#this is the most baser instincts put on paper i can get

[hydrangeyes]

*desperately wanting more anime/manga based around food. Like ACTUALLY about food - if there's a plot, I'll love it. But really, it's a bonus in comparison*

#this is the most baser instincts put on paper i can get #I ADORE eating with others and seeing others try new foods/drinks irl #legit my calling when i found out about this genre #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #toriko #isekai izakaya “Nobu” #isekai shokudou #campfire cooking in another world with my absurd skill #silver spoon #Witch hat atelier kitchen #kitchen princess #yumeiro patissiere #yakitate!! japan #mixed vegetables #Different World Hospitality Meals #And more!! i haven't read all of the ones known but these are the ones I've loved through the years!! #legit i love cooking/baking anime/manga and ugh extra points if it's fantasy as well #but like extra extra points if the fantasy food stays looking like fantasy food when its suppose too!!!

[serenasoutherlyns]

The Way You Held Me Up

“Sure,” Kelly says, in acknowledgement, pulling Tracey's own vocabulary out with none of the blades.

Tracey's on an edge. Kelly keeps her away from it.

a/n: Tracey x Kelly. Casey Novak is in it too, implied Novelly. Implied redhead/redhead relationship.

Warning for suicidal ideation, depression, and eating disorders; though I did my very best to write in a sensitive way. It's more about the relationship than the struggles. Title from "This Will Be Our Year" by Dear Nora.

“I’m always worried,” Tracey says. She’s trying to wrap it up in sarcasm, tuck it between layers of professional dedication and personal concern. Yes, all of that is there, Kelly knows this, and she feels the same way. Every case she tries lodges itself in her chest, spine, the back of her tongue while they’re trying it, after all. Some stick longer. Don’t I know it, she wants to say. She wants to. Kelly isn’t just talking about this case, she’s not just talking about cases. Tracey’s always worried. More than Jack or Arthur, though the jury’s still out on Casey.

“I know,” Kelly offers, trying to be supportive. “You don’t have to knock yourself down like this all the time.” She feels the room get colder. The window isn’t open.

“Sure,” Tracey replies, and it could cut someone else. She always tries, doesn’t she.

---

“Don’t you think you should eat something?” Kelly says as she takes her coat off, already resigned to the response.

“I’m fine.” There it is. She expects it, still, she doesn’t want to hear it. Tracey isn’t fine. Kelly can’t tell if she doesn’t know that or if she’s unwilling to say it. Probably a bit of both.

“OK,” Kelly says, not trying to hide her disbelief. “I got you some Pad Thai anyway.” She watches Tracey go through a few reactions, ones she knows well from careful study. Eyes wide, then narrowed. “Extra lime, no sprouts,” Kelly continues, “I’m not stupid.”

“I said I didn’t want anything before you left,” Tracey says, almost wounded, and Kelly’s baser instincts want to crush the styrofoam cup of iced coffee she’s holding because can’t she accept something for once?

Kelly sticks to the facts. “That’s true,” she says, as she hands her the box and a fork. Tracey doesn’t touch it.

---

“I’m begging you to pass this one to Jack,” Kelly says. Begging is her last resort. She’s struggling to keep the frustration out of her voice. She knows antagonizing Tracey isn’t going to help her. It’s last minute, and late evening, they’re the only ones in the office, she doesn’t have many options, and this case feels far too relevant.

“What, you don’t think I can handle it because it’s sad?” Kelly knows Tracey knows that isn’t what she meant. The frustration builds, but melts just as fast. Kelly also knows this isn’t her fault.

“At the very least, let me take the lead on it,” Kelly says in a softer voice. Tracey blinks, but Kelly sees the tears. She always sees them.

“I’m not going to shatter,” Tracey says, but she actually looks more breakable than Kelly’s ever seen her, eyes downcast, wearing a sweater she's gotten too small for.

“I didn’t say you would,” Kelly says, and yeah, she thinks, Tracey won’t. She’s tough. She still doesn’t deserve this.

“What gives?” Tracey asks, trying to squeeze a justification out of her.

Kelly considers her words and sighs, looking in her eyes, speaking quietly. “I just wish you’d make things easier on yourself.”

---

"You need to drop this," Tracey had said, the same edge to the words. Kelly had wanted to defend herself, but every word coming to her mind, she knows, was going to make things worse. She'd only sighed, pulled her coat on with a bit more force than usual. It pays, sometimes, to be the calm one.

She doesn't need to drop it. She's right. But sure, screw her for wanting Tracey to still be alive by the end of this case. The thought sends a wave of fear, regret through her. Maybe she should've stayed, what if-- she doesn't let herself finish that thought.

She's taking her time walking to the subway, the scenic route, as it were. A newsstand; a pack of gum, resisting the cigarettes she doesn’t smoke anymore. Some scenery.

Kelly’s sure Tracey’s still upset, and, for her part, It doesn’t always feel good to be right. It’s loud in the station. The snow melting off boots turns to steam quickly in the heat. The crowd is a comfort, she’s invisible as she slips onto the subway.

So much for anonymity. She’s confronted by Tracey in a bright red coat. Messy curls and big brown eyes. Red eyes.

“Was there only one car?”

“Have you been crying?”

She looks away. Kelly doesn’t think before taking her in her arms.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Kelly holds tighter.

---

"Are you alright?" Casey asks her over coffee, in front of the courthouse, before a meeting. She isn't. "You look possessed."

Kelly scoffs. She always had a way with words. "I'm fine."

"No you're not." She also doesn't take well to bullshit.

"I didn't sleep well," Kelly says, which isn't a lie. Casey sees right through it.

"Why?" she asks. Kelly doesn't have to answer. Tracey walks past them, holding a cup. Kelly tears the edge of her coffee sleeve and watches her all the way up the steps. "Oh," Casey says. "My advice?" she says, "let it go. Dating the boss is never worth it." Kelly files that comment away for later, because she and Elizabeth hadn’t been as secret as Casey seems to think. She wants to tell her that she's misread the situation, that there's nothing to let go. Casey would know she's lying.

"I can't," Kelly whispers, her voice tired, and it's the truth. Casey realizes she's misread this.

"I'm sorry," she's softened her tone. She looks at her watch, she has to be somewhere. "I gotta go," she pats Kelly's shoulder, a bit awkwardly, "You'll figure it out."

---

“You know that you could die, right?” Kelly says. Tracey tenses. She knows she shouldn't be here, but she's so scared. Tracey didn't answer when she called. They've been talking around this for an hour outside her building as the sun goes down, on the step, in their coats; but after a longer silence than the others, she can't keep herself from saying it.

“Everybody dies.” Tracey's voice is quiet, like she doesn't want her to hear it, really.

“Most don’t kill themselves.”

“I’m not suicidal,” she replies. Kelly picks up a trace of uncertainty that makes her blood run cold.

“You have a problem,” Kelly says, even though she knows it's not what Tracey wants to hear.

“Everyone has problems.”

“Sure,” Kelly says, in acknowledgement, pulling Tracey's own vocabulary out with none of the blades. She can't keep her composure anymore. “I can't,” she says, stops herself as it comes out high pitched, hurting. She swallows it down. Tracey takes her hand, pulls her in, insistent, as she wraps herself around her.

---

"It's not a good time." Tracey's words come muffled through the door. Kelly's sure it isn't a good time, but she left her files in there and she needs them.

"I left my files in there and I need them," she says.

Tracey lets her come in. She looks tiny. She's barely meeting Kelly's gaze. Kelly wishes she knew what happened, today or in general.

Kelly shuffles through the papers on the desk, finding her own quickly. As she looks up, she catches Tracey watching her.

"What?" she asks, hoping that nothing about her appearance is wrong.

"Just watching you," Tracey says, unguarded, genuine, like she didn't think about what she was going to say. If she blushes, Kelly doesn't see it. It's unexpected-- not unwelcome.

---

“I, um,” Tracey says. Tracey, who is standing, pale, rosy, at her doorstep at 12:30 AM, says. “I’m sorry, I woke you up, I shouldn’t’ve, I’ll go,” Kelly looks at Tracey in a way that stops her mouth.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she says as she opens the door wider. Tracey nods, biting a nail. Kelly guides her inside, then onto the couch, a gentle hand against her shoulder blades. She takes her coat. Tracey is wearing street clothes, jeans and a t-shirt. She feels almost naked in her shorts and camisole, her robe. Tracey did wake her up. She can wake her up whenever she needs her, whenever she wants her.

“I was going to,” Tracey starts. She tries again, “I couldn’t sleep, and then, I, I caught myself--”

Kelly’s sure she can’t hear whatever’s coming next. Tracey doesn’t think she can get it out. A hand on her arm and Tracey doesn’t keep trying. “Tea?” she asks. Tracey accepts. Mint? she nods. Kelly can’t tell if she’s more comfortable or spaced out. She puts water on to boil and they sit there, listening to the street, the sounds the stove makes, the sounds the water makes as it starts to boil. There are no lights on in her apartment, but the curtains are open. Kelly watches the lights outside reflect over Tracey’s eyes. Neither of them says a word. The kettle whistles.

They stay wordless as the teapot is emptied. Kelly thinks, anyway. She falls asleep with Tracey’s head against her chest, with her arm around her shoulders, safe, with her, for now. She wakes up in the same place at dawn with no sign of Tracey except two more mugs on the drying rack.

---

“I’m glad you’re here,” Kelly says when she sees Tracey walk in, her words coming out more nervous than she intends. Her mind has been racing since she woke up alone; what-ifs that she tried to cut off before she imagined them. Tracey is here and she proves all those scenarios wrong. She seems astonishingly normal in her sweater, like nothing happened. But the grateful, exhausted, fierce, defiant look that Kelly is met with as soon as they’re alone in her office is enough to reassure her.

It’s sharp. The way it makes her smile is exhilaratingly familiar.

It’s the way she’d felt the day Arthur Branch had introduced the two of them. Tracey had given her seemingly endless difficult tasks, to see if she could handle it. Kelly told her about halfway through the day that, while she could finish it all, she felt it would be more efficient to have some help; and Tracey had given her an impressed, mischievous smile.

It’s the way she felt the first time they were together outside of work, drinks on a Friday, only the two of them, in a bar that played jazz over the speakers.

So, she thinks. That’s what she’s been trying to tell herself.

---

“I’m cold,” Tracey says, “Are you cold?”They’re sitting in the office right around 5 and the temperature is quite tolerable.

“Not particularly,” Kelly says, not looking up from the law journal she’s reading.

“Why am I so cold? I’m freezing,” Tracey says to nobody in particular, releasing the words into the space. Tracey genuinely seems not to know why she’s cold. Or why she’s been complaining of headaches for weeks.

“I could make a case,” Kelly says, teasing, closing the book. “Though it may be circumstantial.”

Tracey wiggles her nose at her. It’s unreasonably cute. Maybe she’s putting some pieces together, here.

“I’m done with this,” Kelly says, “and you haven’t turned a page in ten minutes. Will you come get some dinner with me?”

This is the kind of invitation that could open the door to impropriety, Tracey thinks; but she certainly doesn’t mind that, even if it comes right after the slightest bit of pushing. As they step into the elevator, Tracey thinks she catches Kelly looking at her, not with the protectiveness and fear she’s developed over the past few months, but something else, heated, deep. Desire, she lets herself hope.

---

“Hey,” Tracey says when Kelly walks in the door, sounding OK, for once. She can’t believe she’s this happy to see yogurt.

“Breakfast!” Kelly says, because it’s all she can do to exclaim. She can’t believe how happy she is to be on the receiving end of rolling eyes, but the flutters from the smirk are to be expected.

“Coconut,” Tracey says, wielding the little cup like a trophy. Kelly thinks she deserves it, among other things.

"Is it good?" Kelly asks. She doesn't expect Tracey to hold out the spoon for her. It is good.

---

“Good morning, Casey,” Kelly says as she walks past her, just a hair late, carrying two coffees.

“Morning.” Casey hasn’t seen her look this normal in weeks. Not run down. She wonders if maybe whatever was going on with Kibre has blown over. Casey knows Kelly gets about up to contented, not beyond; so if she’s reached “good morning” levels, it’s a good sign. Tracey walks up just a moment later. Too curious not to watch, she sees her place a hand on Kelly’s shoulder, then she sees the way they both smile to see one another. Tracey takes a coffee out of Kelly’s hand.

