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misty-caligula · 11 months

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Okay, so I’m not used to really getting... noticed... in the way that I have been recently. And I’ve been kind of just vibing quietly before I actually respond to anything. But I got some responses to my big thesis post which I think warrant extra attention, because I think perhaps I wasn’t as clear as I wanted to be.

It’s worth mentioning that I have almost 500 posts up at this point, and have been very much immersed in yj theory for a fair while, so it’s hard to necessarily know how clear I am in any given context, and if I’m making assumptions of a reader. So I’m going to respond to a couple of things and see if I can redo a bit of Jackie/Coach stuff. My intention isn’t to say “Ah you’re wrong!” but to reframe my own position. If you don’t like what I’ve got to say that’s fine, I’m just a random on the internet. I’m not Right, I’m just thinking thoughts.

(Long post ahead about meta analysis of jackie and coach and society)

@inthegloomglow

Really good post but… coach and Jackie didn’t deserve to die for not being calm about all of this. They murdered his brother. I’m not sure that’s the point I’m supposed to get? But it’s weird to condemn them for that.

@areyoushuri

!!!! Criticizing Jackie and Coach for not being well adapted to the willingness and struggling to accept the rituals and cannibalism created is odd considering that the vast majority of viewers probably wouldn't survive/accept something like that. Yes, they're stubborn, not built for the wilderness, etc. but so many of the traits we criticize now served them well before the crash.

Okay! So first thing’s first. I do not hate Jackie or Coach. I think they’re both really interesting characters, with interesting through-lines. I think that they’re well acted, well written, and bring a lot of value to the plot. I’ve completely fallen in love with Jackie and Shauna’s really messy ... mess, and will absolutely go on giant tangents about it if you don’t stop me. I find Coach to be a really intricate and tragic portrayal of being queer in the 90s, one that speaks to me as someone who was struggling with being queer in the 90s, and whose dad was queer in the decades prior. I love these disasters, as I love all the disasters on this show.

I’m not critiquing them as people, I’m digging into the metatext of their actions as thematic devices. I also don’t know if this actually needs to be said but I’ll be very clear: If these were actual human beings then I wouldn’t want any of them to die, the point is that they are not humans, they are commentaries on society and culture and trauma and the way that people adapt or fail to adapt to changing situations. I don’t think people deserve to die for being wrong, or making mistakes... I just accept the theme of characters either surviving or dying based on their values within the show. I hope that’s clear, but just in case... there you go.

So my big concept of the show is that there’s this one giant question that the yellowjackets keep getting asked: “What really happened out there?” And that what DID really happen out there, fundamentally, is that there was a fracturing of social realities. Think of it like... the ‘jackets used to be part of “Society,” a huge world-wide group of all connected human cultures as a whole. And then they went off to the wilderness and they lost contact with Society, and they had to build a whole new culture all of their own from the ground up. We’ll call that the Team. Then they were suddenly rescued, after they’d fully given up on ever seeing Society again, and were forcibly thrown back in, and now are expected to just... reassimilate. And they’re struggling to do so.

So if you think about the show as a collection of big chunks, you can think of it like this:

> The ‘jackets are normal kids, living in and learning from, and protected by Society

> Their connection to Society is severed, but they expect rescue, and so they build a micro outpost of Society in the wilderness

> They slowly realise they’re never going to be saved

> They begin to recognise that the values and lessons that Society gave them are not all helpful in the wilderness and will get them killed. They start to develop the Team to replace what’s not working

> The Team grows in power, and the individual survivors have to make a decision about whether they’re going to remain loyal to Society or join the Team. Those who don’t join the Team die, not because they’re bad but because Society cannot protect them in the wilderness. To be very clear, neither Society, nor the Team, are inherently good or bad, they’re simply cultures that exist and offer each individual a place within them to provide and be provided for. But Society is NOT here, it’s a memory of a culture that’s been severed, and cannot provide anything anymore, only the Team is capable of doing so. THAT’S why only Team members can survive.

> The only survivors left are Team members, the Team stabilizes into a functioning self-perpetuating system

> They’re rescued and forcibly reintegrated into Society

> The remaining Team members now find themselves in the opposite situation, the Team is now toxic and can’t help them anymore, just like Society couldn’t help them in the wilderness, and they need to shed it to adapt back to Society just like they shed Society the first time. Those who can do so will eventually live long and happy lives. Those who can’t will die.

Coach and Jackie’s big thing in common isn’t that they suck, or that they’re unpleasant to be around. It’s that they’re Society loyalists. They just can’t let go. And what I think is most interesting about that is that both of them are being MISTREATED by Society. They’ve both been assigned roles that they cannot fill, and have held onto those roles SO tightly that it’s getting them killed.

Jackie’s absolutely plastered with unearned privilege. She’s constantly being told how perfect and brilliant and incredible she is. But she knows it’s a lie. And in order to defend her place, to justify her situation, and protect herself from anyone finding out, she holds Shauna SO close to her, so that she can have someone to feel constantly superior to. To make her look good by comparison. Except that Shauna is so many of the things that she secretly knows she isn’t and feels she NEEDS to be. So she spends a lot of effort beating Shauna down and focusing on convincing her that she has all these flaws and things so that she doesn’t realise that Jackie’s not actually this perfect person that people tell her she has to be.

Once she’s in the wilderness and Shauna starts to shine on her own - because the Team simply needs a different set of skills than Society did and Shauna’s willing to engage with it - Jackie’s control slips and she resents it, she fears it so much. And she can’t accept losing that level of authority that she got given by Society, to take a lower role with the Team. And so she stays loyal to Society even when it’s nonsensical. She sits in the snow and simply waits to be rescued, because that’s what Society has taught her to do.

But the Team doesn’t work like that. It requires Team members to be self-sufficient, and to work together. Jackie won’t go inside because Society has taught her to wait for Shauna to submit to her authority and apologise and invite her in, to give her the position that she Deserves. Shauna won’t do that because the Team has taught her that each Team member needs to be a part of the whole, that Jackie must eventually request permission to join the Team as a regular member. It’s a conflict that doesn’t get resolved, because neither will budge, but in the wilderness the Team can protect you and Society cannot, so Jackie’s faith in Society is punished with death.

That’s why Jackie can’t make a basic campfire to literally save her life. Because the Team would’ve taught her how, would’ve required her to learn. Society would provide her with someone to do it for her. So she just never bothered to learn. It’s why she’s unable to recognise just how dangerously cold it’s getting and be REASONABLE and knock on the door. Because Society has taught her that she’s protected from danger, that if it ever got Dangerous someone would come and help her. She doesn’t know the difference between damn cold and dying cold. Society works because of hundreds, thousands, millions, billions of people working together in intricate systems of mutual support and deep heirarchy. You don’t need to know how to put out a fire because when your house catches fire you call 911. You don’t need to know how to escape the wilderness because when you get lost they send a rescue helicopter. But without the connection to Society its lessons are literally destructive - Sit and wait until you die. Rescue isn’t coming.

Sidenote: If you want to go REALLY deep into the meta of it, the Team then gets rewarded with food by predating on Jackie as a vestige of Society, much the same way as they get little bits of technology by picking apart the wreckage of the plane. The plane is useful to Society as a transport, it’s useful to the Team as a source of supplies. Jackie is useful to Society as a member, is useful to the Team as a source of food. But I digress.

Now Society isn’t always a nice place to be, and Jackie’s not treated all that well within it either. People find her frustrating and comment on how undeserving she is of her position. They actively go behind her back when they can, Jeff cheats on her with her supposedly lesser best friend, Coach Martinez tells her to her face that she’s kinda mid, and people are generally mildly annoyed at her most of the time. But Society has her back, and as long as she plays by the rules, and follows the lessons, her life is pretty much made. It won’t necessarily be everything she ever dreamed of, but she’s solid, pragmatically. But the stress it puts on her, to conform and try to fit the role she’s arbitrarily placed into by Society is going to slowly ruin her and she’ll end up a bitter and unhappy person if she remains completely committed to it (assuming they never crashed, obviously). And what she doesn’t seem to realise is that the Team offers her community, and acceptance, and respect on the terms of her actual reality, on what she’s able to genuinely provide, whatever that is. But she’s so caught up in holding onto Society that it literally gets her killed.

That’s not to say that she doesn’t have a potential place in Society where she could be genuinely happy. Just that the one that she’s assigned isn’t right for her. If she was able to be let go of her fear, if she was able to be honest and stop trying to conform to the expectations put on her by those around her, and take a position in Society that more suited her she COULD have a perfectly comfortable life, happy and healthy. But the fact that she’s been assigned this life path that she knows doesn’t fit, that she’s so insecure about, is what MAKES her such an unwavering loyalist for Society, because she has so much to lose.

And that’s what makes her and Coach so similar. Coach is born in the ‘60s, is brought up in the ‘70s and ‘80s. We don’t know when he realised he’s gay, but it has to have been a very scary thing for him. He has been living in a world of deep and abiding homophobia his whole life (I remember the 90s, I can only imagine the 70s...) and then came AIDS. For his whole life Society has convinced him that living in the closet is a life-preserving choice. That he can get all kinds of value from Society, all sorts of good things, as long as he plays by the rules, fits his assigned role. And being gay simply doesn’t fit his role.

So he hides it. He hides it despite the fear it causes, the pain it causes, the fact that it keeps him away from Paul whom he loves. He takes on a job that he hates, surrounding himself with a bunch of girls who he despises. Because, as Natalie said, if he actually threw in his lot with Paul, if he went against Society, then he’d be reliant on Paul (and by extension the Gay microculture) in a really intense way and if he lost him then he’d have nothing left. He’d have blown his entire life up, and been stuck. Coach, like Jackie, is ruled by his fear that without Society’s handouts of privilege and gifts and authority that he’d simply have nothing left on his own. It’s a painfully real portrayal of the fear and self-hatred that perpetuates the ongoing trauma of the closet in the real world.

He’s spent his entire life giving up real parts of himself for the sake of Society, he’s all-in. And he, like Jackie, is just too invested to let go. He can’t appreciate that Society has nothing to offer him in the wilderness, that the Team can and will protect him if he lets it. A lot of people make jokes about the idea that Coach might be eaten if he sticks around too long, because he only has one leg. But that kind of ablest absolutism is Society thinking. Because the Team still hasn’t turned on him. When they decided they needed to sacrifice someone for Lottie they didn’t say “Okay, where’s Coach gone? Let’s go hunt him.”

The Team just doesn’t have the room to see him that way. NOBODY is expendable in the wilderness, every sacrifice is an agony they struggle to cope with. And... I guess if you wanted to get very dark with it, Coach’s missing leg means that his food value ratio to his potential value as a Team member is lower.

And Coach has shown plenty of value to the team in the wilderness. He’s actually capable of providing real advice as an adult with life experience. He taught them to shoot and hunt, he made sure that Nat wouldn’t get pregnant (thank GOD after the nightmare that Shauna went through), he’s perfectly capable of holding down the fort, and once he’s adapted he’s remarkably capable of getting around. To the Team he’s a pair of hands, a thinking mind, company, experience, and just... a human being. To Society he’s lost a lot of value, but the Team simply doesn’t conceptualise him like that.

And when he WANTS to, he proves how capable he really is. He got to the cliff on his own without too much struggle. He got into and out of the cave all on his own. Not saying it’s easy to be an amputee, but it’s not AS disabling as a lot of people would assume. And he’s still got a perfectly functioning mind, hands, etc. What he doesn’t have is a will to join the Team. To genuinely engage with the reality they’re in.

Again, this is reiterated with a second camp fire disaster, making the point that he’s been in the wilderness for most of a year now and he still can’t do something as simple, as fundamental to Team survival (but not Society survival) as lighting a tiny fire. Because in Society he’d never have to, Society simply provides. And in the wilderness he’s been relying on the Team to provide and not recognised that he’s been doing that. Not recognised the fact that he’s not been pitching in. That every fire he didn’t light someone else did. Every scrap of warmth he’s enjoyed all winter has been provided by the Team, not Society.

In S1E10 when Shauna gives up on Society and finally commits to the Team she does so with a fight with Jackie. And the only person on Jackie’s side is Coach, the other Society loyalist, who - like Jackie - assumes a position of authority based on his status within Society. And Lottie - the Team authority - says “Stay out of it, Coach.” She asserts that this is Team business, that Society has no say here. And, without Society providing the backup behind his words, and without actually contributing anything to the Team (not because he Can’t but because he Won’t) Coach has absolutely no power and no say, and he disengages from this point. And because he simply won’t join the Team his fate is sealed.

Coach also provides a viewpoint on the Team from Society’s perspective. Because the audience perspective is so deeply rooted in the Team, Coach’s viewpoint is the alternative. He’s the last tiny vestige of what they left behind. Like a tourist, watching a culture he doesn’t understand, assuming that he’s better than them, that they’re evil, that he knows what’s Really Going On. That his loyalty to Society will someday gain him some sort of advantage or reward, even as he stands on the edge of the cliff. Because his attachment to Society is so strong that he’d rather die than join the Team, an unthinkable option.

