be our life, Rafe,” I pleaded.

“One more season. The bureau is due to review the allotments soon, and I almost have enough saved up for a down-payment on my own forty.” He kissed me gently on the forehead, then stood, and stared up toward the sky and sighed. “You honestly don’t wonder? What it was like, knowing what was happening out there?”

I stood too, matching his gaze. I put my arm around his wrist and held it gently to my chest. “Come with me. I have to check on him, and then maybe you’ll see why I’d much prefer to farm potatoes with you.”

It had been one-hundred fifty-nine years since we’d last heard from anyone outside the system. The Network had gone down July 17th, 2938, or at least that’s what the history books said. And that is only if you went by the original Earth calendar, which no one did anymore. With a twenty-eight hour day and a rotation period of six-hundred seventeen days, matching time here on New Caledonia to that on Earth was pointless. With The Network, information would take an interminable time to transit the two-hundred eighty-four light year and four relay distance between us; even then, relativity was unclear on whether there was any such thing as simultaneous events at these stellar distances anyway. For me it was irrelevant: the Earth might as well not exist, may not exist, and Sol was just a very dim star you could barely make out in the southern sky.

For us, it had been a normal Sunday, Wet Season 12, CSY 134. New Caledonia is an eccentric planet with a single landmass in its northern hemisphere surrounded by a large planetary ocean. Because of its near forty-five degree axial tilt relative to the ecliptic, the year is divided into two seasons of nearly equal length. During the Wet Season, the more direct sunlight heats the seas, driving strong currents that bring strong storms to the western coast. The moist air blows in and dumps copious rain across the western plains before climbing into the central mountain range that separates the continent, the only remnant of the clash between the two gigantic tectonic plates that formed the land we now call home. This quirk of a jetstream leaves the eastern plains beyond the mountains in a giant rain shadow, barren and dry. For this reason, all the major settlements are here in the west, and in the Dry Season, the ocean gyres cease and we hunker down for a long, cold, arid winter.

The rains were strong that Wet Season, or so the stories go. At first they though the heavy cloud cover and unstable air was interfering with communication to the satellite arrays. Minkowski Transmission provides a supraliminal link through the interstellar void, but it was still subject to the space-time warps of a heavy gravity well; we are forced to rely on more pedestrian broadcast methods to communicate with the Network Relays out in longer orbits free from gravitational interference. But they checked the dishes and the transmission center and everything was fine. Then they checked again. Then they waited until the Dry Season, and checked again. And then they waited.

We walked up the path to the main road where I’d parked my truck, and Rafe loaded the cart, only half-full of potatoes, into the rear cargo bed. “How is he doing?” he asked, hopping into the cab and pulling on his safety belt.

I pushed the ignition switch and the engine purred to life. The battery chimed a plea that it needed to be recharged soon, and I felt that deep in my soul in a way the inanimate vehicle could never understand. “He has good days and bad.”

“How much longer?”

“Too long.” I put the truck into gear and programmed the destination into the navigational system. It lurched forward, the tracks catching slightly in the soft, damp clay of the plain. “Honestly I stopped counting a long time ago.”

We made it maybe half a mile before the rain started again, at first light pricks ricocheting off the windscreen of the truck, but quickly growing to fat blobs that exploded with a violent thud. I opened the valve to the distillation unit on the roof and a slow drip of cleansed water trickled into my canteen. After a few seconds I closed the valve and took a sip; the water was cool and clear. I offered some to Rafe, but he demurred with a slight wave. “Do you think he’ll go back to his career, after?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. At the beginning they said they’d welcome him back, but I think we all expect that was just a pleasantry. I’m… I’m not sure if he could handle it, now.”

We rode in silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “I’m not sure he’ll approve,” he said with subtle defeat. “Especially if he goes back to work.”

“He doesn’t get a say,” I replied. I reached across the seats and took his hand in mine. I smiled as brightly as I could in reassurance. “I’ve made my choice. This is what I want, for myself. For us. He can object if he wants, but what’s the worst that happens? It’s not like we can be further apart, not after what’s happened.”

It was several days into the Dry Season before the panic really set in. The original settlers had always known it was a one-way trip out here- four hundred years was a long time in stasis, and there was never a guarantee the planet would provide a sufficient fuel source to power the generation ship’s massive thrust engines back up. So like seeds in the wind humanity scattered itself across the stars, secure in the knowledge that the Network Relays would prevent them from ever being truly alone. Mankind might diverge physically and spacially; over time genetics and environmental factors would certainly breed out several new homo subspecies. But with the Network we could at least stay connected enough to share our stories, our art, our discoveries, and what else has humanity ever been but that?

The governor made an address and appealed for calm. New Caledonia had been self-sustaining since the beginning, she reminded everyone. They’d be fine. It was always a known possibility that this might happen, and the best everyone could do was to go on with their lives. The Network would come back, or it wouldn’t; they’d keep trying to re-establish communication.

The rumors started swirling immediately. The panel show ratings skyrocketed. We watched some of the footage in school, when I was younger; one talking head insisted it could be an alien threat, splitting us up before some pending invasion. There’s never been any sign of extraterrestrial intelligence even exists, let alone in competition for colonization, the other shouted. A third argued it was a sign from God, that humanity had outreached its grasp.

A popular conspiracy stream posited that maybe it was just New Caledonia. What if everyone else’s Network connection still works, and they’re cutting us out? The opposition party saw an opportunity and ran with it- what if the government shut down the link? On purpose! What if this was all a ploy to consolidate power and rule the planet as an oligarchy? The riots lasted three days, with violence and looting in the city streets before cooler heads prevailed. The government stayed in tact, and the opposition leaders were purged for fomenting insurrection. And thus was born the New Caledonian hermit kingdom.

“I don’t think I’d even want it to come back, at this point,” I groused. “Not after all of this.”

“How can you say that?” Rafe asked, incredulous. “You’re not the least bit curious?”

I thought for a moment. “Curious, yeah, I guess. But I don’t know that it would change all that much. It’s been so long. What if it comes back and it’s just… too different?”

“Yeah but think of what we might be missing out on,” he argued. “It might have helped with The Rot. It might have…”

“Don’t,” I warned, feeling the threat of tears welling my eyes.

For one-hundred fifty-nine orbits we’d tended our flocks and tilled our soils alone. Without a broader knowledge base, technological progress slowed. In CSY 204 a plague came, some meta-organic compound released from a pit mine dug too deep. The Rot claimed thirteen percent of the population before we could quarantine it out. When I was nine they finally found a way to inoculate against it. I remembered wincing at the shot as my father looked on, relief evident in his face that I’d be spared the fate that had claimed so many lives, including my mothers.

Maybe Rafe was right; maybe someone out beyond the stars might have helped us avoid that tragedy. And maybe someone here might know or do something that could save lives elsewhere. But in the years since the Network went down, we’d persevered, raised generations on our own. And inevitably just like Rafael they would stare up at the night sky with the same wonder as those before. And then they’d also ask about the abandoned broadcast center in the empty valley beyond the outskirts of the main settlement, grown over with the local moss-analogue from years of disuse.

The truck crested a small hill, the tracks struggling for purchase in the mud as they pulled the vehicle over the incline, and we looked down into the valley where that broadcast center sat. Every two years an adult was selected by random lot to man the station, in the increasingly unlikely event communication with the Network was re-established. The government called it “The Receiver” in an effort to present it as some important position, but everyone knew it was a joke. It came with no real benefits, just a small stipend and the obligation of a community. We all prayed at the Harvest Festival that our number would not be drawn from the bowl.

My father was a proud man, an engineer who helped manage the settlement’s geothermal power station. His luck had run out eight-hundred sixty-three days ago. He swore up and down that the lottery was rigged; that the government thought him being a technical expert instead of a field-hand, that the fact that his wife was gone and his children all grown, made him expendable. He might have been right, but that didn’t absolve him the responsibility. So he’d resigned himself, and us with him, to the doldrums of minding an interface that may never come back online.

He read a book a day, or at least he claimed, and while the library did have a fair amount of humanity’s literary efforts prior to the cutoff, their plots and concerns were divorced from life here on the frontier. He took up drinking, inevitably, as did everyone else assigned to the posting. What they don’t tell you when your name is pulled from the bowl is that the sacrifice is not yours alone- the burden is your family’s to bear. My brother’s and I took turns minding him, bringing him food and checking on his mental well-being but they all had families of their own now, and I was desperate to start mine too. We were all ready to move on, and I hoped by bringing Rafael with me he could see that I was serious about starting our life together.

We pulled up outside the comms center and dismounted from the truck.

“Hang on a second,” Rafe said. “I want to talk to him.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“Just… let me do this, okay?”

I smiled and kissed his cheek gently. He went inside while I unloaded a tote filled with fresh fruits and a sandwich I’d laced with some amphetamines to help keep him lucid. The interior of the building was dark; the lights hard burned out several months ago and no one from the government could be bothered to maintain the place on any expedited time scale. I brushed some of the local vines from the threshold of the entryway as I entered. “Dad? It’s Shan. I brought some food.”

As I passed from the mottled grey sunlight outside to the dark interior I could make out blurry figures backlit by the eerie glow of his reading lamp.. They were both standing, which was odd. Dad was usually in the chair when I visited, most of the time asleep.

Rafe emerged suddenly from the shadows and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Shan. Stop.”

“What is it?” I asked, taken aback. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s… here. Let’s go outside.” He pulled me gently but forcefully toward the door.

“What the fuck, Rafe, stop it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s your dad. He…”

I shoved Rafael out of the way and stepped forward into the comm station. My father came into clearer focus, and I could tell immediately something wasn’t right. I came closer and dropped the basket to the floor in shock. His body hung limply, his feet swaying gently five centimeters from the floor. A length of electrical cord, half-stripped from the wall behind him, was wound tightly around his neck. I grabbed his feet and lifted, crying. “No no no no no, dad, fuck.” I pushed and contorted his body, trying to free him but to no avail. Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and wet.

I pulled a short table across the concrete floor and climbed up onto it, my vision blurred with anger and fear and sobs. I yanked at the cable, trying to unwind it, to free his body. I pulled and wrenched and screamed in desperation, banging on the overhead truss that supported it until I nearly broke my hand. I collapsed onto him, my hands around his shoulders, my face against his chest. His skin was cold and pallid. I was too late to save him.

“Shan.” Rafael stood in the entryway to the station. He offered his hand I took it gingerly, climbing down from the table and following him outside. He pulled me in close as I wailed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t…”

I pulled Rafe to the ground and cried for another few minutes, my chest heaving with agony. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered finally.

“It’s not yours either. You did the best you could.”

“I know.” I pulled the sleeve of my jumper up over my hand and wiped my eyes. “I think a part of me knew it would always end like this. It has so many times before. In a way it might be… I don’t know. Better? I’d always worried about what he would be like after.”

I gulped in air as my breathing stabilized. “Come help me get him down?”

“Sure,” he said, mustering a weak smile.

We went back into the station and looked upon him once more. He looked frail, fragile in a way he hadn’t before. Being alone this long, it just did things to a person. Rafael grabbed his feet as I climbed back up on the table. With Rafe bracing his weight I was able to loosen the taught cable and slip it free, and we lowered the body gently down to the table. He went out to the truck to get a bag to cover my father, and I stood silent vigil, until in the quiet I heard a strange humming noise from across the room. I turned and saw that the Network terminal screen was activated. “That’s… weird.”

I walked across and stood in front of the terminal, suddenly alive with activity. Rafe entered back in with the bag. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not usually… on.” I leaned in close. “It’s displaying something.”

A line of dots and dashed appeared on the interface. “I… I think it’s old morse code. Dad had to learn it. I helped him practice.”

“What’s it say?” he asked, a sudden dread in his voice I didn’t recognize. I could feel my stomach welling up in anxiety as well.

“It says.... HELP.”

#was thinking about this again the other day #and then i expanded it to... this #i legit think this is one of the better short forms i've ever written #anyway screaming into the void etc

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sirpoley · 4 years

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On the Four Table Legs of Traveller, Leg 1: Mortgages

Mongoose Traveller's starship mortgage-payment-system is the most brilliant game mechanic I've ever encountered, as a DM. It's also the first rule I'd ignore if I wasn't consciously trying to play the game exactly how it's described in the book.

A Bit of Background

I've been involved in two Traveller campaigns in the past as a player (both with the same DM), and am currently DMing a third. All of them are using Mongoose's first edition. I've never played any other edition of traveller, and know almost nothing about the history of the game. I don't know which mechanics are unique to this edition of Traveller and which have been around for decades.

In the campaigns in which I was a player, I think the DM was continually frustrated with the rules of the game. He wanted to run a tight, story-focused campaign and picked up Traveller assuming it would be, essentially, D&D in space. For his second campaign, he chopped out huge chunks of the ruleset and replaced it with homebrew ones, removing space travel and Traveller's quirky character creation entirely. This worked for the game he wanted to run (he's an extraordinarily talented DM), but I think we all came away feeling pretty lukewarm about the actual rules.

Bored out of my mind in lockdown, desperate for anything to shake up the daily routine, I picked up the copy of Traveller that had been sitting on my bookshelf, untouched, and skimmed through it. In a mood of "I'll humour this weird rulebook," I followed the random subsector creation chapter to the letter, creating a surprisingly-well fleshed out chunk of space to play around in.

It was then that I realized I'd never actually played Traveller. So I dragged my partner along in an experiment: let's play Traveller, exactly how it is described in the book, no matter how flat-out insane the rules seem to be. I will only consider houseruling or changing a rule once we've both figured out what it's for. I learned a ton in this experiment, so, during my kid's naps (oh, right, I have a daughter now, that's where I disappeared to, Internet), I'll write about what I've learned.

(The Carlia Subsector. Not pictured: along with this map is a LONG word document describing the atmosphere, gravity, population, tech level, cultural quirks, government, etc. of the main world in each of these systems, plus a huge table of the price of dozens of trade goods on each planet. These, it turns out, are crucial game aids. I'll get into them later.)

Traveller, I've learned, is a table held up by four legs: Finances, Character Creation, Patrons, and Random Encounters. If you remove any of these legs, the rest of the game stops working. Following them, as described, gives you a rip-roaring swashbuckling adventure of fighting pirates, escaping bounty hunters, smuggling, jailbreaks, and all that good stuff you want in a campaign—but it happens spontaneously. I'll get into it more in detail, but for now, we're going to talk about finances in Traveller.

Yes, the Game Is About Mortgage Payments

The central driving mechanic of Traveller is making mortgage payments for your starship. The assumption is that the player characters are part-owners of an FTL-capable starship that's more expensive than any one person, or any ten people, could ever afford outright. The game (thankfully) provides a quick way to calculate your starship's mortgage payments (something like the value of the ship/240 per month), and for all of the example ships in the book, gives them to you pre-calculated. In the case of my solo campaign, my partner owed the bank a whopping 500,000 credits a month for her Corsair. For scale, that's the exact same price as the single most powerful gun in the game (the "Fusion Gun, Man Portable"), owed monthly. In D&D terms, she had to raise the equivalent of a +5 Longsword every. Single. Month.