Casey guesses that their whole bureau must have set their alarm clocks slow because that tall redheaded junior is rushing up after them. She thinks she remembers Kelly mentioning that one. Said she was talented, Casey might think about poaching her to Sex Crimes if the opportunity came up. She probably won’t, for her own sake. Though apparently she’s in the minority on this one, she’s had enough of office romances. She makes a mental note to ask about her.

---

“That’s beautiful,” Tracey says, regarding an orchid Kelly keeps on her mantle. Kelly wonders, only briefly, if she’s making the right choice here. Tracey’s her boss, and she’s just gone through a lot, and she’d seen all of it and they’re so close, that she worries. She knows, though, that she crossed that bridge a long time ago, then crossed it again having Tracey in her apartment, cooking for her, playing music she knows they both like instead of taking her out somewhere that could possibly be construed as platonic. Since then, it’s been a question of when.

“Nun’s hood. Very hard to cultivate with the amount of sun I get.”

“It looks like,” Tracey says, her trademark grin that comes before a joke starting to shine. Kelly doesn’t give her the satisfaction, however tempting it is. She nods.

“Doesn’t it?” she says, hovering on the edge of a laugh, setting down her glass of wine. “It’s beautiful.” She inches closer to Tracey on the couch, puts her feet on the floor instead of curling them under herself; so as to ensure less of a barrier should that gap be closed. She has to let Tracey make this move first. Tracey may have more professional power, but Kelly already knows she wields a formidable amount of interpersonal power.

Tracey rolls her eyes and smirks, looks, somehow, more like herself than she ever has before. She closes the remaining couple of inches. Kelly tastes like wine and cherries and salt; and Tracey can feel her world narrowing in that moment. There is nothing else, Tracey thinks. Hopes there’ll never be.

---

“Yes” is the only word that Kelly can possibly say, even now that she’s stopped counting the times Tracey’s had her like this. It’s the only word in her mind, it’s the only thing that feels right on her lips, that feels right against Tracey’s. Yes please, yes there, yes again. Tracey is in her arms, solid and grounded and warm and breathing, heavy against her neck, collarbone, wrist. Here. Alive.

Kelly prefers this kind of embrace; desperate, hungry, closer and closer.

Every time they touch doesn’t have to be for reassurance from fear. Security can be Tracey’s fingers pressing into her hips, can be soft sheets and light from the street in her room. She isn’t scared.

She doesn’t realize that she’s started to cry. Tracey looks up, panicked, stops what she’s doing. She sniffles, disoriented at the absence of touch.

“Are you OK? Is, did, what happened?”

“I’m,” Kelly says as she raises herself up on her elbows, her voice quiet with want and with tears, tone colored by the smile raising her cheeks, “so happy.” The look of relief, affection in Tracey’s eyes makes her dizzy. A hand on her cheek, she looks into her eyes. “You’re here,” she says, thinks; alive, with me.

Tracey sticks to the perfect, inevitable, unbelievable facts. “I’m here.”

---

I'm tagging all the people I know who care about TBJ-- if you would rather not be tagged, please let me know! @1000spices, @commasplice27, @jesterofrohan there's not enough Casey to tag my Casey list :)

#tracey x kelly #otp: i hate it when you gloat #tracey kibre #Kelly gaffney #Law and Order: Trial by Jury #fanfiction #law and order svu #Law and Order fanfiction #novelly #casey novak #implied lol

[lady-divine-writes]

Jealousy

Aziraphale is used to people stopping by his shop to flirt with his (sleeping) husband, so he doesn’t let it bother him. But when the shoe is on the other foot, Crowley doesn’t take it as well. (2213 words)

A peculiar thing happens in Aziraphale's shop on August 13th at precisely two in the afternoon.

A man comes in looking for a book.

That’s not the peculiar part.

People attempt to buy books at Aziraphale’s shop all the time. They’re mostly unsuccessful, but the opportunity is theoretically there.

The peculiar part comes when this man - a statuesque, ruggedly-handsome man in a finely tailored, tan suit, aubergine shirt, and silk tie; a man who looked like he would be equally as comfortable touring the Savannah on holiday as he would be making corporate decisions in a board room – flirts with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale can be oblivious to those things, but the only people who seem to have eyes for him anyway are older women, mainly widows and divorcees, not searching for an exciting good-looker for their next relationship, but a reliable, stable, respectful man that they can talk to about books and music; who will take them to fancy restaurants on Friday nights and play Canasta with them on the weekends. A nice, non-threatening man who likes to garden and do crossword puzzles and cuddle, who won’t make too many demands on them physically. And even then, by the time Aziraphale figures them out, the women in question have already gotten bored and gone, leaving Aziraphale secretly grateful that he didn’t have to part with another one of his precious first editions.

Flirting happens to Crowley all the time. That Aziraphale notices. Women and men alike wander in off the streets to gawk at him. He’s a demon. He appeals to the baser instincts of mortals and that draws them to him. But he also happens to be stunning (in Aziraphale’s opinion, at least).

Aziraphale sees himself as having the appeal of an old couch – quaint and comfortable, familiar, convenient when you need a place to rest your bum but not the sort of thing you’d get excited over if the doorbell rang and you saw it sitting on your front stoop.

But the man who comes in, with his Rolex watch and his hundred dollar haircut, doesn’t so much as even make eye contact with Crowley.

He only has eyes for Aziraphale.

“Hello,” he says in a voice so smooth it slips through his lips and into Aziraphale’s ears without him needing to breathe too hard. “My name’s Ryan. I called earlier about purchasing a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit? You said you had a copy?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with a startled gulp, but he doesn’t know why. He’s not sure why the tone of this man’s voice makes him swallow like that. Or why the way he looks at him makes the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears go pink. “Yes. Yes, I do. Excuse me for not fetching it prior to your arrival. I wasn’t sure you were serious about picking it up.”

“Yes, I am. It’s very important to me. I’ve been looking for one everywhere.”

“Then you’re in luck!” Aziraphale rises off his stool with a hop. “Because I do indeed have one.” He strolls through the rows of shelves, hunting down the copy Adam had so conveniently magicked up for him after the Apoca-no-go. He hums while he walks, suddenly in a chipper mood as he scans the spines in the children’s section.

As happens quite a bit when Aziraphale’s in the stacks, he gets the feeling that he’s not alone. And he’s not. There’s a general presence that seems to haunt his shop, one that he hasn’t sorted out yet. And, of course, there’s his husband, napping on a chair off to one corner that gets neither too much shade nor sun. Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, curious if his husband may have woken up and decided to slither behind him, but it’s not him.

It’s Ryan.

And Aziraphale smiles bashfully to himself.

“You know, many people would simply download a book like this,” Aziraphale says when he finds what he’s searching for. “I’ve heard you can find it online for free.”

“True, but reading a book online doesn’t compare to holding it in your hands. And a first edition has probably been held by many people, read to many children, and just generally loved to pieces. Kind of like the velveteen rabbit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

From behind the stacks, Aziraphale sees Crowley peek out, glaring over the rims of his Valentino shades. The angel’s eyes brighten at the sight of him. He’s about to summon him over, but he blinks, and his husband disappears in the quarter-second it takes for his eyes to open again.

“Yes, I would definitely agree.”

“Of course, it may not necessarily be that way with every book. You have to make a connection with it.” Ryan takes the book from Aziraphale, two of his fingers brushing the back of Aziraphale’s hand when he does. “They’re kind of like people that way. After a while, you develop a relationship with it. It becomes important to you. And you never want to part with it.”

“Oh, that’s … that’s beautiful,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it described that way before, but it’s true. I feel that way about all my favorite books. I do hope your little one feels the same way about this one.”

“Oh, I’m not married.” Ryan flashes his vacant ring finger along with a brilliant smile. “Don’t have any children. I’m sorry to say that this book is simply a gift from me to my inner child. It’s the key to something I’ve been missing, something that I’m hoping to get back.”

“That’s charming. I hope whatever it is that you’ve lost, you find it again.”

“I do as well.”

They talk as Aziraphale rings him up – about books, about music, about the trinkets Aziraphale keeps around the shop and the history behind each one. They briefly talk about Ryan’s job as CFO of a brand new startup that’s skyrocketed within the past year, but they mostly talk about Aziraphale’s shop and his passion for the written word. No other customers come in, or if they do, Aziraphale doesn’t notice. He pulls Ryan up a chair and offers him a cup of tea, hoping Crowley will eventually join them, but he doesn’t go looking for him. Crowley seems to relish his eight hour naps in Aziraphale’s shop.

Far be it for Aziraphale to interrupt him.

As the day drips on, Aziraphale starts to notice the change in the quality of the light as shadows lengthen across the floor. He glances over at the clock on the wall to see if his suspicions are correct, and he gasps.

“Oh, my dear! It’s five o’clock! I didn’t notice the time! Oh, I do hope you aren’t late for anything!”

“Not at all. It was my day off. And I can’t imagine a lovelier way to have spent it than sitting here, talking to you.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I’m just curious,” Ryan says, gathering up his book in the brown paper bag Aziraphale supplies him, “what are your hours? I didn’t see them posted on the door. It would be nice to know, just in case my inner child convinces me to buy another book from my past.”

“This store is mainly a pet project of mine, so my hours are a little, shall we say, erratic ...”

“That’s adorable,” Ryan says.

“B-but …” Aziraphale stutters at the interruption “… I should be here tomorrow. Offhand I can’t think of any reason why I won’t be.”

“Excellent!” Ryan smiles, distinctly pleased as he squirrels his purchase behind him. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow. 2:30. Nice snake, by the way,” he says, pointing to a spot behind Aziraphale’s head. “Is it real?”

“Quite.” Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, relieved to see that Crowley hadn’t slipped out of the bookshop and driven off without his noticing, but worried since he only transforms into a snake when he’s agitated.

And from the way he flicks his tongue, eyes wide, shifting uneasily in place, Aziraphale can tell he’s highly agitated.

That makes him dangerous.

“Constrictor?”

“Uh, no …” Aziraphale walks Ryan to the door, eager to close up shop and get things with his husband ironed out. “Red-bellied black snake.”

The smile on Ryan’s face drops straight to his knees. “Aren’t those venomous?”

“Only if they bite you. Thank you so much for stopping by. See you tomorrow. Mind how you go.” Aziraphale practically tosses the poor man out onto the sidewalk but he has no way of explaining to him that it’s for his own good. Aziraphale barely has the locks thrown when he feels the snake rise up behind him, transforming into the human form of his demon husband.

“Ssso, isss thisss going to be a thing now?”

Aziraphale sighs. He loves his husband. He truly does. But he can be so temperamental sometimes, even for a demon. “Why whatever do you mean?”

“Men dropping by your ssshop and making eyesss at you? Eating up all your time?”

“One man.” Aziraphale chuckles. “And my dear, people stop by every day simply to throw themselves at you. Do I bat an eye?”

“But I don’t care about them. None of them make my voice go all quivery like that man made yours.”

“I do admit that maybe I got a little carried away,” Aziraphale confesses, putting a hand to his flushed cheek. “See, I’m not use to getting that sort of attention. It was nice for the moment, but I don’t think it’s something I could handle every day.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I’m afraid I’m not very good around people. I prefer the company of my books and my music … and my ill-tempered husband.”

“But that’s the kind of bloke you fancy, right?” Crowley presses. “Someone who talks to you about books and music, and dresses in expensive clothes …”

“You dress in the most expensive clothes I’ve ever seen!” Aziraphale points out with an incredulous laugh.

“You know what I mean!” Crowley says, gesturing with a frustrated hand. “His clothes have … ffffwwwpppp … colors in them!”

“I see. Yes, I guess that does make a difference.”

“I knew it.”