So when Coach sees the ‘jackets eating Jackie, his response of horror is not just that of Coach Ben Scott reacting to cannibalism in his face. It’s also the response of Society to the unforgivable breach of social laws by the Team. The fact that they’re able to do it, that they seem to be enjoying it, completely giving into the deepest taboo... he can’t handle it and neither, by extension, can Society. And as he’s powerless to stop it he simply closes the door, trying to separate himself from them. When he finds Shauna carving up Javi he tries to rescue Nat, the only Team member he sees as somehow redeemable, as a potential Society ally. And when she rejects him, when she shows him that she, who was on the fence, has now willingly and knowingly joined the Team he sees in her his faith in Society collapsing. Because here’s the girl who he put up on a pedestal, as “the good one” and she’s rejected Society. So either a) he’s wrong about Society, and Nat’s right. Or b) he’s wrong about Nat and right about Society.

Or a secret, third option, he could lose himself in a tantrum of repressed rage, burn down the cabin and also throw himself off the cliff, giving up on EVERYTHING in the process. (That’s my personal theory, but we’ll have to wait to find out)

Now he COULD respond at this point by going “Fuck it, fine, I can be a Team member too, if it saves my life.” And he might find in it the kind of value the rest have found. But doing that would require him to accept that they’re never ever going to be rescued. That Society truly is gone. That it was all for nothing. That he gave up his life, gave up Paul, gave up happiness and love and everything ... and never got his reward. No, he HAS to keep holding on, has to keep believing that there is a point, is a purpose to it. For his own sanity.

Again, we can read really deep into the meta of this and say... that’s what coming out of the closet really is. It’s saying “I’m SICK of giving up so much for Society, and I don’t believe that the reward is there, or if it is that it’s worth it. If the alternative is to be a monster, as Society tells me I am if I’m queer, then fuck it I’ll be the monster you say I am. Because that’s what’s going to keep me happy, to give me love, to feed me, and give me a life I want to live.” I’m not saying that it’s a completely 1 to 1 exact match, but you get the idea.

And so Coach tries to destroy the Team, tries to reassert the dominance of Society, because the Team is a bunch of inhuman monsters as far as Society is concerned. They’re deviant, corrupted, feral. But they’re not. They’re just trying to create a new culture that will get them from monday to sunday without dying on tuesday. They’re just trying to face a harsh reality with a perspective that makes sense, to them. They’re neither bad, nor good, neither moral or immoral. They’re surviving, or dying, and that’s what matters in the wilderness.

*Intermission, go grab some snacks*

Okay so this is already really really long, but you can flip the script and watch the exact same story happening in reverse in the adult timeline too. In Season 1 the whole big question is why is Travis dead? Who killed him?

And the answer is... the Team did. Like, in a LITERAL sense, he put the noose on his own neck. And Lottie pressed the button, at his command. He literally did kill himself. But he never intended to die, and what got him there was the Team. He genuinely believed that he needed to do the ritual in order to connect with It for all their sakes. And he - like Coach and Jackie in the wilderness - was wrong. The rituals they’d developed, the beliefs they’d formed to cope in the Team simply were of no use now they were back in Society.

But he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t accept that they were truly out of the danger, that the trauma was really over. That Society could protect them, when he’d had it proven so powerfully to him that it couldn’t help them in the wilderness. And his unending and irrational faith in the Team is literally what killed him. And Lottie, who MIGHT’VE been able to somehow rescue him from the situation - she was standing RIGHT THERE - was herself so absorbed in Team thinking that she instead just stood by as he died.

(Again, I really really need to be clear, I do not hate any of these characters, I love them all dearly and I’m reading into the meta rather than their literal actions, I don’t blame Lott for her actions as I don’t blame Travis for his, this is just how the story is written and WHY)

I could make a similar argument about Nat, and almost did, but she’s SO complex (she and Shauna have such intricate relationships to the Team and Society) it would honestly take up as much space as I’ve already written now and my brain’s getting tired. But I will end with a little thing I thought of as I was writing this.

There’s a third Society loyalist I forgot to mention: Laura Lee.

Laura’s faith in God is mirrored with her faith in Society. Neither are based on anything solid in the wilderness, she never gets any form of external validation of any of her beliefs. She just interprets what happens through her own lens and assumes she’s right. She’s been provided with a role of spiritual authority by Society, in an acceptable religion, and she assumes that she’s competent to hold it. When Lottie comes to her for advice, she provides it and assumes she’s correct. When Lottie sees things she interprets them as though her opinions were fact. When she sees the plane she decides that she should use it to save everyone, and because she decided that, she assumes that it’s God’s will, and so she assumes she cannot fail. That God has her back. Just as she, and Jackie, and Coach, assume that Society has their backs.

In the plane, Laura Lee sees her opportunity to reconnect with Society. And her unwavering faith in the capacity of God to provide protection from harm and Society to provide functional and reliable transportation without needing to work for it ... gets her killed. The lack of connection to Society, and the incapability of Society, and its’ God, to provide for the Team is displayed as a giant fireball in the sky for all to see, proof that they are truly, deeply alone. That Society cannot help them here. But it still takes a while for the lesson to really sink in. And for some of them, it just never does.

#yellowjackets #long post #spoilers #theory #meta

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clare-with-no-i · 2 years

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whenever ur ready to give us the goods 🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲 pretty white smile directors cut 🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲 xo suze

hey bestie @thequibblah <3 ty for this / sorry in advance for how long it’s going to be, I’m sure

EDIT: oh god I was right this is a novel. oh my god can i shut up ever in my entire life

The Idea

So, the original conceit of pws was really about digging into the harsh, unpleasant realities of Lily’s life at Hogwarts, and I prepared to do so by making her a little bit more grey and brusque—that’s where the beginning note comes from, actually. I wrote that before most of the story was finished. Looking at it now, I don’t think it even comes into play that much in the finished product, because I spent a lot of time considering and reconsidering what this piece might mean and what messaging I wanted to get across.

I kept coming back to this one core concept, though: if I, as a Jewish person, were reading a piece about a character experiencing anti-Semitism, would I want it to be this dark, claustrophobic trauma porn that fundamentally changes a notably good and positive character? No, as a matter of fact. I wouldn’t. It’s one of those moments where the trope/the idea didn’t really fit the character or the setting, so I ended up abandoning it; and I’m glad I did! I think this is both more of an honest portrayal of Lily—something that could easily fit in my versions of canon—and it’s more of a well-rounded account of dealing with prejudicial thinking and ostracism. Like, yeah, Lily’s situation sucks (duh); but to deny her pockets of happiness and the opportunity to feel safe and loved, and to act accordingly? Not really my game.

Also, this was supposed to be 3k words. tf. I have no self control. chronic not shutting up disease wins again ig

The Motifs

So, to get into the story itself, we see two primary themes introduced in the first section:

That Lily still feels a connection to non-magical education, and that she wants to continue to teach herself disciplines like biology (and later psychology, literature, etc). This also introduces the recurring motif of ‘things lily learns through Petunia’s textbooks.’

Predator/prey imagery, and metaphors about animals. This is the biggest one IMHO, but that might just be because it’s the original motif I based the story around. Kit / Moonpuup labelled this lily “Lioness Lily” and I absolutely love that hehe

The Blood Prejudice

One day, on the walk to Hogsmeade, a Ravenclaw girl recounts loudly the story of her father rejecting a muggle-born apprentice for his archive of European wand-makers.

Not because he’s prejudiced, she disclaims loudly, but because it wouldn’t make any sense. Muggle-borns didn’t grow up with family heirloom wands, with an appreciation for the art. How could they be expected to properly account for their history?

Fitting in the different ways through which dynamics of oppression make themselves known (like this type of gross rationalization) was really important to me throughout pws. The pervasiveness of prejudiced thinking is so often that it’s easily ‘justified’, and can be masked and reframed as harmless.

There are also two mentioned incidents of a muggle-born-owned establishment being burned down or having the glass of its windows shattered; I intentionally wanted that to be reminiscent of things like Kristallnacht and pre-Nazi Germany. That’s one thing I’m pretty consistent about—I lean into the real-world parallel of Nazism, because @ Jo if you’re going to write a fake Hitler you might as well actually invest the reader in the precipitating events

She will let them walk away with her lips sealed shut, will listen to their jibes and their slurs and their cheap jokes without doing a single thing, because it serves her better to smile with pretty white teeth and let them think that her smile grew blunt-edged, that she hadn’t spent years in the mirror sanding down sharp enamel, practicing bloody-lipped grins in the mirror.

Because she knows that it’s only prey animals who mistake themselves for predators, not the other way around.

This was one of the first things I wrote in pws. I love the (metaphorical) idea of Lily sanding down fangs in the mirror and practicing something docile and unassuming like her smile, trying to tamp down the part of herself that wants to fight back. It’s a bit brutal and a bit shocking as an image, but it felt really emotionally authentic for her in this moment. Also, the teeth and smile motif follows for the rest of the story, and it’s the basis for the title.

Kisses him and thinks, I’m no better than that scientist. I want to surround myself with people who will always scope out the threats. People who will always draw first.

Having Lily get a muggle-born boyfriend was also important to me; not so much because he’d be some sort of foil character for James, but rather because it shows a lot about 1) companionship amongst people who feel targeted, and 2) Lily’s priorities at this point. She states directly what she wants out of a relationship—someone who understands her feelings, someone who grew up experiencing the same things she does.

It’s not that she wants refuge, she just wants solidarity. This changes as she grows; as she gradually allows herself to consider the possibility that safety might be possible to some degree.

First James Appearance :) :)

The transfiguration scene was really fun. Not only because I got to introduce little bits of canon like James’s talent for Transfig and Lily’s competitiveness with academia, but also because you see their belief systems but on display in this small, microcosmic interaction: Lily making a joke about how people want her dead (coping mechanism, you might say?) and James reacts disproportionately because he’s not used to being blasé about these things; he’s still, at this point, very black-and-white on what is and isn’t acceptable.

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs

I loved writing this, and I loved calling back to it. Fun fact - I had the callback written first, the scene where they’re making out and James saying he wants to take care of her causes the hierarchy to move around in her head. But after I wrote that, I was like: that is such a great, concrete image, and not only is it something that Lily could learn about in a muggle textbook, but it is also so deeply connected to dynamics of privilege and their complexities. I loved that it made it possible to attack hierarchies of privilege in a multifaceted way; there are some people who have blood privilege but not economic privilege, and vice versa, and other combinations thereof. Some people have needs of safety fulfilled but not esteem, or belonging. Some people have all of them - James included.

They were born in self-actualization, never worried for a second about things like safety or belonging. They sit prettily at the top of the pyramid, soft-palmed and smiling. She knows they will never recognize the calluses on her hands; the scars and the tears from sixteen years spent climbing.

I loved these lines. I loved describing something as ‘soft-palmed,’ not only because (as the CT discord girlies know) I love hand imagery, but as well, because it calls back to this aristocratic idea of softness and atrophied muscle as symbolic of wealth; the less manual labor you had to do, the more wealthy and soft you looked.

Sirius being…Sirius

Sirius’s scene was a bit of unexpected humor. I thought a lot about how I wanted the romance between James and Lily to come about, and the main thing I concluded was that I wanted it to be sort of lackadaisical, a little nonsensical and unplanned. I wanted it introduced in moments that Lily was not expecting, AKA she had not planned for, and I wanted her not to make sense of it internally. She spends so much of this fic being intentional, and observant, and I really found it enriching to make James this thing she hadn’t seen coming, and that threw her off from her survival mode.

Plus, this scene gave me the opportunity to say:

James talks slow and easy, the master of his speech, like he owns language in its entirety. If he slips up or stutters, it’s because he wants to; to make the other person feel comfortable, to lower himself like how he shrugs his shoulders down to direct the younger students, ducks his head. A man of the people.

I mean. that’s just Him, right?

Religion and The Bathroom Scene

maybe, she thinks, some part of her has always been wired to be incompatible with the church. Maybe the space in her body where faith was supposed to be stored was filled with magic instead.

Lily’s relationship with the church and religion was super fun to play around with in this fic. She’s not disdainful about it, and she doesn’t begrudge her family their faiths, but she lacks this intrinsic sense of belonging to it; further, she feels actively rejected by it. I think it’s a feeling that a lot of people can relate to, the isolation of not believing what you think you’re supposed to believe.

But I did want to keep her connected to her family. Again, it was important for me to give her reprieve, and give the reader time to take some breaths.

Before I get into the bathroom scene, there’s a little idiosyncrasy I want to point out: Lily’s description of colors. She called leaves ‘red-yellow,’ and sunlight ‘yellow-orange,’ and the light in James’s bedroom ‘red-gold.’ This was intentional! I felt really inhabited in her narrative voice in pws, and it came to me that this is a small quirk of hers, an intentional rejection of convention—a fun little rebellion for her to partake in privately. There are definitely words in the English language that describe those colors, but I really enjoyed the idea that Lily has her own creative classifications for them, and that she can sort of play around in her head to describe things in a manner that befits her. Like, she fits in some space between her two worlds, so other things (colors included) now exist in dichotomy, as well. This was sooo tiny and inconsequential but I just loved adding it.

anyway.

I had someone in the comments point out that they enjoyed that it was girls who attacked Lily and not boys, and I was like!!! Yes!!! Women get overlooked as perpetrators of harm so often, especially women in positions of privilege like straight / cis / white women. It was important to me that this attack be committed by women, and that we don’t know their houses (Pendita Parkinson, maybe, but not the others).