(In addition to mortgage payments are smaller fees: life support (i.e., food and water), crew salaries, fuel, and ship maintenance, but the mortgage is by far the largest single expense, so that's what I'll focus on).

I started my partner out with a fueled up and fully-crewed ship (we used pre-generated NPC stats from the middle of the book for her crew, plus an NPC who was generated during her character creation, which I'll get into later). Character creation started her with 10,000 credits, and I told her she had until the end of the month to multiply that by fifty times.

Debt Leads to Trade

The fastest way by far in Traveller to make money is to interact with the very well fleshed-out trade rules. Each spaceship has a certain amount of tons of cargo it can carry, and each world has a list of trade goods for sale at various prices. So the clear way to raise that 500 grand was to speculatively buy trade goods, pick up passengers and freight, deliver mail, and so on. These rules are generous; by stacking modifiers, it's possible to reliably quadruple your principal every time you reach a new planet (which happens every week).

I think my old DM severely nerfed the trade rules (he also didn't enforce mortgage payments, leaving them on the cutting room floor like D&D's Encumbrance rules) due to this seemingly-unbalanced generosity. Again: the best gun in the game is 500,000 credits—so how on earth can a system that lets you make hundreds, even millions, of credits by trading stand?

Well, it turns out, the bank simply taking 95% of your player's earnings every month severely dampens potentially-snowballing nonlinear growth, so my partner and I never saw the kind of wealth explosion that looks inevitable from the rules as written, despite her scraping together everything she could do maximize profits. In all the time we've been playing, despite having already made millions of credits, she actually hasn't been able to buy a gun better than her starting laser pistol, or, in fact, any armour at all. I'll get to why in a moment, because the most important thing about the trade system is that…

Trade Leads to Travel

Garden worlds sell cheap food. High-population worlds buy food for a high price. High-population worlds sell manufactured goods that are in high-demand on non-industrial worlds, and so on. In a quest to maximize profits, the party was locked into a continual tour of the subsector I generated earlier, constantly moving from place to place. Staying put for any length of time meant letting time trickle away (time that could be spent raking in cash for crippling mortgage payments), so that wasn't an option. What wound up happening was that the party went on a self-guided tour of the subsector, stopping in at colourful worlds I'd generated earlier. This happened entirely without me, as DM, having to dangle bait in front of the party the way that I always have to in D&D. Travel is good, because…

Travel Leads to Conflict

I've already spoken at length on the subject of random encounters here, but Traveller really builds the game around random tables in an elegant way. Every time the party jumps from one world to another, there's a chance they'll get waylaid by pirates (the rulebook has a fun, albeit hidden, 'pirate table' that describes different tricks and hijinks that pirates use to attack). 'Pirates' in Traveller are spaceship owners unable to pay their mortgages by legitimate means, so turn to piracy. The fact that the party is always carrying their life savings in trade commodities whenever they travel around makes them a prime target for piracy, and leads to combat with stakes beyond "fight till everyone's dead." The pirates aren't orcs, and don't want to kill the players for no reason. They want to take their cargo and get away as quickly as possible, suffering the least damage as possible, and the players want the opposite. Thus: pre-combat negotiations, tricks, hijinks (my partner, carrying a cargo of "domestic goods," chose to have her crew throw individual toasters out of the cargo bay each in different directions to ensure that the pirates had to engage in lengthy EVA-missions to catch them each, thus allowing her ship to escape without suffering damage).

Traveller's starship battle rules are fun (and integrate into boarding actions that results in player-scale combat), and are triggered primarily just by moving around. Conflict is fun by itself (that's why combat rules are most of the rules in most games), but in this context, have the added advantage, as…

Conflict Leads to Tradeoffs

It became clear to my partner after her first run-in with pirates that her ship and crew were under-gunned. While buying powerful weapons and armour is trivially cheap compared to the amount of money she was raking in through trade (most weapons cap out at a few thousand credits, and she was moving hundreds of thousands a week), actually getting her hands on some was another matter.

Good weapons in Traveller are advanced ones, which have a high-TL (tech level) rating. These weapons are only available on high-TL worlds (each world has a TL rating generated in subsector generation). Making a detour from trading to buy 'adventuring equipment' wound up being an extremely costly endeavour, taking the party weeks out of the way of the most profitable trade route. The closest world in which these weapons exist also outlaws all weapons (various laws are generated procedurally as well) which means engaging in black market smuggling (which is fleshed out in the rules) and risks run-ins with the law.

Compounding this problem was that her Corsair took minor damage in the combat with the pirates, and the nearest world with a shipyard capable of repairing the ship was different from, and out of the way of, the high tech world with fancy fusion guns. Also, getting the ship repaired meant that it would be in drydock for days or even weeks, which incurs an opportunity cost of almost a million credits that could have been made during trade…

Tradeoffs lead to Debt

In her case, she wound up getting her ship repaired, forgoing arming herself and her crew, and skirting dangerously close to bankruptcy kicking her heels as her ship was patched up. There isn't an easy answer to what she 'ought' to have done, which was fun as hell. Further, as a DM, I wasn't annoyed that she was 'messing up the plot' by staying put (or frustrated that she wasn't going to my elaborately-plotted narrative that would occur when she tried to buy black market weapons) because there was no plot. Everything that came about emerged procedurally.

The 'Loop'

The beating heart of a Traveller sandbox campaign is this loop:

Without DM intervention (or Patrons, which are sort of procedurally-generated adventure hooks), this loop can sustain a campaign pretty much indefinitely. What this means as a DM is that any DM-interventions (i.e., adding in pre-written adventure hooks or encounters or whatever) can be attached to any of these steps to allow it to come about during play. It also means that if you don't have any pre-scripted content (to choose an example completely at random, let's just say your hypothetical one-year-old threw your notes in a toilet) you can just sit back and let the loop above take care of providing entertainment.

To bring this back to mortgages, if your players don't have the threat of having their spaceship repossessed by the bank hanging over them like the Doom of Damocles, then the whole system breaks down, and the DM has to do all the heavy lifting of providing character motivation to go explore new planets.

Next, we'll talk about how Traveller's patron system ties into all of this.

#TravellerRPG #Traveller #FourLegsofTraveller

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

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Humans are weird, “Water”

I was thinking about this he other day after my swimming class, and thought it would probably be an important observation for aliens in close proximity with humans.

It turned out to be a nice, short little thing for you all :)

The rec room aboard the U.N.S.S Harbinger was only partially full scattered here and there with an assortment of humans, a couple playing ping-pong against a single Drev opponent, having two more arms than you average human, while another group played pool or lounged around on the over-sized bean bags reading, drawing or listening to music.

Dr. Krill had only recently begun investigating the human activity known as “relaxation.” and so far he hadn’t made much progress. The Commander said he was too ‘neurotic’ for relaxation, whatever that meant, and Sunny pointed out that he ended to think to much to relax. Either way he was trying. Apparently it was acceptable to think during relaxation time, but not about one’s work. He wasn’t exactly sure who had made the rules about relaxation, but that seemed to be how it worked.

He leaned back a little further in the beanbag aware that he would not be able to get out on his own as sunken down as he was. He rubbed two of his upper limbs together as he stared at the ceiling.

From somewhere to his left human purred contentedly, not really purring but more like a short hum, “Doing better than usual, Krill. Watcha thinkin ‘bout.” he chose to ignore the horrific grammar.

“I am thinking about writing a book.”

“Like another boring medical journal?” The human groaned

Krill sighed deeply, “Honestly, the way you talk always makes me forget that you’re supposed to be educated for a human.”

“Ouch, and besides my degree was in aviation, I’m not a doctor. If it isn’t a medical journal, than what is it?” Krill tapped his hands together, or what would be considered hands by human standards, “I am thinking about writing a sort of…. Care manual for the proper upkeep of humans.”

That earned him a snort and a laugh, “Like a ‘how to train your dog manual’.” The human laughed, “Krill, we are people, not pets.” Krill glanced over at the human aware of an irony the human didn’t seem to have picked up on. Lounging on a couch head resting on one of Sunny’s armored legs as she absently stroked his hair attention fixed on the pages of a weapons catalog. The human closed his single eye contentedly as she continued to ‘pet’ him.

“Uh-huh.” Krill acknowledged smugly.

“Alright, oh great expert of humankind, tell me what the first chapter is going to be about.”

Krill tapped his chin, a habit that he had picked up from the humans, “I don’t know, I was actually thinking something more towards my area of expertise. Proper ways of soothing a sick human.”

The human opened his one green eye eyebrow raised, “Well I have to hear this.”

Krill waved his hand, another human gesture he had picked up, “Well I was thinking about the importance of water for humans. I mean think about it what do humans do when they are upset, tired, sick, or in pain.”

The human thought for a long moment, “Um ... sleep.”

“Before that?”

“Uh, well, personally, a hot shower.”

“That’s it!” the human looked over at him curiously, “No other species I know of does that. Give a human the ability to soak themselves in warm water, and they will spend hours doing it. They do it for pain, sickness, stress, relaxation, social bonding. Literally everything. It doesn’t even have to be a LOT of hot water, just a shower or a shallow pool. Not to mention that you just love the use of water as a soothing agent in all generalities You consume hot water flavored with powder. You like to LOOK at water, tell me that humans don’t go to specific places to look at lakes or waterfalls or streams. You even put them in your buildings with fountains and things. Humans love water.”

THe human shrugged, “I mean yeah, probably because we are like 70% water ourselves plus warm water increases blood flow, AND if you get in the water than you can ignore gravity for a bit and relax. It isn’t a mystery.”

“Accept for the fact that humans also love the SOUND of water.”

The human tapped his foot absently, “Ok, that’s fair…. I love space but….. Do I miss the sound of rain.”

“Exactly!” Krill exclaimed, “You like the sound of destructive storms, some of you even fall asleep to them. Doesn't that seem strange how humans like falling asleep to the sound of the most powerful destructive forces on the planet. Waterfalls, the ocean, a storm, and all of them water themed. I'm thinking about advising other medical professionals o use these sounds in clinics to soothe humans .”

Sunny had stopped stroking the human’s hair to turn the page of her catalogue, and in annoyance he prodded at one of her extra arms. With a roll of her eyes she began stroking his hair again returning back to her reading, “Not that I disagree with you, but based on that logic, humans also love fire. Think about it, we have to use fire to heat our water, we love lighting things on fire, we use it as a decoration, we keep it in our homes, and I would argue that there is nothing more soothing than the sound of a fire.”

“Yes but not to the degree of water.” Krill argued, “you wouldn’t much like the sound of a forest fire would you because that’s TOO much fire, but yet you insist on playing in the ocean which is the definition of TOO much water. Plus, despite your love of lighting your drinks on fire, you generally aren't supposed to ingest it.”

The human gesticulated his hand’s wildly now invested in the conversation, “Ok fine, but how about air. We need air more than we need air. We breath it in, heat it up, move it around. I like the sound of wind against the outside of a house. We sit in rooms specifically built to heat up the air because it makes us feel good.”

“ok , but you don’t like it when a hurricane blows down your house.”

“I don’t like tsunamis either, or flooding. Everything on earth can be dangerous.” Th human pointed out.

Krill sunk a bit further into the beanbag. He was definitely going to need help getting up now. This would probably be a good source of restraints for some species seeing as you needed a fair amount of muscle and coordination to escape one of these death traps, “Your house burns down, blows over, or is hit by a rockslide and you are upset, but you can’t tell me that if the town floods you won't find some human canoeing down the street.”

The human shifted his head to the other side, allowing Sunny to pet him at a different angle, “I won’t deny it.”

Krill tried to sit up, and failed, “All I am saying is that humans love water. You even like it frozen, you play in it frozen, slide down mountains of the stuff, throw it at each other, put it in your drinks, strap knives to your feet and dance on it. Humans love water, and that needs to be acknowledged as something useful for non-human dealing with humans. Even that tiny piece of knowledge will help you understand how humans relax and pass their time.”

The commander frowned thoughtfully, “I mean that’s one way to talk about ice skating, but back to your point, our earth is like two thirds water, it would be really inconvenient if we DIDN'T like it.”

“Do you dispute my logic?”

“No, I think you may be exaggerating though.”

Above him, Sunny snorted, not entirely an accurate approximation of the human vocalization, but it was close,” This coming from the man who routinely takes 40 minute showers.”

The human glowered up at her, “You were listening this whole time?”

She turned the page of her catalog, “bits and pieces, and I agree with the doctor.”

The human waved a hand at her, “Oh shut up and look at your guns.” Sunny smiled and flipped another page.

To summarize my point, humans, having come from a world that is covered in nearly 2/3s water, it is the single most important elemental compound in all its forms and can be utilized in one way or another to sooth, please, or socialize with a human. As a doctor I highly recommend its use in the context of extra-medical therapies.

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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malphiguswrites · 4 years

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ANALYSIS of The School of Athens

Denada Permatasari. 6 November 2017.

Fig 1.0 Fresco of Raphael's Scuola di Atene (The School of Athens), 1509-11 (courtesy of the Musei Vaticani).

The School of Athens by Raphael Sanzio, or more accurately, Raphael and his studio. This elaborate wall mural is a fresco in the Stanza della Segnatura, Vatican. Measuring 584 cm in length, this artwork was made in 1509 and finished in 1511.

I think that this artwork is a phenomenal masterpiece. From a technical standpoint, it is no debate that the scale and the mastery of human figures are impressive. Every single aspect is carefully planned, apparent from the detail of the backdrop to the individually distinctive figures present in the artwork. The symbolism in this work represent the core of Philosophy through subtle means of the wall division, the composition, down to the character’s body language, where they are situated, and even from the clothes they wear. In this essay, I discuss what all of the previously-stated elements mean and how they come together to give this artwork its meaning, and its significance.

Before delving into analysis of the artwork’s components, it is important to discuss why this artwork was made. This wall mural is part of Pope Julius II’s commission to decorate his private library (Zucker and Harris). The room has four sides, with each side representing the four branches of human knowledge at the time of High Renaissance: Philosophy, Divinity, Poetry, and Justice. The School of Athens, located on the east wall, represents Philosophy and is directly facing Disputa, representing Divinity (Zucker and Harris).

This placement, and the fact that this artwork is no less impressive than Disputa, can be seen as one of the defining attitudes of the High Renaissance: secularization. Here, the religiosity and philosophy are seen as equals, alongside poetry and justice. This is a big step from pre-Renaissance times when religion tended to dominate and rule above all aspects of life (qtd. in Toman iii).

Fig 1.1 Imagined horizontal and vertical lines of The School of Athens.

Moving on to the aspects of form of the artwork itself, I will first talk about its composition. In Fig 1.1, it is shown from the horizontal blue line that “… below the vaulted architecture and celestial backdrop, [Raphael] set the assembly of philosophers in the lower half field, on earth” (Rosand). This means that Raphael deliberately separated man, who is concrete and earthly, from the abstract.