“Ugh! Listen to me, you stupid old snake!” Aziraphale loops his arms around Crowley’s neck, forcing his eyes on him. “The bloke I fancy, as you so eloquently put it, is the one who’s known me my entire existence. Who drinks with me and goes out to lunch with me. Who fights beside me and stays with me, even when I call him ridiculous. Who comes back even when he threatens to run away.” Crowley’s eyes drop to his feet, unable to look at his angel while he’s being reminded of his less-than-stellar attempt to persuade Aziraphale to abandon Earth and join him out in the stars … which ended with his saying he’d go off on his own and never think about him again. “I don’t care if we don’t talk about books. It’s enough that you sit beside me while I read and hold my hand. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Why in the world would you think I’d want someone else when I have the best possible person for me already?”

“’dunno.” Crowley shrugs. “All we do is hang out here lately. I think, maybe, I was afraid you might be getting bored with me. That tying yourself down to a domesssticated demon might not be what you signed up for.”

“Bored with you?” Aziraphale snorts. “After 6000 years, you think I’d get bored with you now? You seem to forget that during the decades we weren’t together, my time was spent here. You were the one jet-setting around the world. By rights, I think you should be getting bored with me. With my life.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley says, sliding closer. “You, my darling, could never get boring.”

Aziraphale raises a skeptical brow. “You forget, I’m much better at detecting sarcasm now than I was 6000 years ago.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm.” Crowley snakes his arms around his husband’s waist. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than here, wasting my days with you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. But maybe it is time we take a vacation.”

“Yesss,” Crowley hisses happily. “Go to all the old haunts, relive the glory days.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Otherwise known as last month.”

“You pick first. We’ll go anywhere you want to go. We can pack up my Bentley and leave tonight.”

“Well, tomorrow night.”

Crowley grimaces. “Why tomorrow night?”

“Ryan said he’d be back at 2:30 tomorrow and ...”

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s collar and (carefully) pushes him up against the nearest wall. He presses him there with his body, tries his hardest to be intimidating, but it doesn’t dim Aziraphale’s grin a single degree.

It never does.

“Not … funny … angel.”

“No?” Aziraphale’s gaze drifts to his husband’s lips the way it always seems to when Crowley has him in this position.

“No,” Crowley says, accepting the invitation of those baby blues and kissing his angel softly. “Not one little bit.”

“You can tell me all about it when we hit the road,” Aziraphale says. “And we’d better make it quick. We’re burning daylight.”

 ***Notes: Let me guys know if you want to see a part 2 where Crowley actually meets our dear Mr. Ryan XD

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #frankie writes

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.56

“Baser Instincts”

A/N: So, the jigsaw puzzle featured previously was not a reference to Jason Isaacs' "jigsaw" comment to IndieWire last week as I only just read this comment for the first time today, but talk about a coincidence. Challenge bloody accepted, Mr. Isaacs.

Also, this whole fanfic gives Katrina Cornwell more benefit of doubt than the writers did because the whole "measured and reasoned" bit makes her sound like an idiot for not realizing anything sooner given her profession.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 55 - Null Way Out 57 - Choose Your Poison >>

The initial jump into frozen time had occurred at 1625. By Discovery's onboard clock, it was resolved at 0740. Suddenly, 0740 became 1625 again. The resulting scheduling chaos was a real nightmare to sort out. Saru carefully set up the duty shifts in such a way that the day and night shift personnel would be back to their regular hours within two weeks' time, but until then, things were slightly awry.

Lorca, who had managed to accidentally stay up all night at precisely the right time to do so, was back to regular hours within a day. He found himself surrounded by second-shifters instead of his usual bridge crew. This was moderately frustrating. They were good crew, of course, but the shorthand developed over months of working together wasn't there and the rhythm was slightly off.

It mattered little. Under strict and explicit orders, they were proceeding to Starbase 43 at regular warp. Discovery's spore drive was not to be deployed until Starfleet could vet the system. Traveling to a starbase using normal warp was a task so simple even the fourth-stringers could have managed it without any guidance from the captain.

"This is so frustrating!" scowled Stamets when Lorca broke the news. "It wasn't my drive! How many times do I have to explain that? And we fixed the problem! It is a non-problem!"

"I agree," said Lorca. This was one of those rare moments when he and Stamets were on the same side of an opinion.

"We have so much more data now. I just want to apply it..." Instead, the Glenn was applying the data and was ahead of them again. It really seemed Discovery could not catch a break in the race between the two ships.

Lorca was genuinely sympathetic. "If I had my way, we'd be jumping right now. I've half a mind to tell them to shove their orders and jump us anyway. But Command has a point." Not, in his opinion, a good one, but a point all the same. They had been compromised and still no clue why or how.

Stamets scowled bitterly. "I guess we'll just run simulations or something. Damn it!" He kicked at a console in frustration.

"Watch it," said Lorca. "Don't take this out on my ship."

Stamets stared at Lorca petulantly. No matter how many times they slipped onto the same page, they always ended up back at odds again, too often within the space of a single conversation. It was an exhausting dance. "Right, well if there's nothing else, sir." The word remained an insult out of Stamets' mouth.

Lorca fixed Stamets with a stern glare and waited. As usual, after a minute, Stamets flinched and looked away. Only then did Lorca say, "That will be all, lieutenant." Stamets returned to his work.

A frown tugged at the corner of Lorca's mouth as he surveyed the engineering lab. They had the ability to travel instantly between two points of space, but sometimes it felt like it wasn't worth all the trouble it took, especially when they were still being held back from the front.

The slow progress of real science did not entirely suit Lorca.

There was one thing that made putting up with Stamets vaguely worthwhile. "Cadet Tilly!" barked Lorca, and Tilly jumped to attention. "I'd like to inspect the cultivation bay."

"Yes, sir!" She remained as eager to help as ever and hurried to supply the genetic sample required for access.

The doors opened to reveal a veritable forest of fungus. The mushrooms really had exploded in null time. Some of the specimens were so tall they looked like small trees. Clouds of spores hung in the air, a biological fog of limitless potential, enough spores to keep them jumping for months if only Starfleet would allow it.

Lorca clasped his arms behind his back. "Cadet. You were very quick to let me in here."

"As quickly as I could, sir!" Tilly beamed at him, proud to have been of such efficient service. This tiny bit of interaction had absolutely made her day.

Her day was about to be unmade. Lorca looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Did you stop to consider I could have been an impostor?"

Her face fell and her voice seemed suddenly very small. "Sir?"

Lorca fixed her with a dry, disapproving frown. "Did you stop to think?"

Tilly stared, uncertain what to do with this idea. The captain was clearly the captain, but what if he weren't the captain? This would have been a serious breach of security. Except he was the captain. Wasn't he? Clearly she should have gone through this thought process before she let him in. "No, sir."

"Security protocols exist for a reason, cadet."

Tilly bit her lip and swallowed, staring off to the side nervously. "Yes, sir," she managed, voice beginning to tremble.

Lorca started to smile. "Cadet. When the captain says jump, do you know what you say?"

She stared with wide eyes. "How high?"

"Exactly," he responded. "Or you just start jumping and hope you hit the mark." He chuckled softly.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, somewhat encouraged by the shift in tone.

Tilly waited until Lorca left the engineering lab and then exhaled with a high-pitched warble, her hands pressed to her chest. Stamets looked at her. "Cadet?" he asked. He had sort of gotten used to her weirdness over the weeks.

She turned and looked at Stamets with wide eyes. "Don't you think Captain Lorca is terrifying?"

"No," said Stamets, a little too fast and a little too forcefully.

"He scares the dickens out of me," said Tilly.

Stamets rolled his eyes at Tilly and resumed his work. Truth be told, Lorca terrified him, too, but he wasn't about to give the captain the satisfaction of admitting it. Not when there were security monitors everywhere.

They were still two hours out from the starbase. Lorca checked the security feed in Lab 26 and was surprised to find Mischkelovitz unattended by either of her brothers. Sensing a rare opportunity, he headed down with his usual enticement in hand.

Larsson and Allan were on the door. "Captain," greeted Larsson with a nod, allowing him inside. Lorca considered trying the imposter spiel on Larsson, decided the Swede was much less likely to react in a way that was amusing, and left it for the time being.

Mischkelovitz was working off to the side with her back to the door. She was hunched over a circuit board, her eyes fixed on a monitor that magnified the miniscule connections to a point they were visible to the engineer working on them.

"Mischka, status report," said Lorca. There was no reaction. He tried again. "Mischka." Still nothing.

Lorca walked towards her, skirting a half-assembled casing on the floor. "Earth to Dr. Mischkelovitz," he went, lighthearted.

Mischkelovitz did not realize he was there until his shadow fell across her table. She startled with such force she fell sideways from her work stool. Lorca reached out as she fell, but not quickly enough or far enough to grab her, and she hit the floor with a panicked gasp, eyes wide and one arm up defensively.

The panic subsided slightly when she saw it was him. "Captain!"

He squinted. "Did you not hear me?"

She seemed not to hear him still. She reached one shaky hand up behind her left ear and tapped a few times. "You startled me," she said. That much was obvious. He offered her his hand again and she took it. She was still shaking slightly as he pulled her to her feet.

Lorca squinted. There was something there under the mess of hair. He reached over and brushed the hair aside, ignoring the way Mischkelovitz flinched at his touch, revealing an implant embedded behind her ear. She drew back, touching the spot, nervous.

"Are you deaf?" he asked, genuinely surprised. Wide-eyed, she did not answer. "From birth, or an accident?" She looked away. Touchy subject.

He still had the fortune cookie in his other hand. He held it out to her. As usual, it worked. She took the cookie with a rapid, darting motion and quickly cracked it in half. She stared at the piece of paper as she chewed one of the cookie halves.

Mischkelovitz seemed unwilling or unable to read it out herself. Lorca offered his hand again and she turned the fortune over to him. "You will take a pleasant journey to a faraway place." The fortune felt wrong. Either it should have gone to John Groves minus the "pleasant" part for what Lorca intended to do with him, or it was an inaccurate description of the recent jump; again, minus the word "pleasant."

"Status update?" prompted Lorca again.

Mischkelovitz looked at the circuitry on the table. "It's, uh, fine?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" prompted Lorca. He jabbed his thumb towards the door. "If you want, I can go out and come back in."

She laughed briefly, exactly as he intended her to, and he grinned and laughed slightly himself. She was an easy person to placate. "No, sir! Okay. So, this is a sort of disruption phase cannon designed to cause a reaction in a cloaking field, which doesn't exactly detect per se, but with a broad enough deployment, it should cause a spatial distortion where a cloaked ship is. If not disrupting the cloak, then at least making it detectible by other sensors. Now, how is this different from a broad-band phaser sweep? The range, to start, and it can be deployed absent a ship on a repeating mine..."

A minefield wasn't practical for most of the front lines, but certain installations would benefit from the technology. Provided Mischkelovitz could get it to work correctly. There was also the issue of the precise phase variances required, and if cloaks were anything like shields, they might feature adjustable frequencies that would require compensation. Thus, the rather complex circuitry designed to cycle through frequencies.

"I will need a Klingon ship to test this against in the field," she concluded. "If it even works."

All in all, it was a solid proposal, even if there was no guarantee of its efficacy, but it was rather trite. There were other people working on similar devices. Mischkelovitz's was maybe a bit more novel with the type of phase wave it emitted and the phase cycling, but Lorca felt obliged to point out this was much like half a dozen other projects going on in Starfleet right now.

"I'm just working on this when I'm stuck on the others," she admitted. "It's sort of busywork. It isn't difficult, it's just tedious."

"I didn't bring you on Discovery to do the same sort of research everyone else is doing," pointed out Lorca. It was clearly a challenge. "Maybe you should stay focused on the harder problems and try to work through them."

She shook her head. "This is better. My brain can work on the real problems while I work on this."

Lorca looked at her with a degree of healthy skepticism. That made it sound like she and her brain were separate entities. It was true that working on a different problem and returning to a hard one later with a fresh perspective was often an effective technique, so Lorca let the eccentricity slide.

There was something more important here than Mischkelovitz's self-imposed busywork. "You know, you didn't trip your words up once in all that," Lorca noted.

She blinked. "Didn't I?"

"You did not. Care to speculate why?" She was not generally a very self-aware person, but he was curious to see what she would come up with.

Mischkelovitz thought a moment, then smiled with a trace of mischief and said, "Cortune fookie."