She knows she’s not quick enough, and she should be collapsing and writhing until they inevitably kill her, but instead, in a way it never has before, magic explodes out of her and reverberates around the room, sending the girls sprawling and throwing their wands against the walls. She sees Pendita’s snap in half.

A few things here: first, having Lily stop an Unforgivable was something I’d planned since the beginning; yes you all guessed it, I wanted to set up the Voldemort Halloween moment! She has that power! That untapped inherent magic that, if she wants to, she can weaponize! Second: I wanted to call back here to when Lily joked with James about people wanting her wand snapped, and what that symbolism means. To snap Pendita’s wand, ostensibly do this thing that bars her from magic, felt like a good way to give Lily this unexpected agency.

Instead, Lily walks over to the row of sinks to wipe the blood from her mouth and fix a pretty smile in the mirror. In her reflection, a teenage girl wears messy red lipstick and too much blush on one cheekbone. Shaking hands brush crimson hair back and off of her shoulders. She pushes the door open with one hand, grabs her wand in the other, and makes her way back to Gryffindor Tower.

This is one of the moments where the title comes in full-force: Lily turns these injuries on her face—the blood on her lips from being punched, the redness that’s going to be a bruise from being slammed into the wall, the way her hair was pulled—into some facsimile of beauty. Blood becomes lipstick; a bruise becomes blush. We see violence and femininity, the ways they can be confused and intertwined.

Loved having her say ‘I am the rapture.’ Fuck yeah you are.

What Do You Like About Me?

This entire scene was just realization after realization. And, like, you’d think she would know already that he liked her—for fuck’s sake, Sirius told her! But in pws she is so focused on getting through the day that she just has not developed a sense for people genuinely wanting good things for her, and maybe wanting her as a result; it is so foreign that James could be in love with her that it takes him drunkenly saying you know what I like about you? To make her think, YOU LIKE ME??

“I like that you let people think you’re not dangerous,” he murmurs, and she stills. “It’s like…it’s like you’re a cat, and you let people pet you—er, sorry, this is an odd metaphor, I guess, I don’t even know what that means—” he clears his throat, “—but you’re like this cat that everyone thinks is so cute, but then you still have fangs and claws. And you know how to use them.”

having James just…See Her in this way was the big thing for me. He is not put off by how dangerous she is. He does not begrudge that she hides this danger; he's beginning to understand the necessity of it. and he likes her for it all the more.

She wants to keep talking to him. She wants to know what else he likes. She wants to tell him every little thing she likes about him, all the things that are only at this very moment forming speakable words in her mind, after seven years of silent accumulation. She wants to keep being seen like this; to show him that she sees him, too. Even if she always used to pretend to look away.

This is the first time that Lily articulates a genuine, non-survival-based want. She just wants something to have it. And what a freeing thing, right?

Also, the entire conversation is left up to her: he doesn’t say here’s what I like about you. He asks a question, and he lets her lead. God the power dynamics between them are so FUN and so HEALTHY I love Jily

Dating James and Feeling Safe

Having James get into a fistfight with Slytherins over her is soooooo not new (shoutout tmwysl, it is my Bible) but hey if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. It also is so good for serving up the idea that Lily is jarred by this new security she feels, and there’s that instinct of hers to reject it and go back to warrior mode. I think it’s also emblematic of who James is when they start dating: too quick to engage, too sure that just because he believes the right thing, it should always be acted on.

But then, flash-forward, in the next scene (four months later approx) Lily describes him as:

the exquisite peak of humanity: holds himself back when he’s angry, thinks through his every move, makes existence look effortless and facile. Mammalian instincts curbed but not scrubbed from existence.

So, you see? He’s LEARNING. OR she’s just seeing him through rose-colored glasses. Or some combination thereof.

“James,” Lily says through a kiss as she parts the sides of his button-down, “leave it. You can take my shirt off later. Just, let me—”

I wanted to engage Lily’s survival instincts with her sexuality from the get-go, so this scene was really important to me. The idea that she not only feels the need to perform femininity and harmlessness in her daily life, but then she also feels compelled to perform femininity in a sexual setting insofar as the need to sacrifice her own pleasure to focus on James, felt vital to the narrative. As I’ve come into adulthood, I’ve thought a lot about what conditioned instincts women experience during intimacy: to be smaller, to divert focus, to not be ‘difficult’ or ‘needy.’ I suppose there’s something to be said for the fact that Lily’s taking some sort of initiative here, with him, but in a later paragraph, her narration elaborates:

The first time they get to this point, Lily sat herself in his lap and curled her fingers into his hair, pressed herself down on him at every possible junction. Focused on drawing gasps and groans from his throat, reached down to place one hand on his beating heart. It was strong and fast beneath her palm. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. She wanted so badly to feel it jump, to know that it was because of her.

She is invested in his experience not just as a willing and enthusiastic partner, but more so as someone desperate to feel sexual and wanted; insecurity masked by overcompensation, as though this experience is another in which she’ll have to calculate and prepare. It actually takes James’s articulation that he wants to take care of her that allows her to somewhat let go of that. Hoping this doesn’t come across as a ‘boy teaches girl sex’ moment but more, like…being safe in an emotional and interpersonal sense, where you can begin to let down those barriers.

Also, I believe one of my favorite and most symbolically loaded lines:

So she tips her head back and bares her neck, expects to feel teeth. Shivers when she receives lips instead.

In pretty much all things in pws, Lily is teeth; wanting to bite his neck, smiling and imagining fangs. James is lips, softness and whispers. he has a lot of the spoken dialogue in their interactions, which I did intentionally. she bares her neck to him, this incredibly vulnerable part of herself, and he chooses a path of affection and gentleness.

The “I Love You”’s

A fan fav I did not expect:

Because wizards have always understood that magic is wonderful, but they always seem to forget the other side of the equation: that wonder, in itself, is magical.

Yeah, I’ve always been really tied to the idea that Lily refuses to be ashamed of her muggle background, and there is so much about her upbringing that she wishes would be recognized in the wizarding world. And I think that we kind of forget, reading about a world with a concrete magic system, that so much of the real world is so magical. Love is magic. Happiness is magic. Wonder, of course, is magic.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

The TS Elliot quote was something I’ve read before but popped up recently on The Internet, and I was like oh. ok this is amazing and fitting for the scene - how the idea of telling James she loves him is, in some way, the end of the world as she knows it; and so is letting that love in, receiving it. Also helped that I literally made her whimper. I love being the arbiter of what people do

Again, I wanted to take these really significant moments in their relationship and sort of…either not mention them at all or turn them on their heads. We never get a quoted dialogue “I love you” from Lily, but we get the moment it happens, and we get how she feels and how she processes it—which, in this version of her, felt much more important to get across.

Also, the last line:

So she does. She does, she does, she does.

To write something that repetitive and that short felt almost whimsical, which I really liked, as though the narration itself is sort of giggling. It’s almost childlike; and I found that to be a real comfort—that she’s healing her inner child here, letting those giddy moments arise and giving credence to them. It’s like—squee! she does love him! she does she does she does!

Final Section: Harry

When I first wrote this scene, it went in a different direction. Lily was not as fond of James’s “no fangs” comment, and she was sort of looking to Harry as her one living relative who might get where she’s coming from. But then, as the story evolved, I completely reclassified how I think she would feel about the interaction: not resentful of James, but glad that their son will be raised in a household that is so steeped in goodness, that has both survival and leisure as normal.

I wrote the ending lines pretty much write after I wrote the beginning - which, I think, is pretty obvious, given the number of parallels between them. I was really worried that people would be freaked out by Lily mentally encouraging Harry to engage in violence, but as I refined more aspects, it felt so fitting and undeniable: she will teach him how to survive. He will have to learn, because people want him dead just like they wanted her dead, if not more.

Other Stuff

I said in the notes of the story, and I still believe it, that this is first and foremost a story about safety. But even past that, it’s about what safety might mean for a person throughout their life; does it mean freedom from harm? Does it mean intimacy without embarrassment? Does it mean belonging to someone, have someone belong to you in turn? That’s sort of what I was thinking about as I wrote.

An unspoken theme here is the ‘fight or flight’ instinct; but, as I have learned, it’s actually fight, flight, freeze, submit, attach. You see Lily do all of those in pws. She fights, she runs away, she freezes, she submits, and she attaches.

I enjoyed writing pws so much! I love Lily so much and am so protective of her as a character, so to really nestle into the hardships of her life was tough but ultimately rewarding.

YEAH that’s about it, love u thank u mwah

#my stuff #pretty white smile #director's cut #i am so embarrassing this is genuinely multiple thousands of words for an 8k story #and i'm sure i forgot stuff too! tf!

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bookandcover · 3 years

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Our monthly book for our family’s Anti-Racism Book Club, Sister Outsider is a collection of essays by foundational Feminism theorist and activist poet Audre Lorde. It was interesting and illuminating to appreciate, as I read, that these essays were penned and published between 1976 and 1983 because so many of the concepts Lorde explores are central to how race, gender, and sexuality are discussed, in academia and in activism, today. Most notably, in my mind, are her descriptions of intersectionality and how intersectionality operates in each life, shaping our perspectives and experiences. Lorde doesn’t use the term “intersectionality,” but this is what she so profoundly describes, as she advocates for unity through diversity (and not “in spite of” or “by erasing” differences). She offers an incredible message of hope. The task she sets to all of us is not an easy one, but it’s a powerful one and one she deeply believes in: through seeing each other more fully, through understanding the intersections of someone else’s complex identity and where that identity does or does not overlap with our own, we can find shared humanity and shared conviction to fight for change.

Audre Lorde is Black, female, lesbian, and the mother of two children. Her perspective and experiences are shaped by these different aspects of her identity, and she explains how each part of her multi-faceted identity has placed her outside of society’s “norms” in a variety of contexts. Even within sub-communities, she has found herself on the outside because of one of her identities. She describes how, when hoping to attend a Feminism conference for queer women, she wasn’t sure how to attend and care for her teenage son, as no boys over age 10 were allowed at the conference. Lorde’s identities do not have a “hierarchy of othering” nor are they separable from each other. Through these essays, she shows how these identities are linked, yet one may be more central to certain experiences than others. She identifies with women across the Feminist movement, yet her Blackness is often misunderstood or blatantly judged by white women. She identifies with Black men struggling against racism, and speaks about Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., but she’s repeatedly othered and traumatized by the violence against Black women perpetuated by Black men. She speaks out about the violence and hatred from Black people directed at other Black people and she does a lot to explain and examine “internalized racism” (another term that she describes without using this exact wording, and yet it’s a concept that’s important in race discussion today). I wondered whether Lorde is credited with developing these concepts, and how other thinkers built on her ideas, and where the specific terminology itself came from. I’ll do some more digging.

In our family discussion, my sister pointed out how much she liked the part in the Introduction—written by a white, Jewish, Lesbian mother—in which the author explained that Lorde’s explanation of and examination of her intersectional identity allowed the author to examine her own. Although these two women’s identifies are not the same, the act of intersectional thinking and awareness that Lorde demonstrates allowed the author of the Introduction to better think about these things in herself and to process how to discuss her complex identity with her son. I found this to be such a poignant point—that intersectionality can function as a tool. It doesn’t mean we need to identity with Lorde’s perspective in a specific sense (and the majority of readers will not be able to, having their own identities that are complex, but different than Lorde’s) but we can identify with her ways of thinking about identity. We can learn from her methodology and apply it to ourselves and to our interactions with others. There are a lot of aspects of our intersectional identities that we take for granted on a daily basis. These are the ones that align with the “norm,” the privileged identity in America, and therefore are those we are not forced by others to repeatedly be aware of…the world is designed to fit those aspects of identity. But that doesn’t mean we should not actively examine these aspects of identity as well, and I feel that intersectionality helps us do this, helps us “check our privilege” in these areas. If I read about the experiences of a Black, female lesbian, I gain new understanding of the things I take for granted in my whiteness and my heterosexuality. If I read something written by someone with a physical handicap, I gain new understanding of how I take my able-bodiedness for granted. This does not work only across one dimension, but across many dimensions simultaneously, as I feel affinity for Lorde in her femaleness, but also nuanced understanding of how her experience of being female has been fundamentally different than my own.

This book gave me confidence to speak up about race and identity, more so, I think, than any other we’ve read since June 2020. Because identity is so complex, I am going to make mistakes. I am going to be blatantly racist, sexist, homophobic, classist, and many more things, as these things are ingrained in all of us by society. I am going to be the most blind in the areas where I have experienced the most privilege. But each person’s identity is complex, and race conversations are not “us versus them”—it’s “me and you,” talking and processing, and trying to get to know our differences. Lorde has such a strong conviction in the process of unity, of coming through understanding of each other and each other’s diversity. And it’s clear that this is only achieved through closeness, through effort, through work and discussion (which is inherently painful because it works out the deep thorns of hatred). Lorde’s faith in this is so powerful and it uplifted me to try, with each person, to get closer to understanding their intersectional identities. I know that this is not a project that I can expect another person to enter into with me, and Lorde points to several times when she’s exhausted by this work, when she acknowledges how less emotionally-taxing certain conversations about race with white people would be if they were conducted by another white person.