Fig 1.2 Areas of interest in The School of Athens, as labeled with numbers.

Next, the vertical red line between the two figures in the center of the artwork (Area 1 in Fig 1.2). This imagined line serves as a divider for the opposing school of thoughts in Philosophy: Plato, the older man on the left, represents the ethereal and the abstract. He represents the belief that “… there is a realm that is based on mathematics, on pure idea that is truer than the everyday world that we see” (Zucker and Harris). Whereas Aristotle, the younger man on his right, represents the belief “… on the observable, the actual, [and] the physical” (Zucker and Harris).

This divide can be seen from the other characters’ placement in the artwork. In Area 2 (Fig 1.2), which is Plato’s side, are a cluster of people who are also concerned who explains the world from an abstract, cosmic lens (Rosand). This is contrasted by the group of people (Area 3) in Aristotle’s side, who explains the world through factual and concrete means (Rosand). I shall explain how I know the aforementioned observations through analyzing the elements, aspects of form, and the identity of each figure that makes up The School of Athens.

Fig 1.3 Zoom in of Plato and Aristotle.

First, the two main figures (Fig 1.3) in the center of the fresco (Area 1). They are separated from the others by the arc frame of the background. I have said before that the older man on the left is Plato, and the younger man is Aristotle, Plato’s pupil. They are also holding their own books, Plato with his Timaeus, and Aristotle with his Ethics. This section of the essay will highlight how the subject matter and design elements reflect the meaning of the divide in schools of Philosophy.

Plato, representing the ideal and the abstract, wears purple and red. “… The purple, referring to the ether, what we would call the air, [and] the red to fire, neither of which have weight” (Zucker and Harris). Whereas “Aristotle wears blue and brown, that is colors of earth and water, which have gravity [and] weight” (Zucker and Harris). This contrast between the abstract versus the concrete is further compounded by their body language: Plato, pointing up to the heavens, to the realm of high thinking, his bare feet just merely planted on the ground. Aristotle, his hand splayed downwards to the ground, wearing gilded sandals, feet firm on the tiles (Rosand).

Second, the homage to ancient antiquity, apparent in the pagan sculptures of Apollo on the top left and Athena on the right (Rosand). The design of the architecture, with coffered barrel vaults, pilasters, et cetera, is ancient Roman design as well. The god and goddess of the ancient times only reinforce the conceptual divide of the artwork, with Apollo, the god of music and poetry, things that are appropriately platonic (Rosand). Then there is Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom, who is more involved in the practical affairs of man (Zucker and Harris).

The architecture design, which is equal throughout the artwork, represents the unifier in this artwork full of divides. They serve as a reminder that even though there is a fundamental divide in perspective, all of them are still under the same branch, Philosophy (Rosand).

Fig 1.4 The labeling of figures in Plato’s side using capital alphabets from A to F.

Third, the groups of people on Plato’s lower side in Area 2 (Fig 1.2). These figures are labeled with letters (Fig 1.4). Though the identities of many of the figures here is much debated, since Raphael did not leave any notes or annotations, let’s agree for the sake of discussion that:

A: Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher and mathematician who is arguably in the center of this group gathering. He sought to discover the mathematical principles of reality through musical harmony and geometry (Rosand).

B: Boethius, a Greek philosopher who wrote The Consolation of Philosophy (Lahanas).

C: Anaxagoras, a Greek philosopher that correctly explains solar eclipses and the presence of small particles (atoms) in all objects (Agutie).

D: Parmenides, a Greek philosopher who founded the method of reasoned proof for assertions (Agutie).

E: Hypatia, an Alexandrian philosopher, mathematician, and astronomer. She is considered to be the most famous student in the School of Athens (Lahanas).

F: Ibn Rushd (Latin: Averroes), a Spanish-Arab philosopher who wrote commentaries on almost all of Aristotle’s writings and major works of Plato (Agutie).

All of the figures in this cluster are concerned with the cosmic, bigger-picture truths, echoing Plato’s ideals. Moreover, two figures in this cluster deserve special attention: Hypatia and Ibn Rushd. Hypatia’s placement in Plato’s side is reminiscent of Plato’s principle of women’s equality (Fakhry), in fact she is the only woman in the whole artwork. On the other hand, Ibn Rushd’s placement in Plato’s side is curious, since he is more associated with Aristotle’s works more so than that of Plato’s (Fakhry). Even so, Raphael must be commended for including a woman as an equal with men and a Muslim figure, which was seen as radical and out of line in his era.

Fig 1.5 The labeling of figures in Aristotle’s side using capital alphabets from G to J.

Fourth, the group that represents Aristotle’s way of thought in Area 3 (Fig 1.2), concerned with the physical and the concrete. They are labeled with letters (Fig 1.5), with identities as follows:

G: Euclid, a Greek mathematician. He is the father of geometry and is seen bent down, applying geometry with a compass to a tablet, flat on the ground (Rosand).

H: Zoroaster, a Greek astronomer, founder of Zoroastrianism, holding a celestial orb (Agutie).

I: Ptolemy, the royal astronomer, who was the first to believe that all heavenly bodies revolve around the earth (Agutie).

J: Raphael, the artist himself in black, and his mentor in art, Sodoma, in white (Lahanas).

The figures in Aristotle’s side are arguably more interesting than Plato’s, as there is more diversity in terms of the principles that the figures represent. Of course, they are all still united in their more earthly and human-centric concerns, but the inclusion of the artist’s self-portrait is the main highlight of this area of interest. For Raphael to include himself is a historical statement, as stated by Dr. Beth Harris, “… here, the artist is considered an intellectual, on par with some [of] the greatest thinkers in history” (Zucker and Harris).

Fig 1.6 Zoom in detail of Heraclitus.

Last, but certainly not least, is the lone figure of Heraclitus (Fig 1.6), an ancient philosopher that sits and thinks alone, separated from the others (Area 4 in Fig 1.2). What makes this figure stand out is the fact that he is a deviation from the orthogonal perspective of the whole artwork. Apart from Diogenes, who is sprawled on the steps, also by himself, Heraclitus feels out of place in the artwork. This is because Heraclitus was actually added after the fresco was finished (Rosand).

At this point, I will discuss the personal aspect that Raphael weaved throughout this commission; Heraclitus’ figure is one of them. The model for this ancient philosopher is actually based off of Michelangelo, and this insertion, this acknowledgment of the older artist is very curious in of itself. The personal antipathy between them is well known; Raphael, the sociable and cultured artist was intensely disliked by Michelangelo, the brooding and melancholic artist, who accused him of stealing his ideas from the Sistine ceiling (Hale 274). For Raphael to include him in his impressive fresco can be said as an homage or a tribute to Michelangelo (Rosand). This speaks of Raphael’s respect and regard for the other artist despite their differences.

Heraclitus is not the only figure who is modeled after someone else –in fact, most of the major figures in this artwork are modeled after someone else- take, for instance, Plato who is actually modeled after Leonardo da Vinci (Toman 336), an artist that highly inspired Raphael. For him to model Plato, the central figure of his fresco and one of the greatest thinkers of all time after Leonardo is a significant honor to his person. Another instance is Euclid. The geometer is actually modeled after Bramante the architect, Raphael’s friend and professional companion (Toman 336). His tribute for Bramante doesn’t end there; the architectural design of the background is actually inspired by Bramante’s architectural design and vision (Martindale 83).

All of the analysis of the components, and how even the smallest things contribute to a greater meaning, is the main reason why I think this artwork is phenomenal. If anything is to be obvious from my essay, is the amount of planning, effort, and thoughtfulness that Raphael did for this fresco. For me, personally, there is nothing more impressive than a successful execution with an underlying concept that is well thought of in every step of the way. In this, I am very pleased with Raphael’s technical skill to make something so legible on an intimidating scale, yet still retaining a degree of thoughtfulness that is apparent in every single dot of his fresco.

To further compound this, I am not the only one who thinks that this artwork is extraordinary. The School of Athens has received high regard from the moment of its completion, even until the present day. The Stanza della Segnatura has been a famous tourist attraction because of the wall frescoes that Raphael made, and The School of Athens is arguably the main attraction in the Vatican Palace.

Most importantly, however, is Raphael’s own influence on the High Renaissance, and what follows after. As Johan Huizinga, a Dutch art historian has stated:

The Renaissance marks the rise of the individual, the awakening of a desire for beauty, a triumphal procession of joyful life, the intellectual conquest of physical realities, … a dawning of consciousness of the relationship of the individual to the natural world around him (qtd. in Toman i).

To attribute all of those values of the Renaissance to just The School of Athens is optimistic at best and naïve at worst, but it is worth acknowledging that The School of Athens is one of the main highlights of the High Renaissance, and certainly sums up the entirety of the High Renaissance. In this light, Raphael deserves much acclaim, as written by Luitpold Dussler in his book Raphael:

Raphael has left an indelible mark on art. He revolutionized portrait painting … and epitomized the style which has come to be known as High Renaissance. … Perhaps Raphael’s greatest achievement is that he appeals on all levels and makes something profoundly deep and complex appear simple and comprehensible (qtd. in Hale 275).

In conclusion, the value of Raphael’s The School of Athens is that it is invaluable. It was significant by the time it was completed, and is still significant even today, more than five hundred years later. More than just a room decoration, it speaks of the general perspective of Philosophy during the early 16th century. Raphael’s ability to condense such a difficult, multi-faceted discipline into a thoughtful work of art that can be appreciated by anyone, at any level, is a testament to his remarkable technical skill and conceptual knowledge.

I will end my essay with one conviction: that The School of Athens is one of the definitive artworks of the High Renaissance, and I hope that the significance of attributing an entire period to one single artwork is realized and acknowledged.

Works Cited

Zucker, Steven and Beth Harris. “Raphael, School of Athens.” Smarthistory. 27 Jul. 2014. 3 Nov 2017.

Toman, Rolf. Introduction. The Art of the Italian Renaissance. Germany: Könemann, 1995. Print. i, iii, 336.

Rosand, David. “Raphael’s Fresco of The School of Athens in the Stanza della Segnatura of the Vatican Palace.” Columbia University. New York. N.d. 3 Nov 2017.

Lahanas, Michael. “The School of Athens, ‘Who is Who?’ Puzzle.” Hellenica World. N. d. 3 Nov 2017 <http://www.hellenicaworld.com/Greece/Science/en/ SchoolAthens.html>.

Agutie. “Raphael (1483-1520): The School of Athens, 1509. Interactive Map.” Geometry from the Land of the Incas. 13 Jul 2014. 3 Nov 2017 <http://agutie.homestead.com/files/school_athens_map.html>.

Fakhry, Majid. Averroes (Ibn Rushd) His Life, Works and Influence. London: Oneworld Publications, 2001. N. p.

“Raphael.” Encyclopaedia of the Italian Renaissance. Ed. J. R. Hale. Lindon: Thames and Hudson,1981. Print. 274-275.

Martindale, Andrew. Man and the Renaissance. London: Paul Hamlyn Limited. 1966. Print. 83.

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bemused-writer · 4 years

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VNC Chapter 44 Analysis

Well, I think the main takeaway most people had with this chapter is that Vanitas is a lot less collected than we all thought. And I completely agree. XD Clearly, I've given this fellow too much credit in my fanfic.

Anyhow, it almost goes without saying that we learned a lot about Vanitas in this chapter, but we also learned a surprisingly large amount about Roland, so let's dig in.

The first thing that struck me as noteworthy was Noé's complete and utter overreaction. We already knew that he never really had to do things for himself with Louis and Dominique constantly taking care of him when he was young. For example, Mochizuki pointed out that they always helped him clean his room, and he is now terrible at being tidy. In other words, Noé was a touch spoiled. This is relevant because it explains why he has never had to take care of an ill person once in his life, so if Vanitas says he can't continue on then, by Noé's logic, he really must be dying.

Thus, it's completely fair when Manet and Nox wonder if these two are children; they're both certainly acting like it. XD

Still, Noé is coming from a place of genuine concern; he's never seen Vanitas act like this just like we haven't.

Before I move on, one thing I'd like to point out is the difference between Noé and Luca's reaction to the people they care about acting oddly. Luca immediately goes to someone he knows Jeanne trusts--a friend in other words. Meanwhile, Noé goes to the nearest authority figure he can find: Count Orlok. I think this is telling on both their parts.

Luca is someone who was raised to be the authority figure. While he doesn't like it even remotely, he knows he has to solve things for himself. He probably also knows the value of going to someone you know you can trust; he's surrounded by the aristocracy and he knows you can't trust just anyone with delicate information.

Noé has blind faith in authority figures on the other hand. He obeys Teacher without question, accepts Ruthven's presence in his hotel room as something he has a right to do in chapter 19, and he always listens to Dominique no matter what. Both she and Teacher are the ones that choose what his clothes look like according to the extra in the back of volume 3.

I suppose what I'm getting at is that Noé is very comfortable, accustomed even, to other people making decisions for him. He's not the one who has chosen most anything in his life, and I think this attitude started when he was very young. Certainly being sold as a slave and accepting that whoever bought him would be his "master" was a mindset he probably had to develop to survive and he may not have fully grown out of it. I'm sure it was only compounded by being surrounded by people who doted on him and protected him and made sure he never even had to make a decision for himself. His attitude is born of a very strange mix of neglect and indulgence.

In other words, Noé has a lot of potential problems he needs to sort out, and I'm sure his independence is going to be one of them.

Getting back on track, all of this is to say it's not surprising Noé goes to Count Orlok when he can't find Amelia. In theory, he could have tracked Dante down, someone Vanitas sort-of trusts, but he doesn't. It could because it would have been too hard to find him, but personally I don't think it even crossed his mind. He doesn't know what to do; someone else is supposed to handle these matters.

As for Vanitas, he is a complete wreck in this chapter. XD I think Vanitas is the kind of character that likes to act like he's calm, collected, and definitely knows what he's doing. It's even easy for us, the readers, to think the same because he has the book, he has the powers, he knows all about vampires when even the vampire protagonist doesn't, so it would make sense.

But all of that ignores the fact that Vanitas has also shown some definite signs of being slightly unhinged in awkward social situations from the very start. How does he befriend Noé? He stalks him all across Paris. How does he react when Noé gets closer to understanding him? He draws a dagger at him and tells him to go away. Alternatively, he calls him a slur and tries to make him leave. How does he handle Dominique accusing him of loving VotBM? He goes on a full-blown rant in the middle of a vampiric ball and generally makes a fool of himself.

So, the fact that he's a complete mess when he realizes he has genuine affection for someone is actually a lot less surprising in this context. Vanitas is trying to be someone he isn't. In other words, all that pompous know-how is a complete facade. 8D

So, in line with him making a fool of himself at the ball, he proceeds to make a fool of himself in front of Orlok, Nox, and Manet and, frankly, Noé.