Lorca laughed at that, not just because of the intentionality of it, but also because of how vulgar it sounded. Mischkelovitz giggled and wrinkled her nose with delight but was absent any hysterics, indicating this was probably only marginally funny to her. "Nice," said Lorca, smiling softly at her. "But probably not." His gaze and smile lingered. Mischkelovitz looked away, suddenly nervous again.

There was perfectly good reason for her to be. "Can I have a closer look at your implant?" Lorca asked. She shrank away. After a moment without reply, he went, "Never mind. Forget I asked."

"No!" she blurted. "It's okay." She remained looking away from him, but turned her head so her ear was facing him. Lorca brushed her hair aside.

It was a small, metallic surface flush with her skin with small horizontal slits. There was a utilitarian elegance to the design, but it was odd to see. Most hearing restoration devices were inside the ear, inobtrusive, not set behind the ear and covered with hair.

He brushed the hair aside further, using more fingers this time, and leaned in close. "Is it on both sides?" he whispered, as if concerned his proximity to the device made it inadvisable to speak any louder.

Her voice was almost a whisper in return. "Yes. They're different, though."

Lorca took that as an invitation, gently but firmly turning her by her chin. He ran his fingers through the hair on the other side and discovered a new configuration entirely. A small round membrane sat above a seam thinner than a human hair.

He withdrew his hand, his palm stroking her cheek faintly as he did. "Why didn't you hear me when I came in?"

Mischkelovitz hastily ran her own fingers through her hair, covering her ears and the implants entirely. "They were damaged." She did not say how, but it was a fair guess it had happened on the Edison.

"And you haven't fixed them?"

She trembled. "Mischka put them in. I made them and he put them in for me. He put them in." Her eyes watered and her jaw trembled. She was on the verge of tears.

Lorca tilted his head so he was in her eye line. "You shouldn't cover them up. You should show everyone what you were together."

She shook her head. "That's our secret," she said, and when she finally looked at Lorca again, her eyes were watery but there were no tears spilling out. "Captain? Are you going to send John away?"

"That depends. He's not really someone who belongs on a starship, is he, Mischka?"

"Please will you let him stay?"

Lorca frowned and studied Mischkelovitz carefully. She was still maintaining a status quo of almost-but-not-quite crying. His mouth twitched in thought. "I'll consider it, but a lot depends on him."

"I think he learned his lesson. John never needs to be taught anything twice."

Something about the way she said it sent a chill down Lorca's spine. The sentiment was intense and ominous and there was a brief flash of something wild in her eyes. It was so brief that when he looked for further sign of it, he found only the usual sense of unease from her uneven pupils. "I'll consider it," was all Lorca said.

Discovery arrived at Starbase 43 ahead of Cornwell and Lorca oversaw the resupply with the full intention and expectation that they would be underway shortly.

If Lorca was being fully honest in his tactical assessment, the starbase also offered the mystery saboteur further chance to escape the ship if he/she/it was still aboard Discovery. As good as Cornwell was at all things administrative and diplomatic, she had some deficits when it came to tactics. God help them if the fate of the Federation ever fell onto her shoulders. Hopefully someone else would be around to save them if it came down to it.

He was talking with the stationmaster when Cornwell finally arrived. A bit of the old Southern charm had convinced the stationmaster to throw in a bit of contraband confiscated from another vessel. Upon Cornwell's approach, the stationmaster clammed up.

Lorca remained at ease. "Admiral, a pleasure as always," he smiled, as if nothing even remotely untoward was under discussion.

"Walk with me, captain," was Cornwell's terse response. Lorca obligingly fell into step beside her, leaving the stationmaster in a state of guilty relief.

They strode around the station's main common area, which had the feel of a modest patio. "I'm very concerned about this incident," Cornwell began after a minute. "We all are."

"We?" echoed Lorca.

"I'm here on behalf the admiralty."

"And what does the admiralty want of me?" he said with lyrical dismissiveness.

This was a difficult question to answer because there were several conflicting views among high command. Some wanted to prioritize perfecting the spore drive. Some wanted to utilize Discovery's combat capability. Some wanted Lorca out of the captain's chair, and some did not. This was more politics than she knew Lorca enjoyed. "A stable spore drive," she said carefully.

"We'll head out immediately and resume testing."

Cornwell resisted the urge to groan, sigh, or otherwise break decorum. "We can't be certain Discovery's spore drive is operating correctly."

His ire was immediate. "Because you won't let me test it!" This drew looks from other personnel in the area and Cornwell glared at him in admonishment. He dropped his voice back down to a normal level. "Stamets has assured me the drive is functioning correctly. We've now added a protocol to scan for exotic particles of that type before inserting them into dispersal chamber. Kat, it won't happen again unless we want it to."

"And do you?"

"If it would please Starfleet Command to get another five months of work done in the blink of an eye, then yes. But we can't force what happened to happen again. We can only prevent it or escape it. Tell me what it is you want and we'll go with that, but damn it, Kat, get us back out there. We're losing this war."

She folded. She always did.

She did not, however, fold without seeking a second opinion.

O'Malley answered the door in an undershirt and shorts, yawning. "I'm sorry, colonel," Cornwell said, "I know you're usually asleep right now."

"Ah, I expected you'd want a chat. It's fine. Come in, admiral, please. Sorry there's nowhere really to sit properly. Quarters on this ship are abysmally cramped. I'm bunking with Major Allan."

There were better quarters, but Lorca had not assigned them to O'Malley, despite the rank equivalency. If O'Malley really cared, he could have gotten nicer accommodations, but Cornwell got the sense a bed was just a place where O'Malley slept a few hours between working.

O'Malley fixed himself a cup of tea and offered her the same. She declined. They sat on the beds facing each other. "Right, so, I've maintained scrupulous radio silence, as you suggested. I don't think he suspects, though you coming over here is something he's probably going to notice."

"Really?"

"The man is top-notch on security," said O'Malley. "Really makes use of the monitors. I mean, it's not all him, it's also that chief of his, Landry. Those two are thick as thieves. So if you think someone didn't notice when you came aboard and traced your route straight to me..."

Cornwell looked perturbed by this. O'Malley picked up on it.

"That's what you want from a man running X number of top-secret experiments on his ship, isn't it?"

"Maybe," said Cornwell, unconvinced.

"Well if you tell me what your concerns are, I can address them directly." He waved a hand slightly, inviting her to say whatever she pleased.

O'Malley sipped his tea and listened as Cornwell outlined everything that presently worried her about Gabriel Lorca. It was a significant list, containing both the professional concerns of herself and Starfleet Command, and her personal concerns as someone who had known him for many years. O'Malley was a good listener. Calm, disarmingly attentive, and reflective, asking small questions for clarity and displaying sympathy. Cornwell recognized that he would have made an excellent therapist had he not chosen an entirely different line of work.

When she was done, he sat back with his tea and thought a moment. "All right. So I think what it boils down to is you're asking me if I think he's stable."

There had been several points, but that was indeed the crux of the matter. "He's different than before."

"I mean, he's been through a lot. We all have. The thing is, I never met the man before Discovery, so I can only attest to the person he is now. I wouldn't say he's unstable. He's somewhat draconian, but aside from the recent frustration which we've all been privy to these past weeks—which of course for you was a single morning—I find he maintains things quite well." He dismissed any slights against Groves because Groves was someone who had once gotten punched by opposing counsel in open court, and the judge had censured Groves rather than his attacker.

"You think he’s draconian?" This was not a word Cornwell previously would have associated with Lorca.

"Yes. I rather think his greatest weakness is his need to be in control. Not just of situations, but of people." This was a fact Cornwell knew, but the details O'Malley supplied to clarify were entirely new: "To that end, he takes a great deal of interest in the crew personally, to the point where it's a bit overwhelming. I don't think there's a single person aboard who doesn't feel the hand of the captain upon them. It's omnipresent."

Cornwell considered that as O'Malley sipped his tea. If Lorca felt he had failed the crew of the Buran by being too easy on them, it might be his way of preventing a similar tragedy on Discovery.

"Mind you," continued O'Malley, "I don't think it's a bad thing necessarily. He really drives people to get results. No two approaches quite alike, but everyone seems to excel around him. Even if he can be a little gratuitous in his use of both carrots and sticks."

It sounded extreme to Cornwell. "Do you find him overbearing?"

"Me? I'm inured to carrots and sticks."

Cornwell touched her fingers to her lips. This was a lot to take in. "What's your overall assessment?"

She did not have to specify as to what, because there was only one thing she could be referring to. O'Malley drummed his fingers along the side of his mug thoughtfully. "If you're asking if he has all the hallmarks of the captains I usually deal with, then the answer is yes, especially in that he tends to keep his own counsel. If you're asking me if that's a problem, my answer is I can't say. I'm certain plenty of captains have possessed these traits and never wound up in the room with me. I've only met the ones who have. My data set is skewed, as Emellia would say."

"That sounds a lot like a non-answer," noted Cornwell, fixing O'Malley with a disapproving look. "I didn't agree to this arrangement to get non-answers."

O'Malley sighed. "This situation is entirely outside my job description, admiral. I don't know what to tell you."

Cornwell appreciated that, but she needed more. "Do you think, if he's allowed to continue on Discovery, that we're going to regret it down the line?" she asked in a carefully measured tone.

"See, that's unfair," said O'Malley. "You're asking me to pre-judge him on whether or not he might commit a crime. I only talk to people after they have. What they do before that point, that's free will, isn't it?"

It seemed to Cornwell that O'Malley wasn't quite understanding the role she needed him to play. "Colonel, if you have a chance to prevent something, I should hope you see that as part of your job."

"I'm sorry to be blunt, admiral, but I'm not a psychic. So far as I can tell, he's unorthodox and wildly overconfident, but you told me once that his results speak for themselves. I find that to be an entirely accurate description of Captain Lorca."

She had said that some years back. Cornwell chewed her lip.

"He hasn't gone outside regulations that I've seen. I'd tell you if he had," said O'Malley. He frowned. "Permission to speak freely, admiral?"

Cornwell waved a hand in assent.

"I think you're chasing a ghost. It's clear the Buran incident changed him. Probably not for the better, but it's hard to say for certain. You keep looking for the person he was and judging him for not still being that. Would you still be that, if it had happened to you? I wouldn't."

Cornwell was adamantly sincere in her response. "I've known Gabriel Lorca for twenty years. I can't ignore that history."

"Nor should you. You're his friend. But I think that's what you asked me to do. Maybe he's not the captain he was, but he certainly seems to be the captain we need."

There was one key player in this Cornwell had yet to speak with. She made her way to Lab 26. Lalana was as pleasant as always, inviting Cornwell into the room she called her home.

"I need you to level with me," Cornwell said. The room was rather warm and Cornwell felt herself begin to sweat almost immediately. "How is he?"

Lalana hopped onto a central hammock structure and turned to face Cornwell, tail gently swaying behind her. "Are you asking as his friend or as his superior officer?"

"Whichever one gets me answers," said Cornwell.

"Then I will assume you are his friend first," said Lalana. This was not an assumption on Lalana's part; it was her way of steering Cornwell's perceptions in the direction she desired the conversation to take. "It was hard on him, being stuck in null time." Not for the first time, Cornwell wondered who had coined that phrase. "You know Gabriel Lorca is a restless sort of person. It does not suit him being in one place. But I maintain my promise to you, admiral. If there is anything you need to know, I will tell you. Gabriel has been doing an excellent job as captain. But his talents are not in standing still. Every day, we read reports of battles that have been fought, of people who have died, and if he were just allowed a little closer, he could have saved them."

"Might have been able to save them," Cornwell corrected her. The result of any battle was always an unknown. There were too many variables. "You can't know that for sure."

"Gabriel Lorca is a highly efficient and accomplished captain. You know as well as I do that if he assesses himself as being able to effect a difference, then it is likely so."

This was ignoring one key blemish on Lorca's record: the Buran. Cornwell had not been intending to use the event in any capacity during her visit if she could avoid it, but then O'Malley had brought it up. Suddenly it felt unavoidable. "I know you have a lot of confidence in him, but he doesn't always win. The Buran proved that. If he risks Discovery and we lose the spore drive—"

Lalana's voice, which in Cornwell's experience rarely seemed to deviate much in its emotional tone, suddenly became loud and sharp. "Do I need to call in a favor?"