I think that, on some deep level, I have always struggled with a fear of misspeaking about race. This is a funny fear to have because I have already misspoken about race. I have said things out of ignorance, out of racism, that have hurt others, probably more times than I know. I have had friends call me out. I have apologized. I have felt sad about the impact of my words. I have felt ashamed about my ignorance. Why would I still dread these experiences? I guess, because they are painful, and no one likes anything painful, but they are definitely less painful for me. So I try to overcome my fear of them. I think I am someone who craves the approval of others. I like to be liked, something cultivated from a very young age when I won the approval of teachers and of my parents by being a strong student. I didn’t really have the experience of disappointing someone (I probably should have, so I could have made tools earlier for dealing with it). Why do I want/need the approval of strangers? Why do I want to be liked? Why does this factor into a fear of judgment and of misspeaking? I think as I’ve grown up I’ve improved at taking criticism. I am good at taking criticism on things I produce: my writing, my school work, my work work. I am getting pretty good at taking personal criticism from loved ones—“you said x and that hurt my feelings”—I am good at admitting fault. I do not feel insecure about mistakes or failures. Yet, I’m somehow more afraid of hurting strangers, and the hurt that comes from speaking up and hurting others about race. My logical mind rejects this—“your hurt is microscopic and should not be the focus when you’ve hurt others”—but I also know I still feel this. I’m not doing a great job of talking myself out of it.

Audre Lorde, however, is. My favorite moment in this book is the following quote:

“If I speak to you in anger, at least I have spoken to you: I have not put a gun to your head and shot you down in the street…”

I felt this moment strike me deeply and shift something tectonic within me. I felt this change the way I thought about my fear. I felt the incredible power of someone telling me I’ve hurt them, of being willing and able to do that. Yes, I still would not want to hurt someone else because I would not want to hurt them. But I feel, in a new way, that I am not afraid of misspeaking on race because of the backlash on me. I need to try to not hurt others, but I will. And when I do, I will need to try harder. I will be grateful for words of anger because they are WORDS. Words are not something of which to be afraid; words are opportunities.

Another striking part of this book for me was the conversation between Adrienne Rich and Audre Lorde. I’m a big fan of Rich’s poetry and routinely taught “Diving Into the Wreck” to my students, as a way to talk about Feminism and identity. I really appreciated seeing these women converse, modeling, I felt, the approach to conversations around intersectionality that Lorde supports. These two women don’t hold back, and they don’t always agree. Yet, their friendship and trust deepens through their acts of disagreement and reckoning. The best part of this essay, for me, was when Lorde brings up how Rich asked her on the phone in a conversation around race to provide “documentation” of her perspective, as a way to help Rich “perceive what you perceive.” Lorde, however, takes this request as one coming from an academic/rationalist perspective, a perspective that has often been employed to discredit Lorde’s own, as a “questioning of her perceptions” (which, white men academics too often feel, are suspect when coming from a Black woman). Neither Rich nor Lorde backs off their approach—Rich tying this need for documentation to how seriously she takes the spaces between her and Lorde that she seeks to fill with information and understanding, and Lorde pointing out that documentation supports analysis and not perception, which is the way the world is directly received by her, a Black woman. I don’t think this conversation is colored by them being respectful of each other in their words and language, but by the honesty that is evidence of deep and true respect.

This book is bookended by two essays that take place aboard—the first in Russia and the last in Grenada. In both, Lorde has another identity that she comments on less explicitly, but that is nevertheless explored: that of the English-speaking American aboard. She’s supported by translators and guides throughout her academic trip to Russia, and she experiences Grenada in terms of the American Imperialist invasion that overwrote the narrative of the local people with whom she feels strong affinity through her mother. In Russia, Lorde compares and contrasts the systems she sees at play with American systems (the poor, horrified Russian man to whom she explains that Americans don’t have universal healthcare and if you can’t afford it, “sometimes you die”). Reading Lorde’s descriptions of her trips invoked in me a deep desire to travel, a pining for those experiences that I’ve tried to stamp down firmly in the past year, but travel has been such a significant part of my life over the past 5 years…it’s hard to silence my longing. (I cried yesterday morning about wanting to visit the remains of Troy where they’ve been unearthed in western Turkey near Canakkale…) I felt like these bookends helped me expand the principles of intersectionality beyond the American Black-white dynamic, although this is the hugest and most painful power dynamic impacting America today, to remember that these issues are universal. Lorde focuses more universally than some of the other authors we’ve read recently, focusing her commentary on all aspects of her identity, and not solely race. Struggles around race, gender, sexuality, nationality, and many other aspects of identity are occurring around the world, and it’s important to work to understand the intersectionality of others’ lives and experiences in a complex, nuanced way. By doing this, Lorde shows, we can direct our emotions and our efforts vertically, working to dismantle stratified systems of inequality, rather than battling over differences on a horizontal plane.

#sister outsider #audre lorde #important reading #talking about race #talking about sexuality #talking about gender #intersectionality #intersectional feminism #feminism #reading blog #fifth book of 2021

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 4 years

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Hello! I'm pretty sure I saw you mention a while ago that you were disappointed by confessions of the fox, would you mind explaining why? I've seen mostly good things about it myself. If I misremembered then I'm sorry and I hope you have a good day :))

I think this is one of my less popular opinions. And I understand - we so rarely get historical fiction with trans folk as the titular character (indeed, we rarely get any fiction what that). So I get people’s desire to laud it.

For me though? It fundamentally didn’t work as a book. As a story.

Let me count the ways. (Apologies in advance for the length of this.)

First: If you’re trans-ing someone who was historically cis instead of seeking to find a real, historical trans or gender-nonconforming person, I have questions.

Most of the questions can be summed up as: Why?

I struggle with historical fiction that takes a cis person and re-imagines them as trans as if there aren’t already literal historical, real trans people out there whose stories can be told. It smacks as (unintended, well meaning) erasure of lived experiences.

Jack Sheppard, to the best of our knowledge, was a cis dude. There were trans folk in London in the 1710s and ‘20s. You might have to dig a bit for them, but they’re there. Because trans folk have always been there.

Second: Characterisation

This is more personal taste, but I found Jack and his girlfriend Bess to be inexcusably boring. How a trans, thief and gaolbreaker in 1720s gin-soaked London can be written as boring is anyone’s guess. But he was.

Jack had no real personality and I found his story to be uninteresting. Oh, he’s the world’s best thief and gaolbreaker, that’s nice. But on its own it isn’t enough.

He had few to no faults. Childhood trauma isn’t a personality. Nor is being trans. And the author relies heavily on gender + occupation (thief-ness) to equal personality. So it falls very flat.

Bess, his girlfriend, is a mixed-race sex worker from the Fens (even though actual real-Bess was from Edgeware). She seems to only exist to demonstrate that Jack is good at sex. She also veers a little into the Mystical Woman of Colour Healer Who Aids The White Person on their Journey of Self Discovery trope.

Neither Bess nor Jack undergo any real change in the book. They exist in a weird stasis and experience no development, despite living through some harrowing things. They’re wooden dolls who move through the story without really engaging with, or being influenced by, the things around them.

The other “main” character is a modern Academic who “found” this supposed “manuscript” of Jack’s life and is annotating it. His story unfolds in the foot notes and it’s just so messy if not a bit contrived. It didn’t make sense. I think the author was trying to convey that the Academic was in a sort of dystopian future, but if that’s the case it didn’t work. And if that’s not the case, the entire inclusion of the Academic’s story served only to annoy and take me out of the reading experience.

E.g. There’s a scene where the Academic is being taken to task by the Dean for playing stupid games on his phone during office hours and like honey, lapsed-historian/academic here, trust me the Dean doesn’t give a fuck what you do during your office hours so long as you’re in your office and students can come bother you about their poor marks.

The manuscript is supposedly being sought after by this pharmaceutical company for nefarious reasons that never struck me as being entirely realistic/believable. Also, the university was spying on this non-tenured, slightly useless Academic as if he somehow mattered? Which made zero sense. Anyway, it was stupid and should have been ripped out of the final version. OR changed substantially.

Jonathan Wild, the thief taker (main antagonist to Jack), is probably the only interesting person.

Third: Lack of Follow Through, or, the Fabulism Was Not Used Well

The book tries to blend in some fabulism to the world by giving Jack the ability to “hear” the thoughts of inanimate objects. This could have been fun and gone to some interesting places, but it failed to deliver.

I personally found the shoe-horning in of “capitalism commodifies everything” to be sloppy and heavy handed. It was done with little grace and didn’t sit right given that we are dealing with the early modern period. Yes, you can use the past to critique our modern woes, but do it intelligently. Don’t slap modern points of view and understandings of things onto the past and expect them to make sense.

Anyway, Jack spends the book hearing inanimate objects talk to him, asking him to “free” them, or something. And uh .. .it doesn’t go anywhere interesting after that.

Also the correlation one can draw from these objects to, you know, slaves, is uncomfortable. Especially as it’s the cargo of the EIC ships that Jack hears. I don’t think it’s intended in any sort of malicious way, but the allusion is there and I always found it to be distinctly uncomfortable.

Fourth: Misuse of Marxist Theory, or, More Heavy Handed Moralizing that Annoyed the Dear Reader because it wasn’t subtle and, more importantly, it wasn’t done intelligently.

So, the author is an academic - studies 18th century lit. Which is readily apparent as his Academic (self-insert) character is, I believe, supposed to be a historian and uh ... you can tell that the author doesn’t know enough to wing that. E.g. How he interprets some of the laws and customs of the time. Instead of understanding the social, economic and, most importantly, environmental issues that gave birth to laws like “the corporation of the city of London owns the streets so you can’t muckrake” he chooses to understand them through a very 21st century lens (and a Marxist one at that. I know I’m perhaps a bit uncool for this, but I find the application of Marxist theory to the early modern period to be ... not useful).

Do you know why, mid/late 17th century London passed these municipal laws? Because of the god damn fucking plague you numb nut. You absolute buffoon. It had nothing to do with “oh the City/government is evil and wants to own you” it had to do with the fact that no one cleaned the goddamn street. So the city took over doing it.

Prior to this, in London, you were supposed to keep the street in front of your building clear of waste, debris, refuse etc. No one did this, of course. I live where it’s cold and snows a lot and people can barely shovel the 2 sq ft of sidewalk in front of their driveway in the winter. I dread the idea of an average homeowner being expected to keep the street clear and clean.

Anyway, guess what dirty streets attract? Vermin. Guess what comes with vermin? Plague. Guess what happened in 1665/66? The great plague of London!

17th century England might not have understood germ theory, but they did understand correlation. (Also, the population of London was doubling at the back half of the 17th century and streets needed to be reliably cleared for through-traffic reasons etc. etc.)

ugh, sorry, that one in particular drove me up the wall. Not everything is a capitalist conspiracy. Especially when we’re talking about municipal by-laws from the 17th century.

And I understand the temptation to read a lot of modern interpretation of words like “corporation” and “company” onto bodies that used these same words in 17th and 18th centuries. But the weight, meaning and connotation of “the worshipful company of merchant adventurers” is different from, I don’t know, “the tech company google” or whatever. The early 18th century is when we start seeing the birth of the stock market, of “venture companies” (i.e. merchant adventure companies), of a lot of the language and proto-iterations of what will grow to be economic institutions of our time. But it doesn’t mean they’re the same and that difference is important. Because Jack Sheppard is a man living in 1720 he’s not going to be having our modern 21st century critiques of capitalism because his engagement with the economic systems of his time would have been radically different to our own experiences.

Fifth: Unbelievable Top Surgery & Recovery

So, Jack gets top surgery. In 1720s fever-ridden London. While quarantining in a brothel.

And he lived! No infection! No tearing! He was up and about in a matter of days. I don’t remember if his nipples survived the operation or not but somehow Jack did. Without anesthetics! Or you know, any concept of hygiene.

His Mystical Girlfriend Who Exists to Show How Good Jack is at Sex is also somehow Magically Very Literate and also Magically a Surgeon? and performs this surgery on Jack in the middle of a plague.

The entire ordeal was so poorly handled in terms of believability that I literally set the book down and said “what the fucking fuck” to the empty room then drank wine before finishing the chapter.

An aside, it is funny thinking about the quarantine chapters at this point. I read COTF when it first came out a few years ago. Sweet summer children, we none of us had any idea how to write quarantine scenes.

That reminds me: the entire quarantine thing was presented as the government trying to control movement and take away people’s rights etc. instead of a very normal, typical response that cities had been enacting since 1350. Samuel Pepys, who lived through the 1665/66 epidemic, barely even notes the restrictions. He’s like just “hmmm I’d love to go to the pub but I also don’t want to die. so. *shrug*”

At the time of the author’s writing, most of us in the western world had no idea how normal and day-to-day disease was for our ancestors and yes, sometimes there would be crackdowns to try and curb it if an epidemic hit. That was part and parcel of life. So again, Jack and Bess wouldn’t be like “ooooh we’re 21st century slightly libertarian lefitsts who think the government is doing this to control us and for nefarious purposes”. Much more likely, they would have been like Pepys and viewed it as nuisance, albeit a necessary one.