Manet understandably wasn't expecting this information, but what's more interesting is that it confirms the fact that Vanitas really hadn't told Noé a thing after Gévaudan. The fact that he has now snapped and is telling everyone in the whole room shows just how affected he was. But what's also interesting is that he only starts to talk about this when there are other people. He couldn't just tell Noé himself. Perhaps because he thinks Noé won't have any advice?

And this is the definition of oversharing. XD Even Noé looks like he's wondering what on earth Vanitas is saying.

Honestly, this is more the kind of awkward, wildly inappropriate confession I might expect from Noé except that Noé would have the sense to only say something like this to someone he trusts, like when he told Dominique he thought Vanitas's blood smelled good. Still not the most tactful thing, but a whole lot better than describing, in some detail, the torrid affair you're having to a room full of people you barely know. 8D

As a side note, this pretty much confirms what I was saying in my last meta: Vanitas didn't enjoy Jeanne drinking his blood previously, at least not all that much. This time he did, and that definitely shows a shift in their relationship. As for how all of that works, it could be because Jeanne is fonder of him as well. Perhaps a vampire's toxin is in tune with that kind of thing? Unfortunately, we just don't know enough at this point to say.

Regardless, it means that when Vanitas went on that long rant to Jeanne in chapter 12 about how great it felt when she drank his blood and how they were definitely compatible, was yet more lying. It's kind of, possibly, true now though, hence his freakout.

Anyway, Orlok and co. decided Vanitas's "emergency" really wasn't that much of an emergency and they were understandably kicked out. I like that they were apparently very careful with Murr and included some treats for him as well. They really do love that cat. Knowing what we kind of know about Murr now I have to wonder: is this some kind of elaborate manipulation...?

But Noé, apparently still taking Vanitas's malady very seriously despite all that weird stuff about Jeanne, is not content with being kicked out.

I suppose the point here is that, despite knowing what Vanitas said was improper, he still isn't quite catching the gravity of things, and he's still convinced Vanitas is dying rather than having an existential breakdown over love.

Meanwhile, Vanitas is walking around in a haze in Paris, thinking about Jeanne, her smile, and the promise he made her. We get a look at his face, and I think it actually gives some pretty solid insight into what he's thinking:

He clenches his fist, his face is flushed, and he looks worried, distressed. The problem here isn't just that he cares about someone and doesn't know how to deal with it. No, it's actually much worse than that: he cares about someone and he promised he'd kill her if she ever lost herself and Vanitas, cursed with a certain understanding of just how bad things can get, knows he might actually have to keep this promise, a promise he may now regret making.

So, he's flustered because he cares, frightened because he cares, but also terrified because he knows things can only go badly from here. And, more than anything else, he knows he might actually be in love.

It only makes sense he'd think of Noé's original question here. It's not just that Noé is the one who's been trying to figure all this out (not Vanitas), but Vanitas knows Noé is the reason he's gotten into this much "trouble" in the first place. Opening up, caring about people, making promises he might not be able to keep... He is definitely blaming Noé for all of that. I wouldn't be surprised if he finds a way of blaming Noé for his romantic entanglement as well, which may be the actual reason he's avoided talking to Noé: he blames him, but he's also supremely embarrassed.

And in the midst of all this confusion and pain who is added to the picture? None other than our one and only Roland!

I think that might be my favorite image of the whole chapter. XD

Earlier in this meta I mentioned that we almost learn more about Roland in this chapter than anyone else, and it's thanks to Vanitas's exchange with him that we do!

The first thing we learn about Roland is something we've already had inklings of in earlier chapters: he's far more tactful and calculative than he would have people believe. He refers to Vanitas as "Vincent" and says Olivier is his coworker. Immediately, he has established that, for one, he's very good with details. He remembers exactly how Vanitas introduced himself and Noé when they first met. Furthermore, he knows Vanitas likely doesn't want to get further entangled in chasseur affairs, so he lets him know that he isn't with a random friend: this is someone potentially dangerous to Vanitas.

Not that it does much good because Vanitas isn't exactly thinking clearly.

This one, singular statement from Olivier is surprisingly revealing! I'd had a headcanon that Roland has had past relationships and it turns out that is absolutely true. Apparently, Olivier not only knows about them, he doesn't care, provided Roland isn't out and about doing anything else. He doesn't say what, specifically, because Vanitas is there, but we already know he's worried about what Roland is doing with the chasseurs and whether he's going to betray the Church. Not so much because he thinks Roland is wrong, exactly, but because he doesn't want any trouble for himself.

These two have an odd relationship. XD Olivier clearly understands the way Roland is, accepts it even, but he draws the line at Roland dragging everyone else into his schemes, hence why he offered to buy Vanitas the coffee in the first place.

Anyway, Vanitas ignores all that because Olivier brought up the only subject he cares about and wants advice on: women.

This is my other favorite image from this chapter. His face is the perfect encapsulation of "What are you doing? I was just trying to get you out of trouble and now you're sitting down? You're going to stay?!" The fixed grin, the panic. This is a thing of beauty.

Naturally, things only get more awkward because that's just the trajectory Vanitas has set for himself in this chapter.

I also just want to point out that the smoking, the string of relationships, the casual dining, the flying, the actual job, all point to Roland being a fair amount older than Noé and Vanitas. Probably mid-20s about? I'm sure that he and Olivier are the same age, regardless, though potentially from different class backgrounds. Olivier is decked out in aristocratic garb and Roland is dressed for flying. That doesn't necessarily mean he's poorer, but the impression I get from him is that he's probably middle class at most. I think there was an extra that mentioned he supports his siblings? I'm not sure now.

Anyway, after those 15 minutes of awkward rambling, Vanitas finally gets around to the question he's been meaning to ask. Apparently, Roland knows all about it.

There's kind of a lot to cover in those three images. Roland has not only had past relationships, he's had several. Judging by Olivier's remark, they've all been remarkably short. One has to wonder if we're talking one-night-stand kind of short or it-lasted-for-a-week-before-my-preaching-became-too-much kind of short. Maybe Mochizuki will enlighten us someday. XD

But the most interesting thing is how hesitant Roland is to discuss Olivier's relationships and how Olivier doesn't even deign Vanitas's question with an answer. Yes, he's popular, but no, he's not going to talk about who he's with and neither is Roland. When Roland says "I'm one thing, but Olivier...?" it could mean a few things: he thinks it makes sense for himself to be "promiscuous" but the thought of Olivier being the same is impossible. Personally, I find this the most likely for now. Alternatively, it's one thing to casually discuss his own affairs, but gossiping about a friend goes against his code of honor and Vanitas is kind of asking a personal question. There is also a third possibility that Roland can't imagine Olivier with a woman. Olivier's popular, but he's not interested. Naturally, Roland wouldn't announce that to the world and it isn't particularly relevant to Vanitas's question anyway.

Whatever the reason, it subtly demonstrates how well the two know each other.

Vanitas finally gets to the heart of things, and it fits in with what I thought happened:

This really was the first time Vanitas saw Jeanne for who she was, as an actual person, and not just someone he can mess with. Before that particular moment, he truly knew nothing of Jeanne. Now, he's finally had a glimpse of her actual personality and it's incredibly genuine, forthright, and strong. Of course, now that he sees that, how can he not find her at least a little appealing? And how can he not now be forced to reckon with his past behavior? He was horrid, there's no getting around it. Regret isn't something Vanitas handles well along with, apparently, emotions in general. Hence his next dilemma:

And at long last, Noé is finally seeing what the problem actually is. He didn't piece it together at Orlok's, but he's now hearing it from Vanitas directly. It's no wonder Noé surreptitiously sits away so he can listen. This whole time he's been wanting Vanitas to explain things to him, not just about the cold, but about love as well.

Roland is trying to be helpful here but, let's be honest, Vanitas is dropping a lot on him out of the blue, so I think it's understandable that he's a little confused right now.

And we finally get to the heart of the whole thing: Vanitas thinks he's a disgusting person. Someone like Jeanne definitely shouldn't love him because the only kind of person who could love him is someone who is as awful as he is and he's now been confronted with the fact that maybe Jeanne isn't. There relationship has a ton of issues, don't get me wrong, but Vanitas isn't seeing that; he's seeing that Jeanne has been kind to him, seems to care about him, and that definitely isn't the kind of person who would love him. Not genuinely.

The whole thing gets even more confusing if we take into account that his decidedly romantic moment with Jeanne reminded him of VotBM. They weren't having a romantic moment, but the discussion of affection, of hugs, were directly intertwined. Until we know more about VotBM I can't say if she was motherly or if things were decidedly more questionable there, but Vanitas must have gotten his twisted ideas about relationships from someone. Did VotBM have a bad relationship with someone? Did his past trauma simply color everything else in his life?

Olivier and Roland are understandably concerned, but it's Noé here that really stands out. He's pieced something together about Vanitas and now understands him a little bit better. After each arc, he and Vanitas have had a small conversation that brings them closer, but so far they haven't had that in this particular arc. My guess is it will be in the next chapter or the one after (since this one was labeled "part 1") and the arc will be wrapped up for good. There is, genuinely, a lot of stuff they need to cover about Gévaudan, Vanitas's relationship with Jeanne, and what they're doing next. There's also the small matter of Noé's injuries....

So, these two are going to have a lot to cover and Roland knows that right now, what Vanitas needs, is someone to talk to that he properly trusts. I almost wonder if he timed his dramatic God speech just so Noé could chase after him to begin with.

This really reads as "Go to him, Gilbert" and that amuses me.

Roland knew Noé was there the whole time (he's observant as we've mentioned) and he knows he and Vanitas have a powerful bond. He himself was inspired so much by it he changed his views on vampires completely. So, logically, he knows Noé needs to talk to Vanitas.

But Roland's motivations are still a bit harder to describe.

This much makes sense. The fact that he's had a string of lovers and doesn't seem particularly dejected by his constant breakups makes it obvious he wasn't particularly attached to any of them. He speaks about love as if he knows what it is, but he's never been that invested in a person to our knowledge. The only person we've seen him spend any length of time with is Olivier and they have a complicated relationship at best. Are we to assume he at least has an attachment to him? He threatened him before, but he also seems fond of him, and Olivier at least seems comfortable around Roland in turn.

And yet, Roland speaks of attachment as if it's a foreign thing to him. We know he has family, we know he has Olivier, he even has God, but like Olivier said: he believes in himself as a follower of God more than God Himself. Perhaps it's best said that the only thing we really know about Roland is that he's confident in himself, his own morals and beliefs.

And I think that's how Vanitas fits into Roland's worldview to a certain extent. Vanitas is a project of sorts: Roland wants to save him, very much in the religious and physical sense, and he knows Vanitas is in danger every day at least physically. Perhaps he worries for his soul as well, not necessarily that he's going to Hell, but that he has lost himself and could "shatter" at any moment.

Oddly, Noé isn't brought up in this conversation whatsoever even though the person Roland showers with blatant affection is Noé, not Vanitas. This could very likely be because he knows Vanitas isn't receptive to that kind of thing; it's a tactic that works great with Noé, but definitely not with his companion and Roland is above all a calculative person.

And that's all I've got for now! I do like that Roland and Olivier dropped their serious conversation about an actual Vampire Eradication Unit to deal with Vanitas's love life. That's pretty supportive. XD Also, there's a Vampire Eradication Unit that Gano is a part of and if that isn't one of the main plot points of the next arc it will be soon enough.

Anyway, I look forward to seeing how Jeanne handled things. It looks like she's done at least moderately better than Vanitas, but most people would. XD

#vanitas no carte #vnc meta #vnc spoilers #Bemused's post #long post

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all1e23 · 5 years

Text

Apricity [One Shot]

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Comes to you for comfort after a hard mission, but he doesn’t feel like he deserves you.

Warnings: It’s a bit dark and depressive. Bucky has some dark thoughts about his own self-worth so just to be safe I’m throwing up a TW. It ends sweet though so it’s not all angsty.

A/N: This is for @teamcap4bucky 2K celebration. It’s late, and I’m an awful person, but you deserve it and so much more! Have I mentioned I love you lately? This idea came from @littledarlinhavefaithinme. Thanks for the idea, love! Send me love because I’m needy.

Prompt was: I told you, don’t fall in love with me. I’m not worth it.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam though! Thanks!*

Apricity: The warmth of the sun in Winter.

For all the good that came with being a hero, the bad seemed to come tenfold. There were times when tough calls were needed, no last-minute plays coming to the rescue, and not all the good guys were making it back. Bucky hated those missions. Well, he hated all missions if he was honest, but he hated those the most. He didn’t want to fight if he was given a choice. The last thing Bucky wanted to do was pick up a gun and cause more carnage. His hands have spilled enough blood for multiple lifetimes, but he wasn’t given a choice this time – there was never really a choice.

The Quinjet was quiet on the way back to the compound. It had been a victory, sure, but at what cost? Innocent lives were lost, several of their own were gone or gravely injured, and Bucky had taken on the burden of putting down as many as he could so others wouldn’t have to. He was already covered in red – his soul blackened by the past death and destruction he had caused, there was no reason anyone else needed to live with that. He could carry that weight for them.

He could carry it for you.

The only bit of relief Bucky had from this mission was knowing you were back at the compound ignorant to everything that went awry, for now, at least. You were still healing from wounds you gained on a mission earlier in the week, and Steve had insisted you stay behind after Bucky threatened to spill childhood secrets to Tony. Steve agreed in record time. Anything to keep you away from all this for as long as possible. Bucky was no a fool; he knew you saw your fair share of death, but somehow, you’ve managed to stay you – kind and generous and all things good. He didn't know how and he didn't want to ask.

The second the fight was over, the only thing Bucky wanted was to be back in bed with you -- floating safely in all that good.

Your door was left cracked when you were alerted the team was on their way back; your permission. Your way of letting Bucky know it was okay to come in. No one knew what you shared with Bucky, and no one needed to know. Though you had a feeling, Nat knew somehow. Whenever Bucky stood too close or stared a moment longer than he should, she was watching with the ghost of smirk haunting her face. If Nat did know she never said a word, and you were grateful. You wouldn’t know what to say if someone asked anyhow. Neither of you needed to define what you were to each other. Stolen moments, gentle caresses and delicate whispers were tangled around whatever this was, and you were okay with that.

You knew you loved him, and you were fairly sure he loved you – that was all you needed.

No declaration had been made, but you hoped Bucky knew how you felt. There hasn’t been some grand gesture or suggestion of love except that you let him take you apart nearly every night you were both lucky enough to be in the same city. Your brain argued with your heart because sex didn’t always mean love. You knew your head was right. It didn't, but with Bucky, it felt a lot like love. Those were little moments when you hoped you understood, like leaving your door open -- you hoped he knew it was more than a door.

A few hours passed before Bucky stood in the entrance to your bedroom covered in dirt and what looked to be an ungodly amount of blood. As awful as the wish was, you prayed, none of it was his. He stepped forward and closed your door behind him, unable to meet your eyes. It had been harder than you thought it seemed. You padded across your room, leaving your blankets and book abandoned on your bed, the only sound filling the heavy air between was the faint patter of the rain hitting the windows.