Cornwell was doubly confused by this because she had never known Lalana to act or sound in such a way and the implication seemed wrong on the surface. "I don't owe you any favors."

"You do not, but others do. Vice Admiral Cornwell, I have made myself very useful to Starfleet, and asked very little in return. All I am asking now is that you take my assessment back with you, and my assessment is that Discovery should be under the command of its captain, and its captain is Gabriel Lorca. Let him be captain."

Cornwell was shocked. The way Lalana used the words "vice admiral" sounded entirely belittling. Reading lului expressions remained an impossible task, but Cornwell got the sense there was something very dark in Lalana's words. "I'm sorry, are you threatening me?"

"Of course not," said Lalana. "Sometimes lului does not translate very well to English. I still trust in Gabriel. I think you should, too."

Cornwell brought this assessment back and felt more confident about the situation than she had before. O'Malley was right, she was slightly chasing a ghost, because she missed the Gabriel Lorca she had known before the Buran's destruction, and the man he had become since was much harder to love.

The debate raged for close to an hour before they came to a decision. Discovery would be allowed to continue as it had been. This was not the full permission Lorca wanted to do as he pleased, but it was more than some of the admirals wanted to give him.

There was more. "We think you should stay here as part of forward command," said Admiral Terral. "With Lorca out here, we need you."

That was cute. They thought she had some power over what Gabriel Lorca did. Even in her finest moments of managing him, that was a stretch.

Part 57

#Star Trek Discovery #Star Trek #Discovery #fanfic #fanfiction #prequel #Captain Lorca #Gabriel Lorca #Katrina Cornwell #Paul Stamets #Sylvia Tilly #Cadet Sylvia Tilly

[scriddleraesth-blog]

made a folklore au that is prob gonna get very long and i havent thought of a title yet so uh yeah. ed’s a frickin leprechaun so theres that.

The room he’s found himself in is cold, no doubt the humans had neglected their exchange of printed goods for the promise of the luxuries that decent ones once provided for themselves with stove and hearth. He muses how much of the old arts are lost as he stumbles his way along, cursing his leg as it fails to assist him and his size as it fails to bring him a full visual of the surroundings. Annoyance rolling off of him in waves, he angrily tugs at the frayed and stained tablecloth hanging off the edge of the table, looking for clues, but it only serves to pelt him hard with the several items that were left.

While the extinguished candle stub and the assorted papers do nothing to his physicality, the loud crash of a bottle upon the wooden floor shattering and a heavy book thunking him directly across the left shoulder certainly caused damage. The smell of alcohol is almost too much, injury leading to pain, pain leading to anguish, and he finds himself lapping at what’s left of the dark fluid without much thought at all before he finally snaps back into awareness, only once his brain buzzes pleasantly with grain sugar and numbness. Curse his clurichaun heritage for all its worth any other time, its blasé and baser instincts often leave him a touch slighted from his typical genius, but for now it kept the pain just barely tolerable as he straightened himself, brushing errant liquid from his coat and a-righting his bowler hat.

Only then does he realize he’s not alone.

There’s a small, almost twiglike being sitting in the open book, pouring over the words of it with little attention paid to his most charming self. It appears to be all one color, a sort of sandy brownish tan, hair wild and long, all gaunt and edges and almost sallow cheeks. Its eyes are so small and beady that he’s amazed it can even see. His gaze is flat, almost judgemental as he sizes up the small creature in front of him, drinking in every detail with the intent of absorbing information and churning things to his favor. It appears to be nothing more than a lowly sprite, perhaps a brownie. Certainly nothing of interest to a leprechaun-turned-far darrig like himself. And yet, the gears turn in his head as always.

Food was food, contracts were contracts, tricks were tricks. Why only settle for humans, he always says, when others like himself, yet always lesser, were such easy prey?

“Well, welly well well, what do we have, how do ye do, where do you come from, hmm?” He puts on his usual airs, brushing fingers down the front of his coat almost disapprovingly, smile contrarily bright and cheerful.

The thing damn near ignores him. He’s outraged. Stifling a scream, he approaches, tapping a foot insistently and clearing his throat at the thing.

“…hrorhiaa.”

“…Excuse me?”

They look at his shoes, oddly, beady eyes having an uneven sort of gaze to them, hair dripping over their face. “…from hroorhyiaa.”

“…Oh, and pray tell, where is this mystical land of ‘hroo hraa’, my friend?”

It examines its nails almost haughtily, pointing at a worn yet glaringly gaudy flag, an x of stars that could only belong to the confederation next to a blue panel with a white seal that reads…

“…State of Georgia.” He glares at the being with fire in his eyes, hissing. “Do you think to make a fool of me, brown man? There’s no one to shame me in front of, o sprite, o twig, o speck of errant dust! Your lashing tongue be for naught!”

The creature doesn’t react, brushing their current page over to the next one with a foot, eyes blinking rapidly, before sitting themself down on the next page. “…not brown man. Not man.”

He grows inpatient, placing a foot over the words the other is trying to read. “…What could possibly be so damn interesting in that book to pique more interest than yours truly?! How dare you ignore my power, my authority!”

“…Alcoholic psychosees are psychosees cohsed by pohsining with alcohol. When a pre-hezisting pshychotic, psychohyeurotic or other disorder is aakhrivated by modest alcohol intake, the underlying condition, not the alcoholic psychosis, is diakhnaosed.”

“…HOW DARE YOU!” He screams before he manages to think of how it must sound. The creature doesnt even react to the outburst, only pats the page. Surely enough, they’re simply reading what’s on the page, not making a comment on his heritage.

“…Simple drunkenness, when not specified as psychotic, is clahiffied under-”

“…I CAN READ, YOU- YOU FUCK!” He spits, before straightening his hat for what must be the fourth time, then placing his hands upon his hips to shout more abuse. “No, no, I take that back. A FUCK is actually entertaining, but you, you are infuriatingly dull and grating, and I refuse to stay in your company a moment longer!”

“…fhuk.” It repeats, looking down at the book contemplatively, then back at his shoes. He instinctively takes a step back, crossing his arms in what he hopes looks authoritatively and not defensively.

“…Hyou miyht be helpful. Ih need to find the rest…”

“The rest of what, pray tell?” He inquires, head tilting curiously, eyes brightening and false grin returning. This might prove promising after all, he thinks, if he plays his cards right.

“…The batch.” They grasp gently at what’s rest of the alcohol bottle, holding up the mouth of the bottle and its proud wax seal. Their tone is flat as always, everything presented matter of factly and without intonation, as if it has no concept of how to use tone to convey the meaning of its words.

“…If you give me your name, I’ll help you.”

The creature blinks and shrugs.

“T’won’t be too bad! You’ll simply be in my debt! A single boon I might ask of you at any time. ‘Course, you’ll have te stay by my side ’til I need thae boon, but tisk for tat! Might be fun, might you say?”

Another shrug. “…Hyahn.”

“…What?”

“Mnames hyohn. hyonithin.”

“…OH! Eoin! A’course!”

“No. HYAHn. Nhot AOWan”

“…John. Sean. Jon. Jhon. Yohan. Yawn.”

“Third. Maybe h’bit more like sekinnd hwun.”

Blinking again, he sighs. “…Jon.” This time he pronounces it more breathily, still a J but pressing the J out more with his lungs as if it’s an s. As if he’s sighing the name. It feels concerningly intimate, especially when the ownership settles on his shoulders neatly, like a second skin.

“Yes. You?”

“…Ye may call me Éadbhárd. T’is my earthly name, not me birthly name. Tha’s a contract ye wont get from me so easy, mind ye. Now, you’re quite indebted to me, so let’s get going.”

“Ed.”

“Éadbhárd.”

“Eddyboy.”

“Éadbhárd!”

“Eddie.”

“Ugh, fine.”  Éad grimaces at the pronunciation, but shrugs it off. As long as Jon has no control over him and he’s gained a new face that he never intends on releasing, it’s fine. He’s fine.

He has an entire being ensnared in a contract. While it’s not much, he feels more powerful than he did.

#scriddler

[filosofablogger]

Good Monday morn, my friends!  I hope you all had a lovely weekend!  I’ve been a bit under the weather, but we still managed to put up the Hallowe’en decorations & lights this weekend – the girls actually did most of the work while I supervised (there are advantages to being old and infirm!).

Have you noticed that more and more, websites are demanding that you either become a paid subscriber or disable your adblocking software?  I utilize over 50 different sites in the course of a week … if I had to pay for each one, I would have to win the lottery!  As it is, I have paid subscriptions for a few of the more important sites I use, but I’m not about to pay for a site I only use once or twice a week seeking something fun for Jolly Monday or seeking good people!  UPI (United Press International) has long been one of my best sources for fun Jolly Monday stories, but all of a sudden they are demanding I turn off my adblocker … which I amn NOT about to do!  So, for this morning’s post, I went on a discovery mission and found some other good ideas!  Maybe I should thank UPI!

Anyway, it’s another week full of promise to be harrowing and stressful, so grab a snack and let’s start the week off with a bit of humour …

Benjamin’s juice boxes — but he’ll share if you ask nicely!

A murder gone awry?

Did I tell you that I committed murder this weekend … not once, but twice?  I typically refuse to kill any critter.  When I find a cricket or a spider in the house, I coax them onto a piece of paper, then take them outside and release them so that they may live to see another sunrise.  However, this weekend, two very stubborn flies got into the house, and they were driving me crazy … no way to get them to go back out into the wild, and finally I gave in to my baser instincts and … WHAP! WHAP!

So, I can understand the frustration of the 80-year-old man in the French village of Parcoul-Chenaud in Dordogne, who was only trying to eat his dinner in peace when a fly began buzzing annoyingly around him.  He picked up his electronic fly swatter (who knew such a thing existed???) and took aim at the fly.  Suddenly there was a huge explosion in his kitchen!  Turns out that unbeknownst to the man, there was a gas leak and when he ignited the electronic gizmo, it set off a reaction and caused the explosion.

Fortunately, the man suffered only a minor burn on his hand, but the explosion also damaged part of his roof, and his house is temporarily uninhabitable.  No word on what happened to the fly.  I think there is a lesson here …

And speaking of insects …

I am an anomaly, for I actually like spiders and, except the one that came zooming through my kitchen a few weeks ago at 70 miles-per-hour, they don’t intimidate me.  A newfound spider species that wears a striking red-and-white pattern on its back that resembles the grin worn by Batman’s long-standing nemesis, the Joker, has recently been discovered by scientists in Iran.The resemblance is so uncanny that the researchers who described the arachnid named the species Loureedia phoenixi after actor Joaquin Phoenix, who portrayed the tormented, smiling villain in the 2019 film, “Joker.”  Now, personally I will always think of Jack Nicholson as The Joker, but that just shows my age.

Heath Ledger, Jack Nicholson, Joaquin Phoenix as The Joker

Ironically, the colorful spider belongs to a genus that was named for the late punk rock icon Lou Reed, who famously wore black and rarely smiled.

On the backs of the male L. phoenixi spiders, a splash of vivid red stands out against a background of white, much like the Joker’s unnerving smile contrasts with his white facial makeup, the scientists wrote in the study. Though, you’d need magnification to see it clearly, as the spider’s body measures only about 0.3 inches (8 millimeters) long and is covered in tiny hairs.

Discovering Loureedia spiders is challenging, because the arachnids are active aboveground only for a three-week period each year.

These spiders spend most of their lives in their subterranean nests. Males leave their burrows to hunt for females, usually from late October to mid-November, and spiderlings come to the surface when they leave their mother’s nest.

And now, the part of Jolly Monday you all love … CARTOONS!!!

And a few funny memes …

I’m sorry this Jolly Monday is a bit shorter than usual, but I’m just not quite up to par, and neither is Jolly, but we did manage to find a cute animal video we think you’ll like!

And for our friend Hugh, who is going through a difficult time at the moment … know that you are in our hearts and thoughts, dear Hugh!