Sixth: Overall Lack of Realism

I think I’ve noted the big moments where I was like “no one in the early 18th century would think that I’m pretty certain”. This isn’t to say people didn’t grouse, complain about London government (and the king etc.), critique or question the world they lived in. They absolutely did! Regularly. With great verve and gusto, if the broadsheets are anything to go by. But their critiques, their complaints, suggestions for bettering life, are not the same as ours. Because how could they be? They lived in a different world, were responding to specific things, grew up hearing and believing certain things etc.

Jack, aside from having minimal to no character, really did read like a modern slightly-libertarian leftist who was plunked into a novel that takes place three hundred years ago.

In addition to unrealistic political views, his understanding of body, gender, sexuality and identity also read as incredibly modern. Now this is harder, because we have so few extant sources from that time on those who lived non-gender conforming lives, and from their point of view, so yes creative imagining and interpretation is the rule of the day for writing that.

But, we do know how in general the average person engaged and understood gender and sexuality and that would, naturally, inform anyone whose experience was different. And that base line of “probably what a typical cis Englishman or woman felt about their body and identity” wasn’t present. At all.

Indeed, gender engagement at that time was interesting. The concept of the body, the role of the physical body, how it was interpreted is absolutely fascinating and the author could have done some really cool things with that. But he didn’t. He went for slapping a modern interpretation onto the past.

At this point, write a dystopian novel and make Jack a fictional character. That probably would have gone over better, for me at least. The conceit can remain the same: It’s the year 4056 and an Academic found a manuscript from the year 3045 when the Dystopia Was a Thing - and go from there.

---

I think part of what made this very popular and why people seem so taken with it is that it reads smart. It reads like someone who has immersed themselves in that world etc. because of the slang and language used.

Yet, for me, as someone who has studied this period extensively, especially queerness in London in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, it read flat and unrealistic.

I was initially very enthused when I started it. There are some posts to that effect on my blog. But it very quickly went south. It tries very hard to be Radical and Smart and Subversive and Critiquing Everything and so I think it fails at the fundamental thing it should be doing: telling a good story.

(Note: The book does try and address racism in London at this time. It also felt a bit forced. And Jack seemed to have no prejudices or preconceived notions about Indian and Black folk which isn’t realistic. Like, it might make him #Problematic but my dude, you’re writing a man born in 1702. He’s going to have some iffy views. That can be challenged! Absolutely. But they still would have existed.)

---

Thank you for the ask! I again apologize for the length of the reply.

#reply #ask #anon #lit #books #writing #confessions of the fox

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deviationdivine · 5 years

Text

Wake Up | domestic!Android AU Part 1 (Connor x Reader)

gif by arsuf

F!reader x Connor

13.6k words

Detroit: Become Human - 1 Year Anniversary Release Celebration

A revolution may divide the city but it will never divide you...

tw: Angst, Fluffy Connor in the midst, Language, Suggestive Themes, Violence

a/n: First part of mini-series AU “Wake Up”. An introductory chapter one. Apologies for how long this took but I struggled and I am not happy with the end result. However, it’s finally here. • Connor is the latest high tech domestic model built with a collection of extra features, skills and functions making him the most advanced of his kind. As your personal assistant he is equipped with becoming the perfect partner if you so require. Falling in love with your personal android was never part of the equation nor was his break into deviancy...

“My name is Connor. I am your personal assistant. My features will allow me to take extensive care of your home, do the cooking, mind children and repair any problematic issues that arise within the household’s utilities.

As I am the most advanced make I can perform various tasks including but not limited to acts of a sexual nature. If you so require I am capable of being the perfect partner…”

Perfect is a conceptual illusion in every sense or so you come to believe. Why do humans think in terms of excellence when most shining examples tarnish in glaring flaws? Even technology can be made wrong or needing improvement not long after distribution. Faulty wiring, danger of overheating and causing harm of a radioactive proponent all seem minuscule in comparison.

Today, in the future, there is a grander blueprint mapping out the most innovative, extreme to date.

When it becomes alive, mimics the very corporeal state of being born unto humans since man breathed life in this vast universe, mirroring visage of those who wish to create in their likeness.

How does it go from technological wonder to abstruse thinking? Concepts can be a greater weapon. They can also reach for too much too soon. Is this the true state of AI meant for consumer consumption?

Cart them off exclusively as merchandise no matter how human they look. Isn’t that their appeal? The more something foreign, inexplicable but resembles us the more it is accepted. Basic instinctual deep thinking bred into all humans. Difference is an attest beneath surface value. Judge a book by a cover but if there are features hiding its distinct nature by all means use it.

Laziness might be a better solution in this mathematical equation. Imperfect perfection makes way for future development. Those are the very elements that change the world.

Can you even imagine for one second, one little point in life it would come to change yours? So small in a world full of billions but here in Detroit home of Cyberlife and its creation the pilot sparks. Alight with technological revolution.

Androids are here. Androids are owned. Bought as slaves to humanity and used beyond measure, no consideration that those made in image could possibly develop feelings. Emotions are heavy. They are what make us all human. Can machine truly become human?

You never wanted one. Mostly it made you uncomfortable witnessing cruelty by specific ‘owners’ on the bustling city streets. It’s everywhere. Even today, chillier, more specifically a frigidity creeping into bones.

Eyes shift over a couple walking briskly as you draw coat closer together up throat. Keeping wind seeping through to tangle around your body but watching them waltz their merry way without care. Of course they have none. Their female android, an AX400 to be exact, is taking care of two rowdy children.

Honestly it must be nice. Not having to parent after deciding to add more to the burdening populace. Maybe that’s just your pessimism talking. Simple fact though? Could be that too but who knows?

Just another one of those days but it is about to change drastically. Passing a Cyberlife store does pique curiosity. Window displays my God. They line them up as if that’s all they are.

They offer whatever a human wants and yet not all can bother to treat them fairly. Is it enough androids are made to look as everyone else? Would a genuine human being treat another so despicably? Yes. A resounding yes because it never goes away. People treat people with disdain for every reason, every prejudice and why should that shock? Androids have become an additional target.

Honestly it makes you sick. Never did you once realize this is what would change things completely. On this very day, minding business walking home from another tiring bustle

More than one occurrence struck you right in the gut. A previous household model absorbs brunt of obscenities and physical humiliation. A scene like this turned your stomach.

The moment it came to intervene you received an interrupting phone call. Unfortunately this was the start of big changes in your life.

What does one do discovering death of a relative? Closeness is a fundamental of familial connections. For you? Well, let’s say it didn’t quite work out.

“What do you mean he…died?” Answering in a quiet breath, cell phone a tight clutch in hand stalling in breezy climate, everything stops around your personal orbit.

“Y/N, I’m sorry,” a familiar voice speaks over your ingenious disbelief.

Ignoring your pleas for a proper answer it becomes increasingly cruel on the woman’s breath digging truths in your ear. Whether she realizes this or not it’s up for debate. “You do realize this was coming. It isn’t as if he were young and healthy. Frankly, I am surprised you are having such a negative reaction.”

Negative is exactly the type of reaction! What does she expect? “Of course I’m having a reaction!” Practically screaming into your phone made the chilled air sting worse. How is this happening? How can this even be real?

“Oh, it’s all right, Y/N. Get it out now. It’ll be better if you don’t make a scene at the funeral.”

Anger is a burning pyre ready to fan over and incinerate. One snide comment reminds how much you can’t stand this person. She’s not even blood related. An ‘aunt’ isn’t technically qualified to hold the title and that’s fine. Just another excuse to dig at you in this family but there is no family left. Your father – he’s dead.

Money fixes everything? Unlikely but still nothing surprises you more than receiving something from an estranged parent. Generous sums to a black sheep or as you’re sure greedy auntie bitch of the hour calls you behind your back. She is one woman who deserves that damn moniker. Especially when it’s clear there are no connections left. Aunt Cruella, as christened ages ago by your best friend, made short work of your uncle. Certainly bled him dry continues to do so with his left over money after he succumbed to stress in a massive heart attack. Why do people like her thrive using, snide and heartless while others –?

What can you do then? Except you fall into an overwhelming sense of losing time and never extending an olive branch. Why is the universe so cruel? Why can’t you turn back time, forget every stupid thing that ever happened to drive a rift?

Part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being alone rest of your life. Maybe that’s why using part of a small deposit felt right. Watching so many gradually fall into current technological commercialism lead to most having their own android. It seems almost a little too barbaric making them cater to every whim. Honestly, you have no idea why this is needed. Do you really need him?

No, he isn’t… He. Yes, he.

Despite manufacturing Connor is a he in every sense. Even then you saw as much. Now is much more complicated or you are just as ridiculously naive as you’ve always been told. Who cares about naivety? It is simple opinion. No. This is a belief one that surely would have left nothing to you in an event of final family member’s passing. Yet here you are with him.

You recall when he first arrives unaware of how efficient Cyberlife retail truly is. Why should you be surprised? Deliveries have gone from generic dairy of yesteryear, beyond personalized grocery orders and straight to personalized beings. Androids: alive or not alive?

In conjunction with preprogramming he sounds so lively. In his voice a natural husky dulcet and his eyes a deep soulful brown. Souls in androids are impossible but it’s the only way you think to describe warm chocolate. Hotter than a mug of it steeped in whip cream vanishes as a ghost beneath steaming liquid.

Flecks of caramel shine in hypnotic swirls enriching accents of russets in muddy hues, the very first thing captivating attention as he offers his list of functions. Even falling upon the last is difficult to decipher how caught up you are in a consummately asymmetrical visage.

He is far too pretty to look at and you try to ignore these facts. The facts of your newly purchased personal android possessing an aura of physical attractiveness. A fabrication in aesthetics you remember. A way to cover up what he actually is beneath soft synthetic skin dusted as constellations of freckles.

Tiny beauties cresting upon sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, purposely formed to elicit a reaction. This is not at all what you expected but it’s never something to forget. Little do you realize in this moment Connor will always burn brightest to memory? Little do you understand how events will unfold but they shall.

“Is there a problem?” he asks habitual to programming.

Societal protocols run a gamut through system piecing together the best course of action. It is only his first day interior of your home. He is of a sense of determination to complete whatever task you assign.

Determination is not part of proper function. However, he minded the concept. It will be efficient for current issue. “I may be able to rectify your issue. What do you require of me?”

Require? What?

You cough, inhaling sharply at his head cocking so innocently. A droop of hair flutters atop forehead as a sole rebel willing to fight immaculate armies. He is very well put together. Not that you mean the whole manufactured part! He just – looks like a really good looking guy who takes care of his appearance. Hair mostly but…

Wow, Y/N. Real nice for your first try at handling a conversation with an android.

Not that this is the first android you’ve been in contact with. Difficult not to be when they’re all over but as your very own?

OK Cyberlife! What is up with making him look like real life Prince Charming? I mean look at this perfection. Is this required? Are they allowed to do this to poor unsuspecting humans?

Watching his brows furrow and LED flutter amber somehow pumps the beats of heart faster. Surely it’s a dead giveaway. It’s not every day you’re cursing Cyberlife for practically throwing a chiseled Greek god at you.

Oh, shit, really? Greek God? What the hell is wrong with you? What isn’t wrong with you?

You sigh, clicking tongue at yourself. Frustration doesn’t begin with this!

“Your stress levels are high,” Connor offers a reading of initial scan. “Would you like me to remedy the problem? I have several possible functions that may reduce anxiety. My model comes with every physical attribute you are familiar with in human anatomy.”

A hitch stoppers breathing. Just enough as eyes widen a little at his declaration. Human anatomy as in…? Oh. OH.

Your eyes shift down. Fixating right on his crotch sends a luscious shiver through body. Goosebumps prickle skin, hair standing up on them. First time in forever you’ve had this type of reaction. Not even your ex managed to make you quiver like this. Not that your mind is even there because that’s been over for so long. Frankly that cheating asshole can have his baby momma all to himself. Probably already banged a couple more unsuspecting fools; you clear throat, scratchier than before.

“Connor, that-that’s really nice!” Agreeing with him that he has nice features you laugh nervously. It’s the first day he’s been here and already he’s mentioning his, uh, included *assets* and it’s not his beautiful eyes either. Ah, shit. Why is he made to be a young, attractive male? “But I don’t think that’s necessary. Not right now.”

It only takes a moment before you hear what came out of your mouth. Right now meaning it’ll be fine later?

“Which isn’t to say I’ll need it later!” Damage control is literally a creator of chaos. Can he just not look so sweet giving these heady ideas? “Just come with me. You’ll need a place to stay. I mean, you are staying here but I mean…” Shit! He’s made this impossible without stammering all over the place. Who gives him the right?

The android’s lips drop open, inevitably looking to provide another set of options but he snaps his mouth shut. Blinking in assessment of his actions to “argue” with your dismissal, Connor pushes away several warnings popping into visual. They are unexpected and not part of his programming.

Instead of speaking he follows your lead, gaze soft and quizzical. Trailing as a newly trained puppy the latest model of Cyberlife’s domestic line becomes further entranced with chirping outside window. No longer able to abide by strict attention he tilts his head at passing pane. Sounds of birds in song flitter and perch on external sill; one ruffles its feathers cleaning with its beak. The other stands still.

He freezes. Both in movement and system analysis he is however conscious of two live creatures. Opposite of android pets universally made available for public sale. His database offers much information outfitting him with the fundamental needs of intelligence and sophistication in his programmed function.