Words were rarely needed with you. It was one of the things Bucky loved most about being with you. You always seemed to simply know what he needed and, more importantly, what he wanted – because he would never voice his wants. What right does he have to talk about the things he desires? After everything he has done?

No, he doesn’t deserve to have the things he wants, and he wanted you. He wanted you possibly more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

The softness of your hand being slipped into his pulled him from the dark depths of his head that were dragging him down hard. Bucky was silent as he followed you into the bathroom and stood there in the quiet calm that only your presence brought him. The sound of the shower overpowering the rain that was falling outside, let him know what you had planned. Bucky slowly began to strip down with your help, and a moment of panic rushed over him when he realized he would be tossing his grimy uniform on your clean floors. He was marring your life with his dirt yet again – he hated that he kept bringing all that he was to your door and dumping it all at your feet.

For some reason, he couldn't comprehend, you picked his garbage up every single time. You dropped his gear to the floor and kicked it towards the hamper with a shrug as if you could read his mind. It was just a rug. You could get another one, and you didn't care if he was the cause. It didn’t take much, and you were tugging him into the shower with you. The thin shirt you had on was thrown onto the pile that was gathered in the corner of the bathroom – this wasn’t your first difficult mission, and it wouldn’t be your last.

Water trickled down Bucky’s shoulders and back as you held him under the warm spray. Showers were always first. He needed to wash away the dirt and heaviness he carried with him after days like today. You both stayed wrapped around each other until he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, and you knew he was okay enough to untangle yourself from his arms, but you never went far. He needed you close, and you liked being able to reach out and touch him at any moment.

The adorable blissed-out face he made when you washed his hair wasn’t bad either.

Bucky slipped under the sheets in your bed after drying off and throwing on a pair of old sweats he kept in your drawers. He let you pull every fuzzy blanket you owned around the two of you and then settled between your legs, half on top of you with his head on your chest and arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if you were keeping him afloat. It wasn’t uncommon after a hard mission. You kept him grounded – his hook in the deep and cloudy waters. The rain outside had quieted enough that you were able to pick your book back up and begin to read to him in melodious murmurs. Bucky didn’t know what book it was, and he was so lost he couldn’t follow the plot, but he liked listening to your voice.

A comfortable haze settled over you both filled with soft hums, the warm glow from the candles you had lit earlier in the day, and the low moans that would spill from Bucky’s lips when your nails hit that perfect spot on his scalp. You made it through three chapters before he began to stir and fiddle with the blankets thrown over you both. The moment you felt a tender kiss being pressed to your chest, you set your book down and glanced at the clock on the wall. Four hours without a word. Not terrible, but not great either.

“Why do you keep letting me in here like this?” Bucky whispered against you, hot breath tickling your skin. If it had been a sleepy morning together, you might have giggled at the feel, but the night was still dark. You pushed a strand of damp hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear so you could see his beautiful face. Guilt and doubt were eating him up and clouding his usually kind, glittering eyes.

“Because I love you,” you said with ease.

Bucky turned his face toward your palm and nuzzled your soft skin – skin that wasn’t scarred and tainted like his. Yours hasn’t held a gun to someone’s head, your hands haven’t taken a life, and there were no haunted memories that come from the things your hands have done. Someone as good and kind as you shouldn’t waste your love on someone like him. He was not worth any of this.

“I told you, don’t fall in love with me. I’m not worth it,” Bucky said, voice tight, pained from the gravity of... everything.

“You are worth so much more than you think you are, Buck,” you whispered. “Everyone has things they struggle with–”

“You don’t. You’re –”

“Don’t. I’m far from perfect. I lie for a living. I have watched other agents and friends die because I wasn’t fast enough or good enough to protect them. I’m poisoned too. I fell in love with all of you, Bucky. The things you have done in the past do not make you unworthy of my love. If anyone in this world deserves love, it’s you.”

Bucky pressed another kiss to the bare skin of your chest that was peeking out of his shirt and returned his head back to your chest, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. You waited for a few beats to make sure he didn’t have anything else to add before plucking your book up from where you had let it rest, intent on picking up where you had left off.

“I love you, too,” Bucky breathed quietly before you had a chance to resume.

Out of all the things he has whispered to you over the last year, that was your favorite by far. You grinned and bent forward, placing a kiss to the top of his head. You didn’t bring attention to it or question his confession. Your admission was still lingering in the air, and it didn’t need to be stated again – he knew how you felt. Your free hand fell back in hair, and he melted into you as your hushed voice began to recite the words off the page in front of you.

Words weren’t always needed, but you wouldn’t mind hearing those for the rest of the forever.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barns fanfiction #teamcap4bucky #teamcap4bucky2kcelebration #tw: negativity #tw: negative thoughts

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fierce-little-miana · 4 years

Text

Meetings

Here is my first entry for the @saitofest 2020 following the prompt Fond Memories | The Best of the Best, beta-read by the lovely and frighteningly fast and efficient @fleeting-blossom-of-the-dawn (thank you so much). Thank you to @impracticaldemon for organizing and @queengurako for helping with the information.

This is a onceagainbutwithfeeling fic about Saito arrival at the Shinsengumi. Technically this is canon compliant and historically ‘informed’ (just like your favorite period dramas are). Enjoy!

(and if I made a mistake in the way people addressed each other just know that I am sorry, I did my best)

Edo was not as loud as Saito remembered it. The city was as heavy as the summer heat, but it was more bearable than it had been two years ago, like a wound which had closed. People’s accent wasn’t singing to his hear but it wasn’t accusing him either. He found himself capable of walking as he had done in Kyoto, one step after another toward a goal. Yet, he still caught himself stopping for a few seconds, looking for something familiar. Nothing came, even the cicadas chirping sounded foreign.

“And this our main courtyard,” Inoue said pointing to a square in front of them. “Kondo-san likes to organize contests here.”

Saito nodded to his guide who was smiling at him. The moment lasted a bit longer than it was comfortable and he saw the man’s muscles around his mouth twitch, the smile never disappearing. Had he expected another answer? Before Saito could even try adding something to show proper respect to Inoue the man declared with some affability.

“Well I guess you would rather want to meet everyone Saito-kun? Follow-me.”

This time the man turned away without waiting for an answer. Saito went after him in silence letting his eyes take the courtyard in a bit more. It was very neat. He had heard conflicting things about the Shieikan dojo, not all of them good, but everyone agreed on the fact that it brought together unusual men. He was glad discipline wasn’t disregarded nevertheless.

“You studied with Yoshida-san in Kyoto, right?”

Saito’s attention snapped back to Inoue. Tentatively he answered:

“Ha…”

“You didn’t want to continue there?”

He felt no ill intention behind the question, just honest curiosity.

“I was unable to attain the Menkyo Kaiden,” he answered while putting his right hand on the hilt of the sword he carried on the same side.

It was Inoue’s turn to answer with only a nod. He did so after a short instant of consideration. Then he kept leading him within the compound. Saito wondered what it must feel like, to welcome in one’s school someone who had failed somewhere else. Surely no-one wanted a student like that. Still as long as the man was ready to guide, he was willing to follow.

Saito could now hear voices. Two more turns on the engawa and they arrived in front of a room whose shoji were wide open to try to create some sort of draught to fight the summer heat.

There was a dozen of men in the room, training with vigor. Two of them were directing the session. The first instructor was the largest and the loudest of the two. He wore a green bandana and was correcting a group of three men at the same time. Saito was first taken aback by his conduct, but he quickly realized that the advice he was giving was clear and appropriate. The trainees looked attentive and eager to satisfy his demands. His stance was quite good too. If his apparent physical strength was matched by enough kenjutsu talent he could be a dangerous opponent.

But it was the second instructor that drew his attention. He didn’t look much older than Saito but clearly he was the one who most set the trainees on edge. He walked through the room, apparently relaxed, but his pass had something feline about it. Something that didn’t bode well for anyone crossing him. And indeed, when a trainee started to get distracted and sloppy the man would stop in front of him and fix him up until he was somehow capable of correcting his form. This was not an efficient teaching technique by any means, but Saito had to recognize that the instructor was razor sharp in noticing mistakes and lack of discipline. His green eyes seemed acute to his surroundings. Unsurprisingly they had fixed upon Saito when he appeared in full view of the room.

He wasn’t completely hostile but not far off and didn’t even bother to hide it. Still Saito did not budge. There was something about this man that gave him the urge to face him.

“Hey Gen-san, who is the visitor?” a red-haired man sitting at Saito and Inoue’s right asked.

“This is Saito-kun,” the man kindly answered. “He has expressed interest in our dojo.”

“Hajimemashite Saito-san. I am Harada Sanosuke and this is Todo Heisuke.” he said while pointing to his neighbor.

“Hajimemashite!” the latter exclaimed.

Saito slightly bowed to both of them while answering in the same manner. He felt a certain curiosity coming from both men but none as potent as the one of the green-eyed instructor.

“Sano-kun are Toshi or Isami around?” Inoue asked.

“No, they are out on business and Sannan-san is with them. Considering the hour I doubt they will be back before tomorrow, probably enjoying the pleasure of a night out.” Harada added with a grin.

Inoue sighed before turning toward Saito.

“I am sorry Saito-kun, I thought you could meet and discuss with them today. Would you mind coming back tomorrow?”

“I don’t mind Inoue-san,” Saito turned toward Harada and Todo. “It was nice meeting you two.”

“Same,” the red-haired warrior simply answered.

His guide started to walk back toward the entrance and Saito followed. As long as he was in view of the training room he could feel the green eyes of the instructor on him, unyielding.

* * *

“What was that about this afternoon?” Shinpachi asked while entering to join them for dinner.

This made Souji focus. Finally, a conversation that might be more interesting than Heisuke complaining about his seasoning. The Shieikan dojo did receive unannounced visitors from time to time but they were rarely coming with good intentions. Having an unknown left-handed warrior walking in the compound was probably bad news for Kondo. What was Gen thinking showing him around?

“No idea,” Sanosuke answered while moving to the right to leave some room for Shinpachi to seat. “I wanted to ask Gen-san but he apparently left to run some errands just after escorting our ‘guest’ out. He hasn’t come back, so I guess he joined Kondo-san and the others.”

“Come on! You talked to them, you know at least more than Souji and I do.”

Sanosuke’s eyes went to Souji who nodded his support to Shinpachi. The more they knew the better. If people thought they could just scout Kondo’s dojo before making trouble they were gravely mistaken. Sanosuke sighed:

“He wasn’t much of a talker, we introduced each other that’s all.”

“That’s an understatement,” Heisuke intervened. “The guy was gloomy!”

“You might want to take a page from his book. I doubt he was much older than you and yet he had so much more gravity,” Sanosuke added with a smile.

They were getting distracted. Who cared about the gravity of the man? It was just another way to add to his humorless demeanor. Souji couldn’t care less about that.

“And was our dark and not-so-tall stranger’s name?” he asked while putting his chopstick down.

“Saito.”

Souji snorted. So, mister mysterious was indeed surrounded by secrecy. Did he think anonymity would protect him from retribution? That was an issue though. It would be complicated getting info on him with just his name.

“That’s extremely convenient,” he finally commented.

“Is it?” Heisuke asked. “How many left-handed Saito could be running around Edo?”

“Are you serious? Do you realize how many people have this name? I know at least three left-handed Saito. One of them is working in tea shop. She is taller than you shrimp.”

Heisuke tried to send his elbow into Sanosuke’s side for that. The red-haired man only had to move a little to dodge it. They kept fighting even as Shinpachi said under his breath:

“That’s odd.”

Souji’s attention was entirely on him now. Shinpachi looked absorbed in his thoughts. While noisy the man had a head for politics that sometimes lead him into long and apparently captivating conversations with Kondo. Souji never took part in them but he stayed around. Currently Shinpachi had the same look on his face that when I was about to make some decisive point. Unfortunately for Souji he was staring to get pulled into Heisuke and Sanosuke’s oral jab.

“Keep talking Shinpachi-san.”

His three companions went silent. Their eyes were on him. They were uneasy. People, expect Kondo, sometimes looked at him like that. Sometimes he knew why sometimes he didn’t. His voice tone was probably off. In any case that served him well.

“It is nothing Souji, don’t worry.”

Ah, Shinpachi was already recovering from whatever he had felt. Usual. Souji had to act quickly because if Shinpachi decided to ignore him no matter what he would then do, even more deliberate things, it would just slip on the man. But before he could add anything it was Sanosuke who surprisingly came to his help:

“Just tell him. He has the look on his face that says that he won’t leave us alone until he knows whatever he thinks you are hiding. He is going to be an ass all evening.”

Well he didn’t exactly like the formulation, and he had to fight back the urge of retorting something - he didn’t know what but something - but it worked.

“It is just that it reminded me of something. One or two years ago two idiot kids ended up dueling each other. One of them was a Hatamoto’s son and the other one the son of a lowly samurai. Surprisingly it was the Hatamoto’s son who was killed. Long story short it was quite a scandal and the lowly samurai son was forced to flee Edo.”

“And?” Souji asked.

“I think the kid was left-handed.”

Souji found nothing to say to that, nor was Shinpachi ready to tell him more. Slowly the evening meal went back to its normal rhythm. While the chatter grew around him, Souji considered what he just learned. It didn’t mean that mystery man was the lowly samurai son of course. It was probably just a coincidence. And even if it wasn’t, having killed someone wouldn’t give his adversary an edge on him.

He forced his hands to open. At some point they had contracted on his hakama. No, whoever this man was, whatever he had done, it wouldn’t change a thing.

* * *

Saito came back. This time no-one was there to welcome him. He had hesitated at the gate. Wandering alone, and armed, in a dojo was a bad idea. Especially considering that he didn’t come to make enemies. Still he had been told to return today, so he entered.

He was able to come right to the middle of the Shieikan, where he had witnessed the training session the day before. Today the shoji were closed and it felt as if he had failed something. The cicadas were singing again making the day look like a distorted repeat of his first visit. He didn’t particularly like hot weather, but he usually endured it without a complaint. Right now, it was more suffocating than ever. He would have been lying if he said that at this moment he didn’t consider turning back, yet he called out:

“Pardon me, is anyone in?”

There was a movement on his right. The four men he had noticed in the training room yesterday were standing in the shadow of an engawa. The green eyes were once again fixed on him.

“Who is it?” the instructor asked looking like he had very much been waiting for him. “Did he come to challenge our school?”

Saito was expecting that. There was apparently no-one else around despite Inoue’s word. Probably they had made their decision before he came back and let their best students handle him. He saw no point in correcting their wrong assumption. The man was spoiling for a fight. The three others weren’t as antagonistic, but they didn’t look ready to stop their peer either. Well he was used to that. He could give the man what he was looking for.

Facing his silence, the green-eyed instructor joined him. His mouth was smiling but his eyes weren’t, and his informality had an edge to it.

“Follow-me.”