I hope you all have a wonderful week … or as good as you can.  Keep safe, my friends … these are difficult times for everyone.  Please remember to share those smiles … you never know when one smile might change someone’s outlook.  Love ‘n hugs from Filosofa, Jolly and Joyful!

Jolly Monday … It Is Monday, Right? Good Monday morn, my friends! I hope you all had a lovely weekend! I’ve been a bit under the weather, but we still managed to put up the Hallowe’en decorations & lights this weekend – the girls actually did most of the work while I supervised…

#Batman&039;s Joker #cute animal video #Joaquin Phoenix #kitchen explosion #Maxine #newly discovered spider #on killing flies

[mariscommissions-blog]

Writing sample #3

M/M + Action

Can't say I was surprised when I saw them rounded up at the camp the next morning. They were too loud, too brazen, and showed no aim of leaving last night. There wasn't any doubt that their little adventure would end badly.

Some of the guys here are pretty high strung. Say the wrong thing to them, and you just might end up with a knife in the gut.

Like I said before; usually, we just scare the tourists off, but I could tell straight away that this bunch would be trouble with the way they carried on.

I try not to stare at them and carry on, doing my morning duties around the camp as usual. It's none of my business. I take care of the transportation and pack the product for the six a.m. delivery; someone else can handle the troublemakers.

Still, it's hard to ignore the sobbing of the two girls in colourful bikinis and the third one trying to act tough along with the two guys. Props to her and her mates. It's not easy to play it cool in front of old Williams – the ‘retired' military captain with more scars than clean skin and a meaty-looking machete in his hand.

"You can't treat us like this! I demand you let us speak to whoever's in charge here!" I like this girl. She's got spunk. Too bad Williams doesn't appreciate it, and swings that blade of his close enough to let them know it. He's got a roar in him too, that makes them know the next one will take an ear off. The other two girls scream and start to cry louder, hugging one another, while the young men attempt to attack Williams. The old man doesn't need any help, he tosses them both about without any trouble.

I try not to focus on them too much. I don't enjoy hurting civilians, and unfortunately, these kids have sealed their fates, it seems.

The cars are packed, and the paperwork is ready. I have nothing to do until midday when I need to take the delivery reports.

I’m about to head to my favourite spot on the beach when Williams stops me, measuring me up with that infamous stern gaze of his.

“I’ve got something for you, Jack.”

“Of course, you do.”

“How do you feel about taking on an apprentice?”

“That’s new. Are we getting some fresh meat?”

"You could say so. It's one of the sightseer kids we grabbed."

I can feel my eyebrow rise and I wonder if Williams has suddenly developed a sense of humour.

Not likely.

"It's not how we usually do things, but I gave them a choice – be tits up underground before the evening or do whatever we tell them to."

I snort at that. Williams always has some interesting expressions. But, I suppose, he has the right idea. Just killing them off would be a waste. Strip them of their papers and make them work until they drop, though? Why not? It's how our pirate brethren used to do it.

"So, you're going to take one on?" he asks me. I nod.

“Yeah, why not. Could always use some help.”

“Excellent.”

It's a lie. I don't need help, especially from some scared kid. But you don't say ‘no' to Captain Williams. Everybody knows that.

Unfortunately, this whole ‘apprentice' thing just cancelled my plans to take a nice long dip in the ocean. Sure enough, when I returned to my tent, there was one of the tourist boys waiting for me. He looked a bit roughed up, making me think he must have put up a struggle before giving in to Williams's offer. He was wearing nothing but some tacky blue shorts with a shit load of colourful patterns. And just privately, I had to admit it. He was in good form. Muscular enough to tell me he wouldn't have trouble carrying some of the heavier stuff around.

“So, you’re my ‘apprentice’?”

He's quick to nod, but I can see him shake at the sound of my voice and step away from me just a bit.

"Relax kid; I don't swing at civilians," I try to reassure him. No sense in him being scared shitless of me if we're going to work together. If he's dumb enough to try something, I know I can handle him.

“I’m Jack. And you are?”

“Stefano.”  

“Fancy name.”

A can see a hint of a smile form on his lips after my remark, and I notice his bronzed cheeks have quite a few freckles on them, some even peppering his nose and lips.

I must've stared at him a moment too long, because Stefano tenses up again, stepping back and almost bumping into the tent behind him.

I can't help but roll my eyes.

I don't have much patience for the civvies. I can't help it.

Maybe it's because I was never one myself, but I find most of them too slow and too damn emotional.

Yeah, I definitely didn't need this kind of help, but I've accepted the "offer," and I'm going to stick by it.

So, Stefano, I guess it's time I introduced your clean, manicured hands to some hard labour, pal.

He accepts the working gloves without hesitation and puts them on right away. Williams must have really scared them, I think. I see the other boy from the group being shamelessly groped by a couple of our men. And the girls? I don't even want to think about where they are and what they are up to. Probably shunted into the kitchen if they're lucky and agreeable.

I work with these people, but I can't say I'm too proud of it.

There are good and bad ones, but most of them believe they can do whatever the hell they want because we're off the grid.

I disagree. We're here to do what we do best for our "less than honourable" clients. And if you're a blow in from out of town just looking for some extra cash, you'll be kept out of the loop for your own good.

But you don't just leave everything you do here behind you when you travel back home. We're not a resort for your baser instincts.

It all comes with us.

[zigzagmidas]

Philosophy from an idiot

For all my talk of philosophy I rarely put it to paper. Mostly because I prefer to let people see and judge it on a person to person basis, to know the person sitting with me is listening.

But sometimes people need to read something and not talk to anyone. And someone may even read my words and understand my "crooked" mindset.

To begin my philosophy, I must start with a story. Now this is the story as I remember it and understand it, I could be vastly wrong but as a story it helps my mind to rationalize my thoughts.

The story of Pandora and her Gift. For those unfamiliar: in an ancient tale a woman named Pandora is given a box to look after by the Gods. She is told never to open it for any reason. But her curiosity gets the better of her, and she peeks inside. Immediately every evil and suffering demon mankind will ever face explodes from the box. Pandora sees her mistake too late and shuts the box after almost all the evils have left. However, a voice comes from the box, begging to be released. Pandora refuses at first, but the voice pleads and insists it wishes to help humanity. She opens the box, and the tiniest light comes from the box, Hope.

Hope was the last thing inside the box. Now why was hope in the box at all? Because it was the worst of all the demons, and every other evil feared it so. It took every suffering imaginable to keep hope in the bottom of the box, because not only was it the worst, it was the strongest. It prolonged suffering and pain, promising a new tomorrow, possibly a better tomorrow. Hope is the hardest demon to kill, the most difficult to squash out, but is the easiest to rekindle and spread.

In this way Hope infected humanity and turned them into monsters. Monsters that outlast and grow despite everything that tells them how horrible life is. We are the greatest monsters, doing awful and terrible things, thriving even in the worst conditions. We, if not as individuals, as a species will endure and overcome, or die trying. This is a core tenant of my philosophy.

Humanity, and to a larger sense self awareness and hope are monsters of the universe, aberrations.

But this is not, as many would see it, a bad thing. Instead I take pride and encouragement from this. We are the greatest threat, as a whole and as a species. Able to overcome our suffering and failures and missteps.

The next core tenant is Nature.

Nature is EVERYTHING. If it exists in nature, then it is permitted. No word of man can stop that. No law, no decree or junction can say "This goes against God." So you have nothing to fear, nothing to stop you from heaven or a peaceful rest in whatever paradise awaits after death.

Transsexuals? They occur in nature, frogs and fish change sex constantly.

Homosexuality? That definitely happens in nature, ask any zoologist.

Now this also means that things we would consider "Evil" are too permitted.

Rape, murder, infanticide and cannibalism. All happen in nature. This doesn't make them less abhorrent but I'll get to that.

Nature is a blueprint for everything, from stars to zygote and basic DNA. So you have no reason to feel shame or hate for something simply because someone told you it was "Wrong". Embrace your nature, even if you do not understand it at first. Denying yourself and your nature will only lead to unnecessary suffering and pain and misery. Stand tall. No God will hate you or strike down your children or curse you for simply existing.

However, this also goes to say, things like murder and rape; when you force anything from ideals to your body onto another person, this is completely abhorrent. Why? Because you are hindering that person's growth, you are ceasing their evolution. If someone was going to join your cause or accept you, they would do so of their own volition because they thought you were right in some small way. Murder means you have ceased them altogether, they are no longer a person. That is why there are consequences for these actions.

Action and reaction: a driving force behind the universe. Not quite GOD, but it is an important quality of basic matter in the universe. Any action will have an effect, a reaction and repercussions. I'm not speaking of Karma exactly but picture this: under my understanding, if you burn down a church or mosque will some divine rule strike you dead? No. But people will react, you will be punished as they judge you should be. If you equally burn your house down because you don't want to pay for it anymore, even if no one can judge you for it, you are subsequently without a house.

If you rape someone or falsely accuse someone of such and are found out, there will be repercussions. And even if you are not you will have to live differently than you did before to ensure you will not be caught, another repercussion.

Humanity as a whole wishes to simply carry on with life and be unimpeded. The majority of humanity will seek this out simply out of instinct. But again, just as in nature, there are those who are miserable or unstable or some aberration of the whole. These individuals are miserable and angry and completely happy being as such and spreading as much misery as possible. These are NOT a majority. They are a minority. Simply a very vocal minority playing to anyone who is like them. We are not our minorities. Or even our majorities. We simply are humanity. A human race. Bound by bloodlines and evolution. It is key to remember this.

It is key to question. Question your group, your family, yourself and your identity. For without questions you will never grow. Never truly be human. Never accept anyone who tells you not to question them. Question someone else. Anyone who regards you as stupid for questioning is impeding your growth and was simply the wrong person to ask. There is nothing wrong with NOT knowing, you do not sprout from the womb knowing all there is about you or even your own body. You cannot tell a penis from a vagina or a lung from a liver. Always ask. Do not let fear stop you. Pain is merely momentary, embarrassment has no place for asking questions. Even if you must take time and seek counsel for your questions.

I touched upon pain before but here I shall lay my thoughts on the matter down: Life is suffering. Suffering and pain will always be your teachers. Prolonging life is prolonging suffering. And that is Evil. Life itself is a sort of evil. But that is why humanity NEEDS to be a monster, a great force. To overcome this. With hope.

Humanity prides itself on culture and civilization. But these are NOT what separate us from animals. This is a key component of this separation but not the root.

What is the baser form of man? A beast, to kill, to reproduce, to find shelter. By any means. A beast rapes and kills as he pleases, any tiger or carnivore can do that.

A monster rises above this, above the beast. What makes a Human? Understanding, compassion and love. Regret and learning. The things a beast could not do. Any beast responds to an offensive idea with violence and shows of threat. A monster understands, works to comprehend and compromise.

It is our duty as humans to be the Monster. Greater than any force or threat. A beast sees suffering and failures and does nothing. A Monster, a human being helps and takes some of the suffering of others off their shoulders, even for a moment. When you help another, or work to understand that person truly, this is when you have risen above the baser instinct of man and become a human being.

Thus self-reflection is so important. Why do I feel this way? Why did I dislike this person? Why did I do this? When I say everything is natural/permitted, I do not mean to run around naked and cry. It is natural to feel and think and be overcome. But understand that this feeling is a part of you and you had a reason for feeling this way. Whether it be your hormone levels or something someone said days ago. This is not shameful. It is a time for learning. About yourself and others. You may not be able to control your surroundings but you control how you react. And should something be truly wrong, if you raise enough attention to it, someone will find and attempt to fix whatever it may be. Too many go through life thinking what they experience is "Normal". Ask and observe, find what is typical or average and why your life is different.

This incredible chaos is what we are here to observe and suffer through together, to overcome together.

Without order nothing could exist, without chaos nothing could evolve.

Humanity is a monster, a confused evil monster who often seeks to help and does more harm. But we can make good. Even if there is no good to be found. We will make Good for we are the universe and nature itself.

This is my crooked philosophy, how I live my life and encourage others to live.

Naturally this will make some angry and confused but this is how I think and I have seen nothing to dissuade me from it.

I hope someone understands.