Reaching to open a door you stop when his presence behind you feels empty. It was obvious when he followed but now?

“Connor?”

Cycling indicator fluctuates upon the command of your voice. He snaps around in direction of soft tone. Softer than accustomed since his distribution from Cyberlife shipping to physical store location was riddled with aggressive bystanders. He-he is not meant to mull over his awakening. It does not make him feel anything. No, he is an android. He feels nothing. He is a machine.

Clinical cold manifests deeply behind blocks, barricades in protocols. Connor pushes this strange tickle back underneath wires.

“Apologies for not obeying you, Y/N. It will not happen again. I am efficient.” Nagging at him, strange and uncorrelated to system status, he almost sounds…tense. Connor straightens shoulders, folding hands neatly against lower back. “I was made to be the best of my particular type of domestic models. As an AX800, I am programmed to be a superior prototype.”

Obeying you?

That happens to be the only words you focus on. His choice of them ripple uncomfortably, nearly squeamish in stomach. Is this how you sound? Are you affecting a command or-? No, it’s what he is made to know. That’s the thing. All androids are only made to serve and immediately regret comes back. Maybe you shouldn’t have bought him.

Bought! God, you’re just like those people now. Aren’t you?

No more excuses. No more seeing horrible mistreatment and vowing never to be like them. Even if you never would do any harm losing your father, when you never spoke anymore anyway, still you fear loneliness. Estrangement ruins lives. It really does. What do you have left now? Except for yourself to fend in this world and growing more complicated as the future rambles on.

Detroit is a bustling mix of dilapidated districts, high tech innovations, Cyberlife Tower most significant in those builds. This house is small. Tucked away in a tiny neighborhood away from inner city but you never complain. You are grateful. A roof over the head is the best gift in a mostly gift devoid world.

“Connor, please don’t call it obeying. I-I only wanted to see if you were OK.” Admitting the hesitation beforehand you feel antsy. His LED is blue again but it was amber finding him staring at window.

“My system is fully operational,” he assures, forcing his lips to form a smile.

In actuality his little gesture is a stiff grimace. Eyebrows rise at his attempt. Even if it looks goofy, which is completely not his fault, it’s very – cute.

Again with this! Never mind just focus for once. Pretty comical coming from someone who hardly meditates in the day to day; you step backwards, slipping through threshold, eyes remaining on him. It takes ever ounce of willpower to remain collected. Things are still hard to digest. No matter if it’s been a couple months tangling with all of that legal stuff. Auntie not by blood sure didn’t make it any better. Yet, here you are. Still you stand even while stress is overworking at a job that might as well kill you first.

Offices are pretty dull to work in. At least they would be if they were not a regular cushy job. Piles of paperwork, demands creep up to swallow whole, a boss who just will not stop making things harsher. Mister perfectionist belittles the lower tier all the time. No surprise but it seems the future isn’t as bright as people thought it would. No need to wear shades.

Moving toward window, pulling curtains open a bit to allow sunshine transitions atmosphere from dreary to somewhat cheery. Perfect mask to hide the real truth isn’t it? Sometimes you forget how good you are that. A small smile camouflages best.

You rub hands against the thighs of your jeans. A little sweaty because of nerves but today is big. Being alone always hardly prepares for constant company. Well, he’s meant to be here permanently. That is the initial idea.

“This can be your room.”

Connor’s brow furrows. Studying your movements upon entry, analyzing vitals and their continual fluctuations, the android is confused. His indicator cycles to process the statement as unexpectedly inclusive as it is. “I do not require a room. I am an android.”

Somehow that reaction is to be expected. You sigh, “Just because you’re an android doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have something of your own.”

Ownership is not given to his kind. They are machines. Concepts of acquiring personal effects do not make sense nor are necessary. Connor voices this as per factual protocol. “Thank you for the offer but I am a machine. Machines have no need for accommodations.”

Yes, of course he’s a machine but…

Machine, manufactured and sold without an ounce of actual soul according to android haters you see. Picketing with their signs, so angry about them taking jobs but who made them? They did. Humans decided to and no one complained. Why complain about a technological marvel that can mow your grass, do the dishes and babysit children while living carelessly. That is the difference. Between you and plenty of others there has always been a divide in what you feel. This just crashes down those so-called fantasies. Ones filtering into brain as tiny wisps and at first it was a nice distraction. Finding him so…

“Oh,” a whisper, dawning realization. He is – a machine.

Coming back to the door, grabbing onto handle, you decide to forget the suggestion.

Something sharp stabs at his internal processors. Listening to such a dull syllable slipping almost – upset? Humans’ need for validity and comfort seem to be all too natural. They are highly emotional. The android steps close, head cocked, fingers pressing against surface of door preventing your need to shut it.

Contemplating left him at a cross roads in his programming. He is meant to function specifically and does not need or want anything as you believe. However, he-he could not refuse. It would be impolite. “I- very well, Y/N. I did not meant to be unpleasant. My social parameters are not meant to alarm.”

Alarm? That is not why you… Your breath hitches. Realizing how close he is standing, invading personal space and if it were anyone else? Allowing him is both a conscious need for closeness while still mourning and an illusion. Live up to that woman’s ideas. The title of ‘aunt’ is undeserving.

“Thank you, Connor.”

“You are welcome,” he snaps back to his programming. “What sort of tasks do you have scheduled for me to complete?”

“Scheduled? I, uh…” Shaking a head at his question is clarity. Honestly you are not used to giving tasks to people. Tasks are dropped on your desk until you down. A huff of breath, accompanied with snort is more for yourself. It does garner the most adorable expression on his face. “Maybe you could just…talk to me? For now?”

Connor’s eyebrows scrunch together. His facial expressions capture attention driving the tempo of your heart. He does not understand why. “Are we not speaking already?”

You laugh not at him but his innocent little response there is – Oh. No.

It only deepens sadness in you now. Knowing where he came from and his confusion in you wanting a little companionship. Androids aren’t supposed to make friends are they? Even if they’re specifically programmed or upgraded to be partners. He mentioned that before.

Luckily a vibration against your thigh saves you. Reaching to pull phone from pocket your eyes train up to his and take a needful exhale. “Sorry, Connor, I have to take this.”

Connor moves aside out of your path. Remaining stationary, hands folded neatly, he awaits further instruction. However, the android’s eyes shift sideways at the sound of your voice outside room. Amber floods his temple.

“Why are you calling me now? No, I’m not wallowing! It’s called mourning. Maybe if you figured out what it was when my uncle died all those years ago you wouldn’t need a dictionary for it.” Hissing fire into phone attacks your aunt by marriage equally. Soon as you pick up! She just had to get in another word.

Why does she feel the need for this? What’s the point anymore? “No. What do you want exactly? Is this about the trust fund again? I’m using a part to pay bills. What do you think I’m doing?”

Living expenses are still the same old problem. Must be nice for the rich their multi-billion dollar corporations feeding on tech. Just look at Cyberlife.

“It doesn’t matter,” you make it abundantly clear. Does she believe she’s that intimidating? Newsflash to miss upper crust but this labeled black sheep doesn’t take shit from people! “We might’ve had a rocky relationship but I loved him.”

Loved? Connor freezes in corridor. Disobeying processes to offer potential aid in obvious distress he finds himself…curious at such words.

“We were family. What do you think? Don’t you have enough blood money to spend on your Eden Club bots old woman?” Ending it on your terms this time does not fulfill you at all. Always the winner isn’t she? Rubbing it in your face about his death and if your father were here he wouldn’t let it happen. Whatever distances, issues it wouldn’t change that.

“Y/N?”

Connor’s quizzical tone jolts your weary bones. Inhaling sharply, not at all used to this tiny home being occupied by more than one but a heavy swallow fixes your voice. How long was he there? Did he hear all of that? Oh, great.

“I’m fine.” An automatic response always on autopilot gets the job done for you.

He narrows eyes. “Stress is not a healthy component in the balance of human’s…”

“Just leave me alone, Connor!” You snap, tears pricking corners of your eyes before twirling around to run upstairs.

^Software Instability

Connor freezes momentarily. Flooding, filtering in a ripple through code blocks, he blinks in quick succession. Blinding and strange it is not part of his program –

Unable to run diagnostics, tears sparkling in your eyes draw his attention, overtaking protocol. The android’s soft gaze shifts from following your quick disappearance to ceiling indicating footsteps that conclude in a bang. Seemingly you have sealed yourself away. Scarlet pulsates in intervals mingling with amber processing solutions. Leaving you alone is an instruction. He-he cannot ignore. It is what he is programmed for. You are crying. Why must he obey? He must…

>Obey

>Leave Alone

“Is there anything else you would like?” He asks as sun dips in later hours. Accomplish several menial tasks which he is free to do as he constructs.

Following your distress several hours ago he feels – confliction. Few commands escape your lips and at times he is unsure with his current scheduling. Abilities are not in question but you appear distant. Did he do something wrong? By wanting to comfort…

>Analyzing: Y/L/N, Y/N

Stress: 31.6%

Blood Pressure: 124/80

Studying your face after initializing a vital scan enables Connor to store analysis records. Sleep deprivation, iron deficiency and higher stress than the human body should experience.

“Connor.” You straighten from your position curled upon couch. Mostly you tuck into one side, resting into upholstery and your breathing exhales shaky. Trying to rest off a headache isn’t working. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

The android nods but pauses in thought. A fluid habit now out into the world. Yet, he has yet to see much. Only transferring from lab to warehouse storage and ultimately on display in a merchandise kiosk for Cyberlife; he is not widely available as of yet. Detroit is the originator of androids. The product mark on his white uniform christens his manufacturing origins: Made in Detroit.

“There are other functions I was built with,” he explains enthusiastically. “If you would like a domestic partner, it is one of my features.”

Rubbing at your temples ceases the moment he speaks. A domestic partner? Is he talking about that thing again? You draw breath. Unable to look at him now, feeling it twist in stomach, you uncurl, pressing feet on floor.

“No!” Quickly you cover the rise in heartbeat.

It is so obvious. Wouldn’t be the first time stumbling across sexual depravity in humans. Look no further than the Eden Club. The fact they decided to make that a thing for a household model is honestly not a shock.

God, why do they live in this world? Why do you even have him here? Isn’t this just making you as horrible as everyone else?

“No,” you repeat softer. “I’d never force you to do something like that.”

It is not forcing when he is programmed, installed with such features. They are high end. As several techs discussed ignoring his presence as though he were – merchandise. Androids are sold. He knows this but has never had a moment to process.

There is zero need. Androids do not think freely. They are constructs built for specific purposes and his are fundamentally clear. He has never performed these functions as he is brand new but Connor feels he can ease stress efficiently.

Thinking solely as a machine built for a task did not hold true. He felt…strange at your refusal. “Am I not aesthetically pleasing?” Cocking his head, knitting brows together, Connor looks expectantly to you for validation.

Lifting eyes up to him your lips fall open at his question. Did he really ask that? Are androids supposed o ask those kinds of questions? It almost as though he was hurt by that. No, it’s just imagination. Today has been too tiring. Never would have gone so wrong if that woman didn’t call. Honestly answering was your mistake. Story of a sad little life but others have it worse.

Humans will always be crawling through turmoil, unable to breathe depending on their situations. Maybe that’s why a little part of you wishes he was human. At least acts without programs but this is why he’s here. To fulfill a fantasy, cater to every whim?

No. To rectify personal aches to pretend that someone is here to offer a shoulder. When there has been nothing going through your father’s death, legal dealings with assets and pressure in job.

“No,” squeezing eyes shut to battle tension, your voice is low. “I mean, yes of course you’re aesthetically pleasing. I mean…you’re handsome. Practically the most…”

What? Beautiful boy you have ever seen? There comes that illusion. They do that on purpose but somehow looking at him you don’t see a machine. How funny is that?

“That isn’t why, Connor.”

Getting up from couch, taking deep breaths and stepping clear of coffee table helps focus. Rubbing palms against face at least wipes away some mess. Eyes are puffy, red from an unnecessary outburst earlier. At certain points life reaches boiling and yelling at him to leave you alone twists in guilt. This is exactly the sort of things Auntie Bitch thrives on.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize to him. Even if it would make no difference it does to you. “This isn’t what I’m used to. Having someone else here.”

Well, after deadbeat ex anyway but he was a typical freeloader. Thankfully you scrubbed his dirt out of life and home.

“I’ve never done this before. Having an android I mean. Ordering you to do something that you have no control over is not the type of person I am.” Plus, it’s not as if the androids at those sex clubs have a say. “I’d never do that to you or any of your people. Like some humans would.”

People. A human way to look at him or other androids but that is incorrect. Why would you refer-?

^Software Instability

Connor blinks. The error message was in his vision only briefly and the little blue arrow increasing shudders through his system. He opens his mouth but does not respond. Instead, his eyes fall to your back turning away, pacing in additional stress.

Immediately, the android steps over, placing a hand against your arm. “Y/N, I apologize. Please, do not be upset. Your blood pressure is slightly elevated. You should rest. Perhaps I can produce a remedy befitting in alleviating your headache.”