He went into the training room with him, the three other men following behind. Today the room was mainly closed which gave it a stifling atmosphere. His interlocutor gave him a bokken and they faced each other. The green-eyed man was still smiling when he started speaking again with faked candor in his voice:

“I still haven’t asked for your name yet, haven’t I? I guess I might as well ask while you can still talk.”

“Saito Hajime,” he simply answered unfazed by the bravado of his adversary.

“Saito-kun, ne? I am Okita Souji, nice to meet you.”

His surprise and his politeness were feigned but his confidence wasn’t. Saito assured his grip on the bokken.

“Shinpachi-san, could you act as our referee?” Okita suddenly asked to the other instructor.

“Sure,” he answered with a bit of hesitation.

The man took his place before turning toward Saito, much to his surprise:

“Hey, are going to be okay? Souji’s the star student of our dojo.”

“There is no need for concern,” Saito answered and he took his stand.

Okita’s smile grew wider and he joined Saito. There was a short moment in which their bokken touched and they were only facing each other. Both of them were intensely focused and Saito had no trouble believing what Shinpachi had said.

“Hajime!”

Saito kept his stance as it was but Okita changed his guard calmly, bringing his bokken behind him. Fine he would engage.

He went toward Okita at full speed aiming for his head. His adversary seemed surprised for a split-second but managed to dodge. Saito carried on with multiple thrusts, nearly landing a blow several times. Still he didn’t manage to actually make a hit. Okita finally warded his attack off and Saito was forced to draw back.

That was unexpected but not as much as the nearly immediate counterattack he barely managed to fend off. He was good. Very good. Saito hadn’t had an adversary like that in ages, forcing him on the defensive. He took a vicious blow on his left side, several inches under the heart. It should have taken his breath away, but he gritted his teeth and put all his weight in a counter blow that allowed him to regain some edge.

The referee had screamed something that Saito barely registered. He had to focus on his adversary, thankfully Okita seemed in the same mindset. They traded several other blows, perfectly countering each other none of them managing to gain the upper hand.

At some point they came to a halt, if one could call it that. Their bokken were pushing against each other and both of them were putting as much of their weight in their confrontation as they could without risking unbalance. Okita was panting as much as him but he still surprisingly managed to speak:

“You are stronger than I expected. No one’s been able to dodge my thrusts before.”

“You are the first person I fail to defeat in my first move.”

Okita smiled more earnestly this time, a bizarrely gratifying sight. Unfortunately for Saito his adversary was considerably taller than him and his superior size ultimately gave him the advantage in their current confrontation. He was once again thrown a few steps backward and they started giving and repelling blows. Someone else was screaming now. Saito didn’t recognize the voice and had no time to try to.

Suddenly Shinpachi and Todo were on Okita. Saito barely managed to take a step back in surprise before Harada caught his right arm. It took an enormous effort from Saito to break his fight like that, but he recognized an immediate request to stop when he saw one. He went still trying to find his breath back. In front of him Okita was struggling against the two men who had more or less physically restrained him. His eyes were still fixed on Saito.

Now that he was a bit more able to take his surroundings in Saito noticed that two men had arrived, one of them looking quite angered by what he saw but it was the other one who spoke:

“You were quite impressive!”

The compliment surprised him. He wasn’t used to this. He took two more breaths in before messily answering with a question:

“I fight using a left-handed stance, does that not bother you?”

His interlocutor seemed surprise, as if he hadn’t even noticed it. It was the other man, the one with the long black hair, who reacted. Somehow his comment seemed to have made him angrier but strangely not at Saito:

“Whether you use a right-handed stance or a left-handed stance, it doesn’t change the fact that you are strong.”

Saito was struck dumb. He had never expected that, maybe a grudging welcome, but certainly not at total acknowledgement. The men were talking in front of him. He had to focus to listen to them.

“He is the boy Gen-san told us about. I wanted to test him, but I think this won’t be necessary, don’t you think Toshi?”

“Indeed, I don’t think it will be necessary Kondo-san,” the man with the long hair answered with a smile on his face.

Kondo-san? So this man was the head of the Shieikan dojo. Saito knew he was supposed to bow to him but somehow he did not manage to. His attention was fixed on the man with the long ponytail.

“So, would you follow us uhm?” Kondo asked.

It took Saito a minute to realize that the man was talking to him. He was supposed to introduce himself. By the time he had actually intellectualized this Okita was answering for him:

“This is Saito Hajime-kun.”

“Would you follow us Hajime-kun? We have things to discuss.”

Kondo and the other man started to lead the way out of the training room. He wanted to follow. He wanted it so bad he might have never wanted something as badly in his entire life. But he couldn’t. Maybe if he started moving again all of this would disappear. He would again be the left-handed warrior no-one wanted to be associated with no matter what.

Someone gave him a friendly slap in the back. He was forced to take a step forward not to fall.

“Welcome Hajime-kun, I am looking forward to sparring with you again,” Okita said with a wicked grin while going after Kondo and the other man.

Everything was still here. The training room, his uneven breathing from the impromptu duel, Harada, Shinpachi and Todo next to him, Okita, Kondo and the black-haired man in front of him. The welcome was new. It was a good change.

#saitofest #hakuouki #hakuoki #saito hajime #okita souji #and a lot others #and yes it is canon compliant #just because you have suspicions that your best friend has already killed someone doesn't mean that you know for sure

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nev3rfound · 5 years

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unwinding : b.b

brief summary: a lazy sunday spent with bucky

requested: nope, it was an old piece I had written on a different blog and wanted to revamp it and share it as it was super fluffy word count: 1.7k warnings: none

* avengers writing so far *

Feeling the heavy weight of the duvet on top of me I feel safe and secure from the gentle rain that drizzles outside against the windows, the gentle pattering as we remain comforted inside. Lifting my arm I gently remove his cool metal hand from my chest and proceed to tug the duvet in an attempt to free it from his grasp.

I mumble as I pull, hoping to allow myself a more generous amount of the king sized quilt. But all I receive in response is a groggy grumble and the sound of shuffling.

Turning over I face his back and lift my fingertips, rubbing it lightly as his shirt clings to his back. I lean in closer, my lips brushing against the curve of his ear. “Share.”

He groans, and tugs a hold of it tighter. I sigh and turn to lie on my back instead. “It’s Sunday. Lemme sleep.” He mutters, and moves closer to me, his foot rubbing against my leg.

Glancing at the alarm clock on my bedside table the dull light attempts to illuminate the time. 6:49am. “I can’t help it. Work brain is on.” He turns over, facing me now.

I can’t help but chuckle at his appearance. The images I used to see of his slicked-back hair, now wild and pointing in all directions due to its length. He blinks slowly, the world slightly blurred in his perspective and probably for the better this early.

“Then turn it off, doll?” He raises the left side of his mouth, unsure if he said the right thing or not.

I smile and snuggle closer to him. His legs wrap around mine, and I curl into his warm embrace.

We stand in the kitchen, opposite ends doing different jobs.

Music plays on the ancient radio we got when we first moved in, a housewarming gift as it were from Steve to remind Buck of old times when music was a lot simpler. During mornings like these Bucky always has his choice of music, often opting for something from his teen years before the war to wake him up.

I can’t help but sway from side to side as I pour the boiling water into the mugs, steam rising into my face as my baby hairs cling to my forehead.

Behind me I can hear the sizzling, the muttered swear words of annoyance, and the self-praise when it works well. I turn on the sound of my name being spoken questionably and attempt to conceal the giggle with my hand.

He holds out the frying pan, with the runny, gloopy mess that he tried to make into a pancake. I walk over and kiss him on his stubbly cheek. “Swap?” I ask, and he sighs in defeat.

Sitting in front of the TV we watch the news play, but keep the volume low as we discuss the week we just had. All the places he went and what the team have been up to, how I managed to keep on top of admin back in the compound whilst he was gone. Sometimes we’ll just sit and gossip about Steve and Natasha, or comment about old memories that have us in stitches.

“These are fuckin’ good.” He comments with his mouth full of sugary pancakes as he picks up his glass of orange juice, swirling the remainder around to add acidity to the overbearing sweetness.

“Well, I saw what had been done, and knew how to make it better.” After hearing my comment Bucky feigns pain, covering his heart and falling back into the sofa. “I love you really.” I laugh, and he sits back upright.

I watch as he places his plate down on the floor, along with his drink. He shuffles closer, taking my plate and rubs his hands along my thighs. “I love you too.” His lips close in on mine, and I smile into it.

Upstairs I can hear him reading aloud, slowly but surely having more confidence in his own voice once again.

After everything, Bucky lost the chance to learn about arts and literature, so when we have the chance he’ll sit in the spare bedroom, painted a soft yellow and read to himself. Sometimes it could be hours of hearing a muffled voice stuttering, and others it might be a few minutes before he slams the door in frustration.

Sometimes I sit outside, lean against the door. But once he opened it as I zoned out into a daydream and fell beneath his feet. From then on I was told to just sneak in, not pry.

The words on the page of my book begin to blur as my eyes feel heavier. I lean over from the armchair to check the weather. “Bucky?” I call out and hear him reply from his private space. “Wanna go by the park?”

He doesn’t reply, and I return to reading my book.

Suddenly, the floorboards creak from upstairs and he runs down. In his left hand are his shoes that he slips on, pulls his jacket up onto his shoulders and slips his glove on before looking over to me. “Ready when you are, doll.” He smiles as I shut my book, and pick up my shoes and coat.

Laughing he tries to push me higher, “I’ll smack you in the face!” I yell in fear, but part of me feels that childish joy as we remain the only two in the entire green space.

“It’s worth the risk to see you laugh this much.” Though he remains with his back turned to me, I believe he can sense the wide grin that spreads across my face.

I continue to enthusiastically kick my legs backwards and forwards, fighting against gravity. “Join me.” I tell him as he moves to the sidelines and I pass him in a fast blur.

Within minutes he is almost at my height, swinging away with all his might. “We gotta jump, yeah?” I nod eagerly and begin to eye the patch of grass in front of the concrete surface beneath our feet.

“On the count of three,” I yell out to him, and he begins to countdown.

As he reaches three I leap, for a second I feel weightless before I crash down. My ankle scrapes the tarmac, but my hands land on the dewy grass.

Back inside we sit on separate armchairs, blankets covering us and the radio turned up to sound through the house.

We discuss our ambitions, what life might be like if the Avengers were to fall apart ever again. Sometimes I’ll sit and listen as he unveils information about his past he’s too scared to admit aloud, and in those times I move out of my armchair and sit beside him, refusing to leave.

It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve heard the same conversation over the years, we listen and pitch in as if it was the first time the words rolled off of our tongues.

It never ceases to amaze me that even now, despite everything he’s still got dreams. As he explains his hopes for the future, us in this house joined by a series of mini versions of ourselves, pets and life everywhere. “I know it seems dumb, but I just want to give you the best life.” He lowers his hands to his lap, a half grin makes an appearance as he glances over, the dim light illuminating the love in his gaze. “But what ‘bout you doll, tell me your dreams.”

Then, when I discuss mine it feels like a dedicated audience is before me. He’s listened to me talk about the same dreams, but the things I always wanted to do as a child often feature. I explain the ambitions that aren’t possible, and he’ll remind me he’s proof of the impossible. He shuffles forward in the armchair, resting his head in his hands as he smiles, nodding in agreement and pitching in occasionally.

“I know it’ll happen. You have this, this drive. I wish I could describe it to you, as I know you can’t see it, you don’t believe it’s there. But I can see it when you talk, your eyes light up. Your smile becomes brighter, then you finish and doubt it.”

I stand up and walk over to him, and sit on his lap and wrap my arms around him. “Why are you so supportive. You know how unrealistic that idea is.”

He takes a moment to compose an answer as he holds my legs under his arm, keeping me stable.

“Someone has to believe in you, and I will always be that person. I don’t care how outrageous it is. You could tell me you want dinosaurs to exist again and I’d encourage you all the way.”

“Jurassic Park taught me not to dream of that. I was traumatised as a child by that.” I zone out and shake my head, he laughs and brings me in closer. “I’ll get you to watch it at some point, Buck. You’re probably as old as the dinosaurs, right?”

Outside the damp day is clouded by the night sky. Velvet replaces the cotton as stars prick the sky so delicately. “I think you’d be that one.”

We sit on the balcony, a blanket over the both of us as I sit between his legs. I point to constellations I learnt as a child, and he told me tales of myths and legends he’d read about.

“Why don’t you tell me a new story, one I haven’t heard before.” I glance up to him and his brows furrow, deep in thought.

As he returns to a small smile on his face, his eyes meet mine. “How about when my parents met?”

Closing the balcony doors I lock them. All the lights are off throughout the house, leaving the fairy lights surrounding our bed. We both get undressed, changing into fresh pyjamas and climb underneath the sheets.

I turn to face him and wish him goodnight.

He reaches over, turning the lights off and holds me close as I shut my eyes, listening to the sweet nothings he whispers as another Sunday comes to a close.

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theomnilegent · 5 years

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2019 Upcoming YA Fiction With Transgender, Nonbinary and Gender Non-Conforming Characters!

My last list focused on LGBTQA Fiction with female-led characters. There aren’t many of those this year that also happen to have transgender characters, so I’ve decided to put all the novels covering this topic in one list. It’s unfortunate there aren’t as many stories about transgender characters, let alone #ownvoices stories, but we can all hope that in the next year we’ll see even more! There are a few coming out stories, and a couple of romances in this batch of 2019′s LGBT fiction.

Below you’ll find titles, summaries, and goodreads links. Warning for mentions of transphobia and transphobic violence.

The Hand, The Eye & The Heart by Zoe Marriott Zhilan was assigned female at birth; despite an unusual gift for illusions, they know they will live out their life in the perfumed confines of the women’s quarters. But when civil war sets the country aflame, Zhilan is the only one who can save their disabled Father from death on the battlefield. By taking his place. Surviving brutal army training as a male recruit – Zhi – is only the first challenge. Soon Zhi’s unique talents draw them into an even more perilous fight, in the glittering court of the Land of Dragons, where love and betrayal are two sides of the same smile. The fate of an Empire rests on Zhi’s shoulders. But to win, they must first decide where their loyalty, and their heart, truly belongs.

Zenobia July by Lisa Bunker Zenobia July is starting a new life. She used to live in Arizona with her father; now she's in Maine with her aunts. She used to spend most of her time behind a computer screen, improving her impressive coding and hacking skills; now she's coming out of her shell and discovering a community of friends at Monarch Middle School. People used to tell her she was a boy; now she's able to live openly as the girl she always knew she was. When someone anonymously posts hateful memes on her school's website, Zenobia knows she's the one with the abilities to solve the mystery, all while wrestling with the challenges of a new school, a new family, and coming to grips with presenting her true gender for the first time. Timely and touching, Zenobia July is, at its heart, a story about finding home.