#philosophy #long post #ramblings #understanding #compassion #monsters #men #thoughts #life the universe and everything #basically #love #zigzagmidas #rape mention #murder mention #Hope #Humanity #ask me questions #freedom

[matteorossini]

A reprehensible witch hunt in academia: feminist philosopher equates the defenses of transgenderism and of transracialism—and gets crucified

Gender is widely agreed by the Left to be a social construct, not a biological reality. If that’s the case, why isn’t race? Why was someone like Rachel Dolezal, who was white but claimed to be black, vilified and fired from her job as the Spokane, Washington head of the NAACP, while a man who claims to be a woman (or vice versa) is defended and her courage lauded? The distinction has always baffled me, especially because race is also seen to be a social construct.

Those were the questions asked in an article recently published in the feminist philosophy journal Hypatia by Rebecca Tuvel, an assistant professor of philosophy at Rhodes College in Memphis, Tennessee. Her piece is called “In defense of transracialism“, and is free online (reference and link below).  I have only skimmed the full piece, but it’s dissected by Jesse Singal at New York Magazine’s “Intelligencer column” “This is what a modern-day witch hunt looks like.” And indeed, merely for pointing out that the arguments used to support transgender rights are similar to those that could be used to support transracial rights, Tuvel has been excoriated by academics, and the journal asked to retract the article. She has received a ton of hate mail. It is truly a Leftist witch hunt—a purity test that Tuvel apparently failed big time.

First, the abstract and first footnote in Tuvel’s paper:

And her concluding paragraph:

Haslanger writes, “rather than worrying, ‘what is gender, really?’ or ‘what is race, really?’ I think we should begin by asking (both in the theoretical and political sense) what, if anything, we want them to be” (Haslanger 2012, 246). I have taken it as my task in this article to argue that a just society should reconsider what we owe individuals who claim a strongly felt sense of identification with another race, and accordingly what we want race to be. I hope to have shown that, insofar as similar arguments that render transgenderism acceptable extend to transracialism, we have reason to allow racial self-identification, coupled with racial social treatment, to play a greater role in the determination of race than has previously been recognized. I conclude that society should accept such an individual’s decision to change race the same way it should accept an individual’s decision to change sex.

For this she is being crucified in public by her fellow academics, who accused her of not only being transphobic (not true at all), but perpetrating tangible harm and even violence on both the black and trans communities (another lie).

Part of Singal’s analysis:

Tuvel structures her argument more or less as follows: (1) We accept the following premises about trans people and the rights and dignity to which they are entitled; (2) we also accept the following premises about identities and identity change in general; (3) therefore, the common arguments against transracialism fail, and we should accept that there’s little apparent logically coherent reason to deny the possibility of genuine transracialism.

Anyone who has read an academic philosophy paper will be familiar with this sort of argument. The goal, often, is to provoke a little — to probe what we think and why we think it, and to highlight logical inconsistencies that might help us better understand our values and thought processes. This sort of article is abstract and laden with hypotheticals — the idea is to pull up one level from the real world and force people to grapple with principles and claims on their own merits, rather than — in the case of Dolezal — baser instincts like disgust and outrage. This is what many philosophers do.

Tuvel’s article rebuts a number of the arguments against transracialism, and it’s clear, throughout, that Tuvel herself is firmly in support of trans people and trans rights. Her argument is not that being transracial is the same as being transgender — rather, it’s “that similar arguments that support transgenderism support transracialism,” as she puts it in an important endnote we’ll return to. It’s clear, from the way Tuvel sets things up, that she’s prodding us to more carefully examine why we feel the way we do about Dolezal, not to question trans rights or trans identities.

Usually, an article like this, abstract and argumentatively complex as it is, wouldn’t attract all that much attention outside of its own academic subculture. But that isn’t what happened here — instead, Tuvel is now bearing the brunt of a massive internet witch-hunt, abetted in part by Hypatia’s refusal to stand up for her. The journal has already apologized for the article, despite the fact that it was approved through its normal editorial process, and Tuvel’s peers are busily wrecking her reputation by sharing all sorts of false claims about the article that don’t bear the scrutiny of even a single close read.

The biggest vehicle of misinformation about Tuvel’s articles comes from the “open letter to Hypatia” that has done a great deal to help spark the controversy. That letter has racked up hundreds of signatories within the academic community — the top names listed are Elise Springer of Wesleyan University, Alexis Shotwell of Carleton University (who is listed as the point of contact), Dilek Huseyinzadegan of Emory University, Lori Gruen of Wesleyan, and Shannon Winnubst of Ohio State University. (Update: As of the morning of May 3, all the names had been removed from the letter. A note at the top of it reads “We have now closed signatories for this letter in order to send it to the Editor and Associate Editors of Hypatia.”)

In the letter, the authors ask that the article be retracted on the grounds that its “continued availability causes further harm” to marginalized people. The authors then list five main reasons they think the article is so dangerously flawed it should be unpublished. . .

Singal goes on to point out that four five of those reasons are based on a total misreading of Tuvel’s article, whose main point is given above and by Singal in his second and third paragraph. (The other criticism is trivial.) He then rebuts each of the “reasons,” and goes on to show how Tuvel is being ripped to shreds, unjustly, by academics. She has even been accused of “perpetrating violence” and “enacting harm”

The letter’s authors, presumably Leftists, are doing all they can do demonize Tuvel for–what? None of the objections recognize that the transgenderism and transracialism are both based on people feeling that they’re different from how their external appearance has led society to categorize them. One is based on genitalia, the other skin color.  If a biological male feels that he is really a woman, why can’t a white person feel that they’re black? And regardless of which sex is “privileged,” people transition in both directions. But of course never underestimate Regressives’ tendency to reach a conclusion first (“white people have privilege and just can’t say they feel or are black”) and then find arguments to support it.

Singal concludes:

I could go on and on. This is a witch hunt. There has simply been an explosive amount of misinformation circulating online about what is and isn’t in Tuvel’s article, which few of her most vociferous critics appear to have even skimmed, based on their inability to accurately describe its contents. Because the right has seized on Rachel Dolezal as a target of gleeful ridicule, and as a means of making opportunistic arguments against the reality of the trans identity, a bunch of academics who really should know better are attributing to Tuvel arguments she never made, simply because she connected those two subjects in an academic article.

The Chronicle of Higher Education shows how the craven journal Hypatia apologized (you can see the journal’s reprehensible Facebook apology here, but I want to reproduce it because it so resembles the apologies of the accused during China’s Cultural Revolution:

From the Chronicle:

The article, ”In Defense of Transracialism,” by Rebecca Tuvel, an assistant professor of philosophy at Rhodes College, drew a significant backlash following its publication, in late March. The article discusses public perceptions of racial and gender transitions by comparing the former NAACP chapter head Rachel Dolezal’s desire to be seen as black with the celebrity Caitlyn Jenner’s public transition from male to female. [JAC: the article does far more than just draw a parallel!]

Since a backlash erupted on social media, more than 400 academics have signed an open letter to the editor of Hypatia calling for the article to be retracted. “Our concerns reach beyond mere scholarly disagreement; we can only conclude that there has been a failure in the review process, and one that painfully reflects a lack of engagement beyond white and cisgender privilege,” the letter says.

The journal’s Facebook apology responded to those concerns by saying that it would be looking closely at its editorial processes to make sure they are more inclusive of transfeminists and feminists of color, whom the journal said had been particularly harmed by the article. The journal also apologized for its initial response to the backlash, saying that an earlier Facebook post had “also caused harm, primarily by characterizing the outrage that met the article’s publication as mere ‘dialogue’ that the article was ‘sparking.’ We want to state clearly that we regret that the post was made.”

Tuvel has responded to the criticism (see here), apologizes for one or two items, like “deadnaming” Caitlyn Jenner (giving her pre-transition name), but ends in this way:

Calls for intellectual engagement are also being shut down because they “dignify” the article. If this is considered beyond the pale as a response to a controversial piece of writing, then critical thought is in danger. I have never been under the illusion that this article is immune from critique. But the last place one expects to find such calls for censorship rather than discussion is amongst philosophers.

Indeed. Philosopher Russell Blackford has been defending Tuvel on Twitter and criticizing the witch hunt in a series of tweets, calling attention to others’ defenses of Tuvel. I am proud to call him my friend. Read the following from bottom up, in chronological order:

And Yale’s Paul Bloom, Ceiling Cat bless him, has also defended Tuvel:

A bizarre and ugly attack by a group of philosophers directed toward a junior prof. https://t.co/gvbEr6rE2v

— Paul Bloom (@paulbloomatyale) May 2, 2017

Hypatia should be mocked and vilified for its cowardice, as should those academics who went after tuvel because her Gendankenartikel violated the Regressive Left’s norms of purity. These are not students attacking Tuvel—they are professional academics, and I have nothing but contempt for them. (Remember, today’s students are tomorrow’s professors.) I am appalled, but not surprised. I’ll end with Singal’s words:

. . . what’s disturbing here is how many hundreds of academics signed onto and helped spread utterly false claims about one of their colleagues, and the extent to which Hypatia, faced with such outrage, didn’t even bother trying to sift legitimate critiques from frankly made-up ones. A huge number of people who haven’t read Tuvel’s article now believe, on the basis of that trumped-up open letter and unfounded claims of “violence,” that it is so deeply transphobic it warranted an unusual apology from the journal that published it.

We should want academics to write about complicated, difficult, hot-button issues, including identity. Online pile-ons cannot, however righteous they feel, dictate journals’ publication policies and how they treat their authors and articles. It’s really disturbing to watch this sort of thing unfold in real time — there’s such a stark disconnect between what Tuvel wrote and what she is purported to have written. This whole episode should worry anybody who cares about academia’s ability to engage in difficult issues at a time when outrage can spread faster than ever before.

h/t: Grania

______

Tuvel. R. 2017. In defense of transracialism. Hypatia 32:263-278, DOI: 10.1111/hypa.12327

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[resistancepapers-blog]

The Resistance Papers III

A tipping point is coming that will destroy our republic–or save it.

As this is written, we are only one month into the reign of President Donald Trump. While he and his administration paint the past four weeks as productive and trouble-free, anyone even halfway paying attention can see that it has been, in truth, the most tumultuous, chaotic transition of power our nation has seen in a century. From deeply controversial cabinet picks to apparent collusion with Russia to the disastrous and unconstitutional Muslim travel ban, the White House is a roiling cesspool of power-hungry opportunists who care about serving their own self interests far more than serving the American people.

And they’re only getting started.

Make no mistake, an unprecedented tipping point is on the horizon. This point will come in one of two forms—one that will destroy our nation or one that might possibly save it.

To understand the former I encourage you to read the short but eye-opening essay by Boston College professor of Economic and Political American History, Heather Richardson. You can find it here.

Professor Richardson points out that American history is accented by “shock events,” that is, unexpected and unimaginable events that threw society into chaos and allowed savvy players to seize power that was otherwise unattainable.

One such event was the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand that ostensibly started the first World War. A more recent example is the September 11 terrorist attacks. That event, in addition to radically shaking American belief that we are untouchable in our own country, saw the creation of The Patriot Act. This set of laws authorized indefinite detention of immigrants, the search and seizure of private property without consent or knowledge and broad latitude for the FBI to search telephone and email records without a warrant, among other actions. The Patriot Act passed with wide bipartisan support in both the House and the Senate—something that would have been unthinkable for such a dramatic increase in governmental powers under any other circumstance.

This brings us to the Muslim travel ban architected by shadow president Steve Bannon and gleefully put into action via executive order by the President. By any measure the executive order was poorly crafted and hastily executed, sowing confusion and frustration among TSA, Border Patrol agents and Homeland Security—not to mention the thousands of travelers, green card holders and refugees that were inconvenienced, detained or turned away altogether.

There are few that agree that this executive order will actually make Americans safer; certainly not the 1,000 diplomats and State Department officials who signed a dissent memo speaking out against the ban. The memo reads, in part, that the ban “will not achieve its stated aim of protecting the American people from terrorist attacks by foreign nationals admitted to the United States given the near absence of terror attacks committed in recent years by Syrian, Iraqi, Libyan, Somalia, Sudanese, and Yemeni citizens who are in the US after entering on a visa. This ban will have little practical effect in improving public safety.”