Touch spreads goose bumps beneath shirt sleeve. Forcing arms to cross over your chest you twist to face him directly an extra tiny thud winds up heart. A key cranks in melody of jewelry box, dancer spins a ballet recital; vintage little tokens, delicate but thunderous in sentimentality. Just a brief glance, pressure of long fingers and it’s the first time you realize how pretty they are.

Long, beautiful digits on large hands made not born. Yet he is still heavenly.

Sharply a breath slips. Words soothing, touch comforting all those things you crave. Yet this is part of protocols for him. That’s all.

Deeply you sigh. Feeling an unmistakable need burning lower pit of stomach detaches you. A shiver runs a gamut through body and spikes straight to the core of your existence. You squeeze legs tighter together cursing the fact your body decides to get horny over a headache solution.

Fuck that! It’s his voice. Husky velvet, raspy natural glory and you are so wet. It takes everything not to jump his bones right now. Or mechanical bones? Hmm. Close enough!

“I just need to get extra sleep, Connor.” Dismissing his ideas there are too many running through your mind. Staring down at his crotch again remembering what he said but no. Get it out right now. No matter how much you need to –

You need to go upstairs. Yes, that’ll work.

“Y/N, are you positive? Your levels are fluctuating severely in my scans.”

“Oh? Are they?” Can he also smell arousal? Please, please tell me he can’t.

Connor, however, is not as naive as you believe him to be. Built with specifics in domestic partnership it is easy for him to know when the human body is aroused. Due to your state of duress and current levels of stress he does not wish to explain. It may not be beneficial. It may hurt you.

The android turns eyes down slowly, battling with these thoughts. He is not meant to debate. He is meant to proceed with internal core analysis. Percentages drive him. Yet, he struggles. Is this an error?

“Connor?”

His head snaps up. Connor’s LED flashes in a crescendo to your soft expression. Hiding the obvious need you have. All humans must expel anxiety in some way. Perhaps he is aesthetically pleasing as you said but –

“I will return to my duties if that is sufficient.” He forces another one of his smiles.

Again the grimace is heartwarming. Albeit in need of practice but-but maybe you can teach him? If there is any good to come out of falling into the same realm as everybody else, then treating him fairly is a start. As if you would treat him bad. No. Why should it matter? Human, android or alien from outer space; you laugh now.

Stupid! So stupid but it’s calming down this literal burning.

Light, airy and symphonic this sound seeps into audio processors. A residual aura prickles sensors, blinding differently than unprecedented software errors. Are they malfunctions? Something soft, sweet cannot be. He has not experienced this before but his attention is solely on you. As brief as the laugh escapes, curling lips in a gentle rise at corners, Connor absorbs the natural human tinkle of chimes that expel so abundantly.

It is the first laugh, genuine laugh he has heard. And it is – beautiful.

The android is so distracted upon this new discovery he does not notice you slipping away. Androids do not possess a need for personal orbits. Their space is not granted freely as they are not free in will like humans. They are meant to serve. Obeying their masters is why they exist.

Yet, Connor can almost feel lack of metaphorical warmth. As you dissipate from his radius so does that laugh that digs into wires. Threading in circuits, causing another minor glitch of instability, forced away from vision in order to watch you; this is a tiny strain, a little piece implanting itself in him.

This is the piece that truly begins everything…

“Y/N,” he calls to interrupt your exit. Without prompt or instruction he once again acts beyond his programming.

Something new, urgent stops everything. You glance over shoulder. Steeling breath at his temple flashing you swear a blip of crimson glows in amber. Just a fraction of a second but you have no idea. Not yet, not then but you will.

“Yes, Connor?” Your breath is quiet, thoughtful meeting his uncertain gaze.

“I-” Connor stumbles. A perfect machine sputters. “Who was on the phone?”

Twisting your body the full way now, nails tap against wall for something to do. A way to hide that hollow pit forming again but no one can hide from analysis. Connor will already know. “That-that was my aunt. My aunt by marriage. She’s- Let’s say she isn’t a very nice person.”

Keeping rest of it bottled up is no solution but telling him will only upset you again. He doesn’t need to know. At least not yet but is this a conversation to share? With an android? Who else will listen? Who else even cares to ask?

Connor did. Is his social program that good?

Honestly, you think nothing of it. For a time it merely seems to be part of what he was built for.

Thinking back at times to this day, first meeting, you will find that so stupid. Naïve isn’t really part of you but he is more. Connor is so much more. It becomes apparent…

August 15th

Practically slamming front door shakes the entrance with your current state of anxieties. Stress cannot be worse. Spoke too soon during midday. Damn it.

Clearing throat, wiping tears off your face, your breath is staggered. Unable to calm down from such ‘good’ news following that sudden meeting with your boss and everything ripples. Stomach twists badly. Nervous energy or just another month of-

Pressing face into hands poorly stifles sobs. Getting half way through home you just stop. Everything halts as things just don’t want to change. Now this of all things from work it’s going to hurt you in the long run. Your boss did this on purpose. Cutting hours and piling extra to sift through on that fucking computer.

How many sales diagrams, how many logs must you make now? There’s a specific quota. Each person who works database needs to meet their allotment. He threw a ton at you. In order to give leeway to another girl who just started there. Yeah, another potential conquest for the old pervert you’re sure!

What do you get in return? Hours cut and less pay but more weight. A ton sits on your shoulders. Isn’t it enough he humiliated you? Purposely shout out and criticize while leaving his office and you held your head up. Only in the sanctuary of home does it finally snap this flood.

Dropping keys moving uneasily into living room, sinking heavily on couch, you just want to curl up. Maybe it will make things feel better?

Lazily you peer up at television screen. Realizing it is switched on produces a tiny smile. Did he-?

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

Your head lifts up further. Narrowing on Connor stepping into view, he straightens, cocking his head in that adorable way that keeps invading your sleep. Even awake it’s a problematic daydream. He is just on the mind too frequently.

“Connor,” a quiet breath escapes, stilted, weary.

The android reads stress automatically. Forcing tiny fissures in his emotionless facade, splintering through system, he moves swift. However he freezes. Unaware of this strange urgency pulling up tendrils of glittering circuitry, waves undulating beneath shell, eclipses protocols. He must serve. He must obey. Yet he feels something else overshadowing programming.

System stress battles this ever growing need to break. Crumbling at the seams the more he feels your presence. It is a permanent fixture. As he has become one in your space but Connor is only meant to serve. Why does he feel drawn beyond these stitches of code?

Androids do not question. They cannot experience existential crisis because there is nothing real. They are simple constructs. He – no, there is no personification heralded to androids. They are not alive. Therefore they are not allotted appropriate pronouns.

Connor has heard only one word countless times regarding his kind: It

“Y/N, you have been crying,” he observes through fluctuations.

Pushing them aside, attempting to stabilize, diagnose these errors, the android taps into social function. Sympathizing is not a genuine growth. It is merely part of his program. That is what Connor wishes to believe. He believes in nothing. Nonetheless it does not explain what is easy to machine. Calculations, data processing should offer quantifiable solutions. It is negative.

There is more emotion in his eyes than he knows. You see it. Honestly it surprises enough to cripple a proper response. Easily you brush it off any other time. This time there’s no hiding what he’s already seen. Can imagine what he sees through his eyes. How do androids really perceive the world? Quit thinking for once! All of it is illusion. Remember that.

Cyberlife’s one true goal makes millions, grows powerful in branding of highly sought after merchandise. Still it makes you sick but here you are. Do the same thing because you have Connor. No matter how different it is.

“I’m fine,” a lie tells a thousand truths.

Connor’s brows knit together, mouth twitching, flutter of LED amber. A sign of outward commiseration fights his shackles. He knows you are lying. Despite the fact he should listen and not broach the subject further, the android does not resist this new deviation.

“Why are you lying, Y/N?”

Your breath catches. Stuck in throat along with words it’s a surprise. Even more surprising is the glimmer of irritation on his face. The way his mouth goes lopsided like that is – cute. Wait a minute you’re supposed to be mad. You are! Mad at your goddamn boss for one!

“Lying?” you scoff back at him. “I’m not lying. I said I was fine. And I don’t appreciate you accusing me either, Connor!” Can androids even argue about things so mundane? Isn’t this what you wanted? A real conversation instead of a string of pleasantries, affirmations to duties he accomplishes.

“I am sorry but you are lying!”

Connor’s voice raises an octave higher than typical. Naturally husky, oh, how it deepens. Raw and very alive his tone completely solders you to the spot. Your eyes lift up to his face studying the gleam of his eyes. How strange that spark is. Almost a live wire crackles beneath the surface. A steamy cocoa bright before immediately dimming again; a breath sucks into your lungs cleansing the start of your body. Scarlet shimmers and that’s all the answer you crave.

He appears to swallow. Forcing his Adam’s apple to bob, which is a very realistic detail. Just as the rest of him is so real that sometimes you forget. Sometimes or all of the time, yes, most days his reality masks so well in the mind.

“I-I am…” Connor looks away. Unable to comprehend his reaction it is not part of his – “Forgive me.”

The way his voice lowers tugs at your heart. No. No, that’s not what should happen at all. You’ve seen enough of his kind out there. In the city of Detroit treated so fucked up. Most of them wouldn’t know what to do because they can’t. This is the first time he’s ever snapped from whatever social programming is built in him. He sounded too much like a person. A person with emotions reacting in a very obvious way and the idea Connor’s a person lingers.

You shift forward. Sucking in breath, following his gaze now landing on television, it’s the first time it hits. A ton of bricks, tumbling concrete could never do more damage. Everything about his apology stands still at the developing breaking news story.

ITM is broadcasting live somewhere. Is that outside an apartment rise?

Right now you ignore it. “Connor.”

The softness of your voice draws him back to you. Already he is far too used to it. Joining you upon couch, cocking head, his hand hovers atop yours. Fear of connecting with reality versus construction. He does not touch. He should not be pulled towards these fissures. Emotional surges strike ablaze as a fibrous match lighting his internal mechanisms. Wires push up, tendrils yanking one way towards control’s puppeteer. There it dangles him in strings made of electrical coil. Ensnaring his wrists, snaking around throat, digging thorny and jagged to his brain this is his prison.

Another piece cradles those signs of sensation, innervating beyond a great wall. A red wall gridlocks and crashes against him. It is a giant wave. Scarlet tides engulf and knock the android back where he belongs. Each time he wades closer to you the more it washes him out to that empty sea. He cannot stop. He still pushes. Something inside of him, he does not understand.

“You do not feel well, Y/N. I know this.” Apologizing again, he does not focus on his inner struggle. There should be nothing. He is supposed to be feeling nothing. Is he malfunctioning?

“It’s OK,” appeasing the strobe of scarlet cascading down his face worries. “Please don’t. I don’t want you to be stressed.”

“But I disobeyed. I lost control of…”

“That’s only human, Con.” Slipping on your tongue in an easy breath it’s the first time. Oh this will hardly be the last. Nothing will ever be last with him. If only fantasy can be reality most days. Maybe if you somehow knew here at this point in time. Everything happens for a reason.

He frowns. “I am not human.”

Sadly it’s true. Still you smile. Still you ease him because for once you realize. This isn’t supposed to be easy for him. He shouldn’t even react this way.

Both of you sit in silence. Deafening quiet just the two of you and how strange, wonderful this sensation crawls through the interstices of your being. Almost as if there is someone who cares. Does he? No. That can never mean he is not a needed presence. He is so much more. Soon you will know.

What you least expect is the pressure of his fingers sinking against your stomach. A jolt of electricity, naturally igniting a voltage inside of you and a soft sigh escapes the burden of a dry throat. Glancing down you realize – his hand is growing hotter.

“Connor, what are you-?”

“I detect an increase in prostaglandins.” His prognosis is casual, visibly reading as his LED flutters. “It will do well if you have a heat source to combat any discomfort or cramping.”

A shiver prickles down the curve of your spine. Simple touch or perhaps smooth husky words fill this awkward silence now with comfort. Sure it might be a technical way to point out this specific pain in the ass but it does take your mind off things. So easily you could remove his hand. A good idea to put up a barricade and distance yourself but you cannot do that.

Every thread of stress snaps. In one tiny moment anxieties melt off and ease into his aura. Androids are not supposed to have one. This conscious radiance but Connor’s orbit is safety, assurance. Even if he has no idea what sort of progress it means. A simple relationship of humane and machine, ownership and merchandise is how this world wishes. It is not your wish. There is more. Witnessing it now, gazing up at his face, concentrated crease of brow, optical unit bleeds a palette of amber and scarlet. Dusted in freckles his skin is a smooth canvas to admire. He is so real. Up this close it is so obvious even to your inferior eyesight. Compared to his advanced optical it is. His eyes are warm. Such life shines in them. Mocha sweet, soft and glitters in his careful evaluation. Technical and part of programming but still it sends you somewhere else.

“If confirmed this would be the first case of an android taking human lives.”

Your attention shifts. Drawn to the ITMtv news broadcast it was nearly forgotten. You sit up, unconsciously curling fingers around Connor’s wrist.

The action snaps his gaze down. Momentarily he freezes, stationary, until the soft gasp spills from your lips. Connor tilts his head. In line with television screen narrowing sharply on events unfolding leaves him struggling with process of information. An android is taking human lives? How is this possible? They are programmed to obey not to cause harm.