In The Silences by Rachel Gold When did life get so dangerous? Kaz Adams just wants to read comic books with her best friend, Aisha Warren. And maybe get up the nerve to ask her out, if Kaz turns out to be a gender that Aisha’s into. Kaz figured she’d be the target of violence for her gender nonconformity, but a fatal police shooting thirty miles from their town opens her eyes to the realities of racism. She watches as pressures at school and in their social group mount against Aisha. Kaz would try to stop a bullet for Aisha if she had to, but she has no idea how to stop the waves of soul-crushing disapproval and judgment. When she talks to the other white students and adults in her area, they don’t seem to understand what she’s talking about. Aisha has helped Kaz find a place in the world, but that was about Kaz’s gender expression. Kaz can’t magically change the world for Aisha, but something has to change in their school system or she’ll lose the girl she loves.

I Wish You All The Best by Mason Deaver When Ben De Backer comes out to their parents as nonbinary, they're thrown out of their house and forced to move in with their estranged older sister, Hannah, and her husband, Thomas, whom Ben has never even met. Struggling with an anxiety disorder compounded by their parents' rejection, they come out only to Hannah, Thomas, and their therapist and try to keep a low profile in a new school. But Ben's attempts to survive the last half of senior year unnoticed are thwarted when Nathan Allan, a funny and charismatic student, decides to take Ben under his wing. As Ben and Nathan's friendship grows, their feelings for each other begin to change, and what started as a disastrous turn of events looks like it might just be a chance to start a happier new life.

My Brother’s Name is Jessica by John Boyne Sam Waver's life has always been pretty quiet. A bit of a loner, he struggles to make friends, and his busy parents often make him feel invisible. Luckily for Sam, his older brother, Jason, has always been there for him. Sam idolises Jason, who seems to have life sorted - he's kind, popular, amazing at football, and girls are falling over themselves to date him. But then one evening Jason calls his family together to tell them that he's been struggling with a secret for a long time. A secret which quickly threatens to tear them all apart. His parents don't want to know and Sam simply doesn't understand. Because what do you do when your brother says he's not your brother at all? That he thinks he's actually... your sister?

Something Like Gravity by Amber Smith Chris and Maia aren’t off to a great start. A near-fatal car accident first brings them together, and their next encounters don’t fare much better. Chris’s good intentions backfire. Maia’s temper gets the best of her. But they’re neighbors, at least for the summer, and despite their best efforts, they just can’t seem to stay away from each other. The path forward isn’t easy. Chris has come out as transgender, but he’s still processing a frightening assault he survived the year before. Maia is grieving the loss of her older sister and trying to find her place in the world without her. Falling in love was the last thing on either of their minds. But would it be so bad if it happened anyway?

Everything Grows by Aimee Herman Fifteen-year-old Eleanor Fromme just chopped off all of her hair. How else should she cope after hearing that her bully, James, has committed suicide? When Eleanor’s English teacher suggests students write a letter to a person who would never read it to get their feelings out, Eleanor chooses James. With each letter she writes, Eleanor discovers more about herself, even while trying to make sense of his death. And, with the help of a unique cast of characters, Eleanor not only learns what it means to be inside a body that does not quite match what she feels on the inside, but also comes to terms with her own mother’s mental illness. Set against a 1993-era backdrop of grunge rock and riot grrl bands, EVERYTHING GROWS depicts Eleanor’s extraordinary journey to solve the mystery within her and feel complete. Along the way, she loses and gains friends, rebuilds relationships with her family, and develops a system of support to help figure out the language of her queer identity.

Kings, Queens, And In-Betweens by Tanya Boteju Perpetually awkward Nima Kumara-Clark is bored with her insular community of Bridgeton, in love with her straight girlfriend, and trying to move past her mother’s unexpected departure. After a bewildering encounter at a local festival, Nima finds herself suddenly immersed in the drag scene on the other side of town. Macho drag kings, magical queens, new love interests, and surprising allies propel Nima both painfully and hilariously closer to a self she never knew she could be—one that can confidently express and accept love. But she’ll have to learn to accept lost love to get there.

What Makes You Beautiful by Bridget Liang Logan Osborne knows he likes boys, but has not come out to his family or at school, and no one knows that he likes to sometimes wear girls' clothes and makeup. When he starts at a school for the arts he finds a wider range of gender and orientation being accepted. Logan is attracted to Kyle, who has gay dads. But Kyle is straight. Logan finds he doesn't like the way gay boys treat him, and a disturbing hookup with a boy who is fetishistic about Logan's half-Asian background makes Logan even more confused about what he wants and who he is. Encouraged and supported by his friends at school, Logan experiments with nail polish and more feminine clothes in public. Logan begins questioning his gender and decides to use they pronouns while trying to figure things out. Logan meets a classmate's chosen mother, who is a transgender Chinese woman, and begins to come to terms with their gender identity. Realizing they are not a gay boy, but a transgender girl, Logan asks for people to call them Veronica. As a girl, does Veronica stand a chance with Kyle?

#trans literature #transgender literature #lgbtqa literature #lgbt #book recommendations

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lgbtqareads · 4 years

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15 Books I Want To Read That are Releasing in the Next 6 Monthes

Every six monthes, I am excited to see the new LGBTQA+ YA books of the next monthes and while thos December, I was a little weirded out to not find them on B&N Teen previews, I was happy to see that Dahlia Adler posted her lists and opinions at lgbtqreads.com. So, of course I went through and narrowed the list from 72 to 34 to 15, only choosing books that I felt I really wanted to read and not just fall for all the amazing synopses and covers, which let's be honest, are all truly masterpieces.

But enough introduction. Let's get into my to be bought (and read) list of the first six monthes of 2020:

We Used to Be Friends by Amy Spalding - JANUARY 7TH

Goodreads Synopsis: Told in dual timelines—half of the chapters moving forward in time and half moving backward—We Used to Be Friends explores the most traumatic breakup of all: that of childhood besties. At the start of their senior year in high school, James (a girl with a boy’s name) and Kat are inseparable, but by graduation, they’re no longer friends. James prepares to head off to college as she reflects on the dissolution of her friendship with Kat while, in alternating chapters, Kat thinks about being newly in love with her first girlfriend and having a future that feels wide open. Over the course of senior year, Kat wants nothing more than James to continue to be her steady rock, as James worries that everything she believes about love and her future is a lie when her high-school sweetheart parents announce they’re getting a divorce. Funny, honest, and full of heart, We Used to Be Friends tells of the pains of growing up and growing apart.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Relationship breakups may be heavily covered in YA, but friendship breakup stories are still few and far between. Enter the story of James and Kat, two girls who were once beyond close and now watch their friendship unravel as college nears. Things are complicated for both girls: James’s mother has left her and her father for another guy, and she doesn’t know how to talk about it, not even to Kat or her still-too-present ex, Logan. Kat’s discovering that her feelings for her new friend Quinn aren’t strictly “friendly,” and in fact, she’s realizing she’s bisexual and falling head over heels for a girl. It’s a bittersweet story to be sure, and while it definitely has its fun scenes, close moments, painful familial interactions, and tingly romance (what Spalding book doesn’t??), you’ll spend much of the book wishing you could push the characters together and say “Just talk already”…but isn’t that exactly how life goes?

My Opinion: As someone who has been through too many friendship breakups to count, this read is going to be devastating. But I put this book on my list for one reason: the synopsis made it feel so much like life that I couldn't help but feel that the story would pull me into James and Kat's universe and tear my heart into pieces. I absolutely cannot wait to have my heartbroken.

-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×-×

The Gravity of Us by Phil Stamper - FEBRUARY 4TH

Goodreads Synopsis: As a successful social media journalist with half a million followers, seventeen-year-old Cal is used to sharing his life online. But when his pilot father is selected for a highly publicized NASA mission to Mars, Cal and his family relocate from Brooklyn to Houston and are thrust into a media circus.

Amidst the chaos, Cal meets sensitive and mysterious Leon, another “Astrokid,” and finds himself falling head over heels—fast. As the frenzy around the mission grows, so does their connection. But when secrets about the program are uncovered, Cal must find a way to reveal the truth without hurting the people who have become most important to him.

Expertly capturing the thrill of first love and the self-doubt all teens feel, debut author Phil Stamper is a new talent to watch.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: This is a lovely and bighearted debut chock full of space nerdery, big dreams, new beginnings, and social media scandal. Cal’s life is completely uprooted when his dad shocks them all by being chosen for a space mission, something his family had never taken seriously as a lifelong dream. Worst of all, he’s forbidden from documenting life in the new compound, forcing him to leave his massive social media following behind. On the bright side, there’s Leon, son of another astronaut on the program and immediate thief of Cal’s heart. But when things go awry in the program and secrets are revealed, Cal will have to decide exactly what he’s willing to do to get the truth out there, and who he’s willing to lose.

My Opinion: Social Media? Media circus? Texas? NASA? First loves? And a choice that could implode Cal's life from the inside? The name Cal? Other than Texas, a state which I hate, all of this adds up to something good, hopefully so good that I can forget that Texas is involved at all. So, basically, it has to reach Red, White, and Royal Blue levels, which is the only book so far that has made me like Texas at all. But I trust that it will do well. Plus it was reviewed by 4 of authors on my queer bookshelf - Becky Albertalli, Adam Silvera, Shaun David Hutchinson, and Caleb Roehrig. Bonus points for not being a graphic novel like I feared it was.

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Only Mostly Devastated by Sophie Gonzales -MARCH 3RD

Goodreads Synopsis: Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda meets Clueless, inspired by Grease.

When Ollie meets his dream guy, Will, over summer break, he thinks he’s found his Happily Ever After. But once summer’s ended, Will stops texting him back, and Ollie finds himself one prince short of a fairytale ending. To complicate the fairytale further, a family emergency sees Ollie uprooted and enrolled at a new school across the country—Will’s school—where Ollie finds that the sweet, affectionate and comfortably queer guy he knew from summer isn’t the same one attending Collinswood High. This Will is a class clown, closeted—and, to be honest, a bit of a jerk.

Ollie has no intention of pining after a guy who clearly isn’t ready for a relationship. But as Will starts ‘coincidentally’ popping up in every area of Ollie’s life, from music class to the lunch table, Ollie finds his resolve weakening. The last time he gave Will his heart, Will handed it back to him trampled and battered. Ollie would have to be an idiot to trust him with it again.

Right? Right.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Grease goes gay YA in this rom-com about two boys whose dreamy summer fling comes crashing into a harsh reality when our lead, Oliver, transfers to Will’s school thanks to a family crisis-driven move, only to find out Will isn’t Out and isn’t about to be. As Ollie finds his own ways to settle in, he can’t seem to shake Will’s presence. But whether there’s a future for them remains to be seen. This sophomore novel is warmly delightful and delightfully warm, with some tears on the side for the aforementioned family crisis, and some hard-earned queer solidarity is the icing on the cake.

My Opinion: The last musical-ly queer book I read was What If It's Us? so Ollie and Will have a lot to live up to, but it gets points for getting an Instagram shoutout from Becky Albertalli herself. From the synopses, it sounds like a case of strangers to lovers to strangers to maybe friends to maybe something more and hopefully a happy ending, but what I look forward to the most is rewriting Summer Nights as I read this book.

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Super Adjacent by Crystal Cestari - MARCH 17TH

Goodreads Synopsis: Claire has always wanted to work with superheroes, from collecting Warrior Nation cards as a kid to drafting "What to Say to a Hero" speeches in her diary. Now that she's landed a coveted internship with the Chicago branch of Warrior Nation, Claire is ready to prove she belongs, super or not. But complicating plans is the newest WarNat hero, Girl Power (aka Joy), who happens to be egotistical and self-important ... and pretty adorable.

Bridgette, meanwhile, wants out of WarNat. After years of dating the famous Vaporizer (aka Matt), she's sick of playing second, or third, or five-hundredth fiddle to all the people-in-peril in the city of Chicago. Of course, once Bridgette meets Claire-who's clearly in need of a mentor and wingman-giving up WarNat becomes slightly more complicated. It becomes a lot more complicated when Joy, Matt, and the rest of the heroes go missing, leaving only Claire and Bridgette to save the day.

In this fresh and funny take on the world of supers, author Crystal Cestari spotlights what it's like to be the seemingly non-super half of a dynamic duo with banter-filled romance and bold rescues perfect for readers seeking a great escape.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Claire is a superhero fangirl, a card-carrying member of Warrior Nation. And when she finds an unexpected way (with some unexpected help) into winning an internship with the Chicago WarNat branch, it should be everything she’s ever dreamed of. But that unexpected help is proving very difficult to work with; it’s in the form of Girl Power (aka Joy), the newest hero and a pain in Claire’s butt. A very, very cute pain in Claire’s butt. But distraction or no distraction, Claire’s determined to prove herself, especially when she and Bridgette, a WarNat, who’s tired of being “the girlfriend” to an even more famous hero, decides to mentor her and they end up having to be exactly the heroes Chicago needs.

My Opinion: Two words. Super. Heroes.

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Music From Another World by Robin Talley - MARCH 31ST

Goodreads Synopsis: It’s summer 1977 and closeted lesbian Tammy Larson can’t be herself anywhere. Not at her strict Christian high school, not at her conservative Orange County church and certainly not at home, where her ultrareligious aunt relentlessly organizes antigay political campaigns. Tammy’s only outlet is writing secret letters in her diary to gay civil rights activist Harvey Milk…until she’s matched with a real-life pen pal who changes everything.

Sharon Hawkins bonds with Tammy over punk music and carefully shared secrets, and soon their letters become the one place she can be honest. The rest of her life in San Francisco is full of lies. The kind she tells for others—like helping her gay brother hide the truth from their mom—and the kind she tells herself. But as antigay fervor in America reaches a frightening new pitch, Sharon and Tammy must rely on their long-distance friendship to discover their deeply personal truths, what they’ll stand for…and who they’ll rise against.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Talley is one of queer YA’s most prolific genre jumpers, but she seems to be making herself beautifully at home in historical with this follow-up to 2018’s Pulp, again set amid a context of vital queer American history. This time around, it’s 1977, and Tammy Larson would love more than anything to come out of the closet as a lesbian, but that’s a major no-go where she lives. Her only outlet is to write “letters” to the activist Harvey Milk, at least until she’s matched with a pen pal to whom she can write letters for real. Sharon makes for a much better companion than Tammy’s diary, and she can sympathize, given her brother is gay and feeling all the same misery in the wake of Anita Bryant’s leading to a successful repeal of their protections. Together they’ll find their own brand of activism and learn to fight back against a world of hate.

My Opinion: Ever since reading Annie On My Mind by Nancy Garden, I have been craving more historical sapphic girls. With Pulp in my Kindle library and this in my future shopping cart + Casey McQuiston's time traveling book in 2021, I am bound to get a fix for that craving soon. Hopefully, it will also cure heartbreak.

Loveless by Alice Oseman - APRIL 2ND

Goodreads Synopsis: The fourth novel from the phenomenally talented Alice Oseman – one of the most authentic and talked-about voices in contemporary YA.