Then why put it into action at all?

As Professor Richardson wrote, “[a shock event] is designed explicitly to divide people who might otherwise come together so they cannot stand against something its authors think they won’t like.”

During the campaign Trump said explicitly that he wished for “a complete and total shutdown of Muslims entering the United States.” As president, this desire was confirmed on live television as presidential lackey Rudi Giuliani said in no uncertain terms that he was working with the administration to establish a travel ban, even though they had to go through the annoying fuss and bother of doing it “legally.”

Here is where I depart from Professor Richardson’s analysis of the travel ban. Because I don’t believe this is the Trump administration’s shock event. That is yet to come.

At best, the Muslim ban was a ham-handed attempt to appease Trump’s base. At worse, it was a trial balloon to test how far the administration can push the extremes of executive order powers to set the stage for future actions.

The actual shock event, when it come, will be much, much worse.

It appears that the Trump administration is doing everything possible to ferment mistrust and hatred of our nation, especially among the Arab world. It is my belief that they truly hope for a horrible attack to happen on American soil, the more loss of innocent life the better.

When this shock event occurs the Trump administration will immediately call for a vast and all-encompassing consolidation of power within the executive branch. Simultaneously they will attack the judicial branch for challenging the original executive order in an attempt to limit the checks and balances on this consultation. Trump has already set the groundwork for this after the 9th Circuit Court put a national hold on the ban, tweeting “Just cannot believe a judge would put our country in such peril. If something happens blame him and court system!”

And that moment—God forbid that it ever comes—will dramatically define the future of our republic.

Granted, it will be tempting to react in anger to another attack on our homeland, to wish violence upon those who did violence against us. This is what happened on September 11, 2001. In our rush to seize an eye for an eye we gladly gave away freedoms for the false promise of additional security. We are fortunate that George W. Bush power hungry or deranged enough to use this event to fashion himself Ultimate Honorable Leader. I firmly believe that Donald Trump would and will take this step if given half the chance.

This moment, if and when it comes, will test our resolve in a way it has never been tested before. It will require us as a nation to set aside pure furious retribution in favor of something more profound. It will require us to resist our baser instincts so that we may safeguard the future of democracy in our nation.

This will be our ultimate act of resistance. Because we won’t be fighting against the clearly incompetent and buffoonish Trump, we’ll be fighting against ourselves. Americans are innately violent and vengeful people—after all we took our country by violence (against both the British and Native Americans), protected the world through violence in two world wars, and engaged in violent actions in Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq, to name a few. This tendency toward violence is written into our very constitution as the right to keep and bear arms.

Some of this violence has been justified, even necessary. And despite our violent natures we are, of course, also capable of great acts of science, peace and empathy. But when we are threatened or injured, it is not to our better angels that we automatically look.

When this shock event occurs, we must redouble our efforts. We must demand that our lawmakers act with conscience and forethought. We must make it clear that it is our singular demand that our nation does not become incontrovertibly hardened by hate. This is not to say that we should not protect ourselves or retaliate against our aggressors. We are still the United States of America and we will not quietly suffer the death and destruction of our people or property. But our retaliation must be tempered with wisdom and justice.

We must fight the undeniable desire to settle the score at any cost. We must defy the breaking down of checks and balances and frightening consolidation of power. We must oppose Emperor Trump.

We must RESIST.

Yours in resistance,

~ Veritas Pugna Publicola

[lady-divine-writes]

31 Days of Ineffables - “The Perfect Proposal Rejection Present” (Rated Mature)

Summary: Aziraphale wants to marry Crowley. Crowley wants to marry Aziraphale, but he’s too afraid of Aziraphale Falling to say yes. And no matter what Aziraphale says, Crowley refuses to be persuaded. So in honor of his 100th rejection, Aziraphale gives Crowley a gift that’ll prove good things come to those who listen to their spurned not-yet-fiance.

Notes: Written for @drawlight’s ‘31 Days of Ineffables’ prompt 'gift’. Also, this is a trope. I know you all know it. Could probably smell it a mile away. I write it for every one of my fandoms. Sue me. I also rated this Mature for one comment that I’m sorry, I could never make in front of my teenager XD

Read on AO3.

Arguments start flying at Aziraphale fast and furious the second the mere suggestion they get married slips past his lips.

‘Oh boy,’ the angel thinks as he watches Crowley recharge his glass of whiskey, fueling up for the discussion ahead. ‘Better strap in. There’s no escaping this one.’

Because the only thing on Earth Crowley talks about more passionately than marrying Aziraphale, is not marrying Aziraphale.

“Angel, we’ve talked about this,” Crowley says, sinking against the edge of Aziraphale’s desk while Aziraphale retains his comfortable seat in his favorite chair. “I want to marry you. You know that. More than anything. But …”

“But …” Aziraphale leads in a teasing tone. He has no intention of letting this conversation become serious.

Not with what he has planned.

“But there are dangers. Risks. We’ve examined them … at length. And as much as I’m trying to find a solution, we haven’t found a way around them yet.”

“Crowley, I want to get married. I want to get married to you. I want to be married, and all that that entails.”

Crowley looks at his drink, the tops of his cheeks staining. That’s all Aziraphale needs to say for Crowley to know what he’s referring to.

The thing Crowley struggles the most with them doing, no matter how much they both want it.

They don’t need to be married for them to take the plunge and make love. Crowley simply feels it would be more proper. More befitting of Aziraphale.

But by creating that ultimatum, he’s also devised the ultimate bargaining chip – no sex until marriage, and no marriage until they find out definitively that Aziraphale marrying a demon will not cause him to Fall.

“Crowley, dear, my Falling is a possibility. A very real and, I’ll admit it, frightening possibility. But I’ve come to peace with it. I have no control over whether I Fall or not. Not really. I could Fall tomorrow for reasons that have nothing to do with you. It’s not something we should live in fear of. It’s not something we should put our future together on hold for.”

Crowley sighs. Without looking up from his glass he takes a drink, soaking in those words he’s heard Aziraphale say dozens of times. They make sense. And they’re definitely chipping away at his armor. But he has to keep rebuilding. He has to stick to his guns and believe that what he’s decided is what’s best.

For both of them.

Crowley’s fears about Aziraphale Falling don’t simply surround the Fall. Aziraphale becoming a demon doesn’t frighten Crowley as much as he thought it would.

It’s the thought that Aziraphale might resent Crowley afterwards. That he’ll blame him.

That he’ll never want to see him again.

That is Crowley’s one true fear – losing his whole world if Aziraphale Falls.

“Look …” Aziraphale rises from his seat so he can talk eye to eye with his demon “… I know how you feel. You have expressed your apprehensions over this very well. I just wish you had more faith in me.”

“I do have faith in you.” Crowley sets his glass aside, wondering when it suddenly became empty. “But I have to believe that the decision I’ve made on this is the right one … whether you see it or not.”

“And that’s your final word on the matter? Regardless of what I have to say?”

Crowley gulps. This is the question Aziraphale asks at the end of this argument every time.

And every time, it’s the hardest to answer.

Crowley doesn’t like seeing Aziraphale sad. He doesn’t like being the one to break his heart. When Aziraphale looks at him with those baby blue eyes, Crowley usually crumbles. Gives his angel anything he wants.

But he can’t. Not this time.

“Yes,” Crowley whispers, wishing he had another glass of whiskey to dive into.

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, I guess if that’s your answer, that’s your answer.” He turns his blue eyes away. Deep inside Crowley’s corporal form, beneath the lie of his human façade, his entire body weeps.

“I have something for you.” Aziraphale leans past Crowley and pulls a shimmery wrapped box with a curly bow on top from a drawer in his desk. He holds it out to Crowley, urging him silently to take it.

“What’s … what’s this?” Crowley asks, eyeing it in confusion.

“It’s a gift, you idiot,” Aziraphale says, dropping it in Crowley’s unprepared hands. “I figured you might object to yet my hundredth suggestion that we get married, so I decided that instead of battling your logic with my logic, I’d appeal to your baser instincts. You being a demon and all.”

Crowley snickers. This is new. “You’re battling my so-called baser instincts … with a gift?”

“Technically it’s what’s in the gift that I’m battling your baser instincts with.”

Crowley gives the gift a shake. It doesn’t make a sound. It’s also incredibly light for its size. “And that is …?”

“You’ll need to open it to find out.”

Crowley looks at the gift. He looks at Aziraphale. He looks down at his empty glass and groans.

“All right,” he decides, forgoing alcohol - for now - in order to get this over with. Then that’ll be done, and they can run out for lunch – crepes, cheesecake, a nice brioche – and put this behind them for another day. “I’ll do this your way …”

“That would be nice for once.”

Crowley pulls off the bow and tosses it over his shoulder onto the desk. Then he tears into the wrapping paper and drops it to the floor. Underneath the glittery gold and silver paper he finds a plain white box, the kind department stores give their customers to wrap gifts of clothes in. He pops the lid off and drops that to the floor as well, all under the watchful eyes of his angel. But when he finally opens it, Crowley sees nothing. Nothing in the box whatsoever.

He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, at his passive expression, but finds no answer there.

Crowley brings the box up to his face to take a peek, scans it from corner to corner, but there’s still nothing. He examines it using his demon senses, tries to divine any magic present.

But no. There’s nothing in the box.

The gift Aziraphale gave him … is nothing.

Kind of like what Crowley gives him when they have this conversation – no assurances, no promises. Nothing but excuses.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, hoping to find an answer to the empty gift that’s less depressing than his own assumptions.

“Yes, my dear?”

“There’s nothing in this box.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean you’re right. There’s nothing in the box. Exactly nothing. Like what I’d intended on wearing for the entirety of our honeymoon after we’d said I do.”

Crowley’s forehead creases as he considers the gift along with Aziraphale’s explanation.

“Nothing?” he mutters with a derisive snort. “How were you going to wear no—?” The box falls from his hands. Crowley’s eyes snap up. “What?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Aziraphale crouches down to pick up the discarded box and turns it over in his hands, giving it a shake to emphasize how utterly void of matter it is. “Nothing. Not a stitch. Not even my socks and garters.”

“You would … you would do that?” Crowley pushes off the desk, stands close to his angel.

“It was my intention all along, my dear. Pity.” Aziraphale sets the box gently down. “Seems a shame it’ll never happen.”

“Never happen …?” Crowley’s thoughts muddy, stick to the sides of his skull and along the outskirts of his throat. Yes, yes, he’s still afraid of Aziraphale Falling. That’s something his heart might never let go of. But this new revelation …

Every time Crowley had pictured them together, pictured them being intimate, it was making love, and the whole complicated production that goes with it – champagne, roses, four-poster bed topped with a sheer canopy, bubble bath beforehand. All the bells and whistles. And Crowley would do it, every single time if that’s what his angel wanted, because Aziraphale deserves that.

But it felt so stressful. So laborious.

And over and over again?

So dull.

It never occurred to him that Aziraphale might simply be down to fuck.

Why had that not occurred to him?

Oh, yeah. Because he didn’t ask.

And, in reality, that’s the root of their problem. Not Aziraphale Falling.

Crowley’s fears still abound. This hasn’t washed them away. But Aziraphale has a point. They’ve been slamming the brakes full stop because Crowley has said so instead of moving forward with caution. If they’re not going forward, they’re just standing still.

And they’ve been standing still for over 6000 years.

Crowley thought they’d been communicating fine about this, but that’s only because he’s been the one getting his way. But he hasn’t done such a good job at listening.

That empty box proves it.

And those baser instincts his angel mentioned?

They’re starting to tingle. Crowley never let them have a horse in this race before. He’d refused to be persuaded by his libido. But they’re suddenly joining the argument.

And they’re much more easily swayed.

Crowley winds an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, gazes at him fondly.

“Nothing?” he asks again, but it sounds more like, “Are you sure?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale assures him with a one-sided smirk.

“Well, then.” Crowley tightens his grip, pulling Aziraphale so close to his body their chests meet, their hips meet, and everything in between. “Have you ever been to Vegas, angel?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before he snaps his fingers and the pair of them are gone.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #31 days of ineffables #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #frankie writes