Georgia feels loveless – in the romantic sense, anyway. She’s eighteen, never been in a relationship, or even had a crush on a single person in her whole life. She thinks she's an anomaly, people call her weird, and she feels a little broken. But she still adores romance – weddings, fan fiction, and happily ever afters. She knows she’ll find her person one day … right?

After a disastrous summer, Georgia is now at university, hundreds of miles from home. She is more determined than ever to find love – and her annoying roommate, Rooney, is a bit of a love expert, so perhaps she can help.

But maybe Georgia just doesn’t feel that way about guys. Or girls. Or anyone at all. Maybe that's okay. Maybe she can find happiness without falling in love. And maybe Rooney is a little more loveless than she first appears.

LOVELESS is a journey of identity, self-acceptance, and finding out how many different types of love there really are. And that no one is really loveless after all.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Oseman’s crossed the pond before with Radio Silence, so this American’s fingers are crossed she’ll do it again with her newest, about a girl named Georgia who’s struggling with the fact that she’s eighteen and has never had so much as a crush. She’s sick of people thinking she’s broken or weird, and it isn’t like she isn’t into romance; she’s just not into it for herself. When she gets to university, she thinks maybe she can “fix” things with her roommate’s help. But what if it turns out there’s nothing to fix, and Georgia’s great and perfectly capable of happiness just as she is?

My Opinion: Alice Oseman has written a-spec characters before, but it's possible that this seemingly aromantic character will be the one that I'll read first. Not to say Radio Silence wasn't amazing, I just wouldn't know. But I can't wait to find out when I read it after I read this one. And then maybe her other books too.

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Verona Comics by Jennifer Dugan - APRIL 21ST

Goodreads Synopsis: Jubilee has it all together. She’s an elite cellist, and when she’s not working in her stepmom’s indie comic shop, she’s prepping for the biggest audition of her life. Ridley is barely holding it together. His parents own the biggest comic-store chain in the country, and Ridley can’t stop disappointing them–that is, when they’re even paying attention. They meet one fateful night at a comic convention prom, and the two can’t help falling for each other. Too bad their parents are at each other’s throats every chance they get, making a relationship between them nearly impossible . . . unless they manage to keep it a secret. Then again, the feud between their families may be the least of their problems. As Ridley’s anxiety spirals, Jubilee tries to help but finds her focus torn between her fast-approaching audition and their intensifying relationship. What if love can’t conquer all? What if each of them needs more than the other can give?

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Dugan debuted with one of my absolute favorite queer YA rom-coms (seriously, if you haven’t yet read Hot Dog Girl, do yourself a favor), so I’m thrilled to see her returning with another one, this one an m/f pairing where both halves of the couple are bi (or, more accurately, one is bi and one is still figuring it out). [Jubilee] is an elite cellist with a major audition coming up and a side job working at her stepmom’s indie comic shop. Ridley works at his parents’ comic shop too, only theirs is a big chain, and no friend to the little guy. Which makes it a little difficult when the two meet at a comic-con prom and immediately hit it off, despite their family feud. I’ll take Romeo & Juliet with a much happier ending and heaps of bisexuality any day, wouldn’t you?

My Opinion: Romeo and Juliet retelling + comic convention prom + bisexuality + indie comic shops = a recipe for me to like a book.

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When You Get the Chance by Tom Ryan and Robin Stevenson-MAY 5TH

Goodreads Synopsis: [Edited] Cousins Mark [from the East coast of Canada] and Talia [from the West coast of Canada] go on a road trip to Pride in Toronto as they search for love and adventure and uncover family secrets along the way.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: One of the things I’m often asked to recommend is books that feature mlm and wlw solidarity, and I especially love giving answers that show it not just in characters but in authorship. Here, two Canadian rock stars of queer YA come together with a story about cousins named Mark and Talia who are reunited from their respective Canadian coasts after a death in the family and decide to take a road trip together to Toronto so Talia can see her non-binary partner and Mark can get to Pride. The two don’t have much in common, and they’ll have to let Mark’s little sister tag along, but they both know some kind of magic awaits them in TO, and they can’t wait to get there.

My Opinion: There is too much to love about this book. Canada! WLW or WLNB/MLM solidarity! Canadian road trip! Road trips in general! Canadian Pride! PRIDE IN GENERAL! A nonbinary s/o! TORONTO, CANADA! And family secrets! Plus it gives off You Know Me Well vibes, and that's one of my favorites.

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The Extraordinaries by T.J. Klune - MAY 5TH

Goodreads Synopsis:

Some people are extraordinary. Some are just extra.

Nick Bell? Not extraordinary. But being the most popular fanfiction writer in the Extraordinaries fandom is a superpower, right?

After a chance encounter with Shadow Star, Nova City’s mightiest hero (and Nick’s biggest crush), Nick sets out to make himself extraordinary. And he’ll do it with or without the reluctant help of Seth Gray, Nick’s best friend (and maybe the love of his life).

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Klune’s doing double duty this year (or maybe even more? Damn, it’s hard to keep up), following up an adult contemporary fantasy with his first entry into YA, about a boy named Nick who happens to be the Extraordinaries fandom’s most popular fanfic writer, and who aims to be even more extraordinary when he meets the hero he’s been crushing on. (But maybe he’s in love with his best friend, Seth? It’s complicated. It’s always complicated.)

My Opinion: What can I say? I'm a sucker for books about fanfic writers. And for best friends to lovers stories, so hopefully this is one, and not a fan-dates-hero story.

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The Summer of Impossibilities by Rachel Allen - MAY 12TH

Goodreads Synopsis: Skyler, Ellie, Scarlett and Amelia Grace are forced to spend the summer at the lake house where their moms became best friends.

One can’t wait. One would rather gnaw off her own arm than hang out with a bunch of strangers just so their moms can drink too much wine and sing Journey two o’clock in the morning. Two are sisters. Three are currently feuding with their mothers.

One almost sets her crush on fire with a flaming marshmallow. Two steal the boat for a midnight joyride that goes horribly, awkwardly wrong. All of them are hiding something.

One falls in love with a boy she thought she despised. Two fall in love with each other. None of them are the same at the end of the summer.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Allen’s been a personal favorite of mine since her subversive feminist debut, 17 First Kisses, and I’m thrilled to see her releasing her first queer YA, which basically looks like a gay Traveling Pants except not all the girls actually wanna be spending the summer together at the lake house where their moms became besties. Most of them can’t even stand their moms right now. All of them have secrets. And two of them…well, two of them are in love with each other, so one way or another it’s gonna be a hell of a summer.

My Opinion: Look, I'm going to be honest, I saw that it was co.pared to Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and I immediately added it to my list. Plus, strangers to friends to lovers? I love.

Date Me, Bryson Keller! by Kevin van Whye - MAY 19TH

Goodreads Synopsis: What If It's Us meets To All the Boys I've Loved Before in this upbeat and heartfelt boy-meets-boy romance that feels like a modern twist on a '90s rom-com!

Everyone knows about the dare: Each week, Bryson Keller must date someone new--the first person to ask him out on Monday morning. Few think Bryson can do it. He may be the king of Fairvale Academy, but he's never really dated before.

Until a boy asks him out, and everything changes.

Kai Sheridan didn't expect Bryson to say yes. So when Bryson agrees to secretly go out with him, Kai is thrown for a loop. But as the days go by, he discovers there's more to Bryson beneath the surface, and dating him begins to feel less like an act and more like the real thing. Kai knows how the story of a gay boy liking someone straight ends. With his heart on the line, he's awkwardly trying to navigate senior year at school, at home, and in the closet, all while grappling with the fact that this "relationship" will last only five days. After all, Bryson Keller is popular, good-looking, and straight . . . right?

Kevin van Whye delivers an uplifting and poignant coming-out love story that will have readers rooting for these two teens to share their hearts with the world--and with each other.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: If this book looks like the cutest, fluffiest, most make-you-melt kind of romance, it’s because it is…at least in the little romantic bubble that ensued when when Kai took advantage of a dare that requires Bryson Keller to agree to date the first person to ask him out every Monday morning for that week. But outside the bubble, the world is still wondering who Bryson Keller’s mystery girlfriend is, the one person not to shout from the rooftops that she’s got the guy. And Kai isn’t gonna be the one to tell them it isn’t a girl at all; his spontaneous request made Bryson the first and only person he’s ever come out to. But when both the answer and Kai himself are forcibly outed, he and the boy he’s come to fall for, the boy who’s only just realized he himself is gay, will have to band together and put their relationship through the ultimate test.

My Opinion: A lot of these books are comparing themselves to Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, and this one's even comparing itself to To All the Boys I've Loved Before, so it's basically setting me up for disappointment, but I will admit, I am judging this book by it's cover, and that smile is too cute to resist.

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I Kissed Alice by Anna Birch - MAY 26TH

Goodreads Synopsis: For fans of Simon vs. The Homo Sapiens Agenda and Fangirl, I Kissed Alice is a romantic comedy about enemies, lovers, and everything in between.

Rhodes and Iliana couldn't be more different, but that's not why they hate each other. Hyper-gifted artist Rhodes has always excelled at Alabama's Conservatory of the Arts despite a secret bout of creator's block, while transfer student Iliana tries to outshine everyone with her intense, competitive work ethic. Since only one of them can get the coveted Capstone scholarship, the competition between them is fierce.

They both escape the pressure on a fanfic site where they are unknowingly collaborating on a graphic novel. And despite being worst enemies in real life, their anonymous online identities I-Kissed-Alice and Curious-in-Cheshire are starting to like each other...a lot. When the truth comes out, will they destroy each other's future?

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Sign me the hell up for literally every enemies-to-lovers f/f rom-com, but especially this one, where the girls who hate each other at Alabama’s Conservatory for the Arts have no idea they’re falling for each other online as they collaborate on a graphic novel for a fanfic site under their online identities. That’s…everything I love in book? Yep, pretty much!

My Opinion: This one is on my list because Alice is basically my favorite sapphic girl name ever after my rewrite of the song, All the Girls Love Alice. Unfortunately, neither girl is named Alice, but it does seem to involve something about Alice in Wonderland. Maybe the graphic novel they're creating is a queer retelling of the classic story? Can't wait to find out.

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Six Angry Girls by Adrienne Kisner - JUNE 2ND

Goodreads Synopsis: A story of mock trial, feminism, and the inherent power found in a pair of knitting needles.

Raina Petree is crushing her senior year, until her boyfriend dumps her, the drama club (basically) dumps her, the college of her dreams slips away, and her arch-nemesis triumphs.

Things aren’t much better for Millie Goodwin. Her father treats her like a servant, and the all-boy Mock Trial team votes her out, even after she spent the last three years helping to build its success.

But then, an advice columnist unexpectedly helps Raina find new purpose in a pair of knitting needles and a politically active local yarn store. This leads to an unlikely meeting in the girls’ bathroom, where Raina inspires Millie to start a rival team. The two join together and recruit four other angry girls to not only take on Mock Trial, but to smash the patriarchy in the process.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Kisner is three for three in putting gloriously queer YA on shelves, and I am in love with the idea of this newest, which takes the famous “Twelve Angry Men” and situates it in Mock Trial with an ace lead. Raina’s killing it at life, until suddenly she isn’t. Millie’s in a similar spot, having just been ousted from the all-male Mock Trial team. When the two pair up to start a rival girls’ team, it isn’t just their opponents they’re gunning for—it’s the whole motherfluffin’ patriarchy.

My Opinion:

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The State of Us by Shaun David Hutchinson - JUNE 2ND

Goodreads Synopsis: The State of Us is the story of Dean and Dre—the 16-year-old sons of the Republican and Democratic candidates for President of the United States—who fall in love on the sidelines of their parents' presidential campaigns.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis: Tis the year for political YAs, for obvious reasons, and this contemporary romance also does double duty of being a touching demisexual coming out story that happens to take place across the aisle. (The political aisle, that is.) When Dean, the son the of the Republican candidate, and Dre, son of the Democratic candidate, find themselves locked in close quarters, they’re surprised to find that they quite enjoy the company of someone else who knows what it’s like to be in the junior spotlight. Soon, romance sparks, which is a bit of problem considering the whole “opponents” thing, not to mention Dean still trying to figure out how to deal with and discuss the fact that he’s demisexual. But someone out there seems determined to make their problem much, much bigger, and they’ll have to figure out who wants their relationship outed, how they can make it work, and how they can reconcile a future.

My Opinion: While unfortunately this love story has no Prince from England or Wales, this book is definitely in the same genre as Red, White, and Royal Blue, though of course Dean and Dre will be more YA than our favorite international political couple. No matter what, I can tell I'm going to love the angst in this one.

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The Falling in Love Montage by Clara Smyth - JUNE 9TH

Goodreads Synopsis:

Saoirse doesn’t believe in love at first sight or happy endings. If they were real, her mother would still be able to remember her name and not in a care home with early onset dementia. A condition that Saoirse may one day turn out to have inherited.So she’s not looking for a relationship. She doesn’t see the point in igniting any romantic sparks if she’s bound to burn out.

But after a chance encounter at a house party, Saoirse is about to break her own rules. For a girl with one blue freckle, an irresistible sense of mischief, and a passion for rom-coms.

Unbothered by Saoirse’s rulebook, Ruby proposes a loophole: They don’t need true love to have one summer of fun, complete with every cliché, rom-com montage-worthy date they can dream up—and a binding agreement to end their romance come fall. It would be the perfect plan, if they weren’t forgetting one thing about the Falling in Love Montage: when it’s over, the characters actually fall in love… for real.

Dahlia Adler's Synopsis:

Love books that make you laugh, swoon, and cry? Then you are going to fall head over heels for Smyth’s debut, an Ireland-set romantic contemporary about a girl named Saiorse who’s losing her mother to early-onset dementia and is determined never to get involved with anyone as a result…until she meets Ruby, and all bets are off. The girls agree to a no-strings-attached summer of just the good parts of romance, the movie montage where the couple does all sorts of fun things as they fall in love. But when the end of the summer comes, will they be able to let go?

My Opinion: The falling in love montage is my favorite part of love stories and I can't wait to read one set in Ireland! No strings attached? I don't think so Saiorse and Ruby. If they aren't together by the end of the book, I'll be tying the strings myself and writing fanfiction for days. I've only had one relationship that would qualify for a falling in love montage, most likely because I've only been in love once, and that's... ended, so I need something to fill my heart and this book just might be it.

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Check out @lgbtqreads for more recommendations and check out the link at the top of the post for the rest of the list!

#we used to be friends amy spalding #the gravity of us phil stamper #only mostly devastated sophie gonzales #super adjacent crystal cestari #music from another world robin talley #loveless alice oseman #verona comics jennifer dugan #when you get the chance tom ryan & robin stevenson #the extraordinaries tj klune #the summer of impossibilities rachel allen #date me bryson keller! kevin van whye #i kissed alice anna birch #six angry girls adrienne kisner #the state of us shaun david hutchinson #the falling in love montage ciara smyth #2020 reads #lgbtqareads book recs

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