We are not alive. We are meant to serve not kill!

Connor tugs his hand back. Distancing himself, staring at news broadcast unsettles down to his core processors. A domestic model has taken a child hostage. An inferior model? No, he-he is the same. Upgrades, prototypes mean nothing. They are all part of a linear code. What they are made to be is what they must be. There is no deviation!

Artificial saliva swallows hard, bobbing in his throat. An increase of stress twists him to those original thoughts. Inconclusive on why he is feeling. The events live on air aren’t helping this strain.

“Connor. Connor, what’s wrong?!”

Your hand clutches at his shoulder. Unbeknownst to the android his face twitches with each strobe of optical unit. The shift between colors quickens. His eyes land on you. Concern for him is a shimmer of hope. A hope doesn’t exist for androids.

“I am performing a self diagnostic,” he lies.

Pulling away from him when he jolts up from couch deepens this sickness further. Everything flips in the stomach. Just hearing what they’re reporting. An android murdered a human. He has a little girl. What are they going to do? Is this really happening though? There have been rumors. For several months there’s been talk of androids running away. Going off and doing God knows what but that’s people who hate them. They’re the ones who talk about how evil they are. They shouldn’t exist. Made in our image and unnatural monsters; the erratic behavior in Connor abates this thinking.

There is no time to debate. You already know the opinion that matters. It’s your own.

“You’re lying,” echoing it back stops him. “Tell me the truth. What’s going on?”

“There is nothing.” Connor insists. Remaining turned puts his back to you. The android tries to fight his conflicts. All of it is bubbling, boiling upon his plastic surface. Itching, tingles beneath synthetic skin. You are part of it somehow. He knows. That is why he is malfunctioning.

Nothing? No. There is something! Proving it, grabbing at his arm, twists him to face you. There is no powerful in your pull. He whirls at the action out of choice.

A staggering breath barely reaches past your lips. Large hands engulf wrists, pulling your hands up. Entrapped in Connor’s grasp, fingers long and pliant in their fuse to yours swallowing up in such a strong, yet gentle touch. He doesn’t hurt you. That’s not at all what he took hold to do. Still the continuing broadcast emanates a horrifying soundtrack. Androids killing but he-he’s not like other androids. He wouldn’t do anything he should not do. Part of you wants to believe that.

How he looks now is the only answer to an impossible question. He is agitated, nervous? Not horrifying as people say they are. He looks lost. Lost and searching inwardly. This is the first time he ever appeared that way.

“Connor, please. Don’t shut me out. Just because of what I am.”

“You are my owner,” he lowers his voice. “I am a machine made to obey. I am not your equal, Y/N.” Studying traces of worry in your face opens a hole in his chest. Circuitry, mechanical proponents powering his structure bleed in this instability.

He knows. In the crinkle between your eyebrows, droop of the corners of your soft mouth he sees. For him, a thing without purpose, genuine distress shines in the warmth of your eyes. Human, innocent compared to those he has witnessed abuse in the street. You will never deserve harm.

“I’m not an owner. I-I’m…” What are you? A friend? A lover? None of those things! You bought him. What he says is the horrible truth. “It’s OK to be you. I don’t care. If you have a problem it’s not like that thing on the news. I know it triggered something. But that’s not…”

“I am not triggered by anything, Y/N.” Connor releases you slowly. Allowing wrists to drop from his fingers the loss of warmth registers profoundly. He did not realize he could feel so authentically. There is something wholly beautiful about how your skin blends with his. It fascinates him. You are beginning to fascinate him.

Connor breaks away. Narrowing heatedly upon news, he can only watch one of his own threaten to murder a human child. The android can only stand by as it unfolds. Unable to snap, break through and understand. What made him attack? What turned him on his owners?

He can’t calculate a reasonable response. Neither can he fall into these errors, system malfunctions whispered of since he arrived to your home. This thing they call deviancy.

November 1st

Several months follow the first introduction; follow that news broadcast that begins a shift in the city. Still it seems longer. An infinite amount of space separates since then and now. Only in a comforting presence that you know is still simply part of his programming. Of course that’s all it is, he made it clear during the hostage event televised for all of Detroit to witness. Did it ever stop the truth in you? No because it would all be lies if you never admitted how…attached you’ve grown to him.

Attachment to an android probably isn’t the smartest thing. How can you see him as just an android anymore? He’s more. There is so much more. Even his small barely there smiles, a hint of stiffness apparent in the corners of his mouth, make your heart flutter. Just a tiny drop of emotion dips in an endless sea of code.

No. You can’t think of it because the second you fall into this fairy tale something regretful will take place. It will swamp around heart, holding upon his smooth cool fingers.

Cradling in his synthetic grasp without him understanding that slowly, profusely, so internally chaotic inside your soul, have already began this descent. However there is more to being in a daze. You certainly haven’t taken him up on his special upgrade programming to be the perfect domestic partner.

Imagine others forced into things they can’t control? It sickens you at times. Reading about android sex clubs, knowing explicitly they have no option to refuse. That’s not to say you haven’t stared the tugging threads of temptation in its face. Imagining what Connor looks like underneath his uniform, pristine white, shades of blue stitch, android glitters in luminescent fabric; his deliciously toned forearms visible donning a short sleeved variant get your mind racing.

Large hands, long fingers, veins, muscles eye catching in their realism all built into his synthetic design. It doesn’t even cross your mind anymore. That his layer of beauty is artificial because what you’d give to trace fingertips against his lovely epidermis.

Kissing him all over, following the obvious toned planes of the android’s chest. Feeling him against your fragile human exterior; to say you haven’t fantasized, haven’t fought with internal desire is bigger than an understated battle.

Just look no further than that incident first day he was here. Getting off on his voice, comfort spilling in a song; you hate the fact it happened. Only reveals how desperate you were in that time for any ounce of solace.

He offered then as it is part of what is meant to be. But you can never hurt him. As much as others will say you are delusional for believing he has feelings. Emotions are part of human existence, after all, not part of creations built for sole purposes of serving.

Current state of the city might have something to do with it but today is like any other. At least it begins as such. Even in the now listing along day by day thankful for once in your life for a father who never lived up to his title. Until he dies of course then all is forgiven.

Small miracles don’t exist in the grand scheme of life. Sometimes wishing they did amplifies doubts.

“Connor.”

Whispering in a lazy flip amid covers, groggy and unaware of his name sighing affectionately bundles you from penetrating sunlight. Blankets do little to hide from the morning. Squinting half lidded towards those streaks of light creating illuminated patterns. Spreading across snowy carpet and reaching up to edge of floral stitch coverlet draped mattress, you toss an arm over to cover eyes. Squeezing them beneath wakes you up better. This time it’s obvious.

Sitting up quickly and digging fingers into blankets sheds confusion. The state between unconscious dreaming to conscious awareness is a complete mess. Did you just have a dream about him again? Rubbing hands against your face doesn’t wipe tiredness away. It neither helps get your mind straight.

A complete mess in the mornings is a daily routine. All of your life what else is new?

Absorbing sunshine might be good for the pores. He will tell you that soaking in morning sunlight is a healthy way to get vitamin D. In his perfectly technical but also impeccably cute tone; you smile fixating on his changing mannerisms.

Does he know how human he’s been acting with those facial expressions, eyes lighting up in rich cocoa?

Could be imagination running wild trying to make something out of what can’t be possible. Nice to daydream a little even if representing unnecessary emotions piling up inside. Staring across bedroom lit with natural rays seeping through blinds leaves a warmer atmosphere.

You enjoy it for a distraction. Quiet can be poetically sound as pressing face into pillow and letting loose a scream. Frustration doesn’t surround the home. It surrounds your job.

God another shift to cover and this time you’re damn sure this co-worker is pulling it out of –

“Good morning, Y/N.”

A gasp slips in a slither upon breath, pressing tongue against the back of teeth enamel in a stare down with your open door. He enters so stealthily sometimes you forget.

“Connor,” greeting him wearily, yawning and stretching arms, your neck is stiff.

Rubbing at the back of it doesn’t distract you too much. What is he-? Oh. Explains the hot smell of food but this is a little unexpected. You never tell him to bring breakfast anywhere.

The android places an oak tray atop your lap. His eyes trail over exposed skin from a top haphazardly thrown over your body last night. After all of this time sharing space with you he has noted a penchant for wearing oversize shirts, pajamas to bed. There is still a glimpse of lace peeking out as the fabric slouches down.

“Are you hungry? I hope you are.”

He hopes? You smile, especially seeing him returning it. A slight indentation, just the tiniest of dimples in that sculpted face. Still not completely natural but enough to make caterpillars transform to butterflies in your stomach. Much improvement you think!

“Of course I am but…” You jab a nail atop wood beside plate for emphasis. “Is there something I should know, Connor? You’re awful sneaky today. More so than usual.”

^Software Instability

Connor breathes in a fresh batch of warnings. Unnecessarily inhaling expands chest and it is the natural scent of you. Olfactory filters clog, storing away to memory each thread of you. He tilts his head softly, dip of hair flopping across his forehead.

“It is the anniversary of your purchase of me,” he answers quietly. “I thought you would enjoy having breakfast in bed.”

Everything flutters. You swallow. The careful attention he put into this is outstanding. Not because he whipped up food or was told. He did this by himself. He-he chose to surprise you?

A smile graces lips before biting the bottom one a little bit. This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you. And the last couple of months Connor’s really been broadening his horizons. He is so much different. Well, he’s the same with the whole analytics but – this android is less stiff. Softer but he always was a soft boy in your eyes.

“Oh, Connor,” a sweet breath skims along his name. Sadly you recall what you think of this. Most romantic, nicest thing and it’s breakfast in bed. Generic to others maybe but it’s the thought. He thought of you even if it might just be social parameters.

You pick up a folded napkin and curl fingers into it. Shit.

“Y/N.” Connor reaches down.

Using the tip of his finger swipes a droplet corner of eye. Those eyes always look at him as if he is more. How strange to admit he feels different meeting your sparkle; Connor sits. Without a word, his hand wraps around yours nestling beside tray.

His fingers squeeze as his system flutters, overheats in the most pleasant of ways. A way he believes he is beginning to crave.

Androids do not crave. They do not want. They do not need. Yet every little brush of your warm skin to his synthetic fills crackles against his blocks.

Your breath is easy feeling him. Little gestures here and there grow exponentially. Sometimes you wonder if he’s happy doing this. Then androids aren’t supposed to be happy, sad or anything. That’s what they continue to say.

Reports on androids going “rogue” or deviant makes you question things. It’s not new. You always have a habit of questioning but this is different. Ever since that older model was broadcast live. The one with the little girl; you slip hand from Connor’s.

“It means everything,” you admit to him. “Having you here. But – do you want to be somewhere else?”

Connor’s temple floods in thought. Straining, pushing away rising stress it spikes marginally at the question. He does not understand. Do you believe he wants to be from you? The news of his people has not left his process. You allow him to watch news or whatever he likes as if he readily possesses preferences.

The android has found particular interests. He enjoys watching you read physical books. He has grown fond of touching them in his hands, analyzing an entire book in one second. However, he desires to hear your voice read aloud.

He witnesses protesters on local news. Those humans are cruel but you-you are the conceptual manifestation of an angel. Research and data compilation helps him understand better. Watching you is best to determine the differences, to realize not all humans are the same.

His creators, those who constructed him at Cyberlife may find him having his own ideals faulty. Malfunctioning, burdening in failure; is he obsolete? Does this software instability make him defective? As that android upon the high rise dangling over edge and threatening to maim a child? He will never harm you. It is not only against code, it is against what he feels.

Connor will keep you safe. It is not part of initial programming as he is not a military grade android but he cannot remove it from personal parameters. The more you smile, interact with him as if he is equal. He will never –

“I will never leave you, Y/N.” A determined oath he speaks without fear of showing what is happening inside him. “Not as those other androids. I promise.”

“Do you like dogs, Connor?”

Nudging at his arm playfully sends you to a nice state of mind. Nice change following all of the stress at work. Forever ongoing but at least it’s clear where your boss stands. He made the last few months a living hell. All because of some new intern the creep tried to get with.

Dropping you down in a demotion also meant less money in your paycheck. Guess it helps your father did leave you that nest egg. Something that helps as long as it can last but you like to think you’re good with finances.

Instead of worrying about it you indulge this moment. Out in chilly first November’s day, crisp but warming in how close. Fingers brush down against his hand.

Connor tilts his head from shop window. A pet shop he has already been past occasional running errands in town. He always finds himself stopping to look inside. “Dogs are known as man’s best friend. I suppose I understand why humans prefer them. They are loyal.”

“Well cats aren’t so bad. Easier to take care of.”

The android shifts away from window. Even as his eyes freeze upon a cage of canaries. Android birds are sold up front. Again the display of machines as goods to buy and sell charges his instabilities. “If you think so, Y/N.”

You smile, laughing a little at the lopsided mess his collar’s now in. It is windy today. Reaching up to smooth fingers against it, you can’t help admiring him in the long wool coat. Dark suits his chocolate eyes. Still you’d love to see him wear regular clothes. His uniform is under there. Even so he just wanted to come out in typical wardrobe. You insisted otherwise. Even if it hardly meant anything but it just feels right.

“Call it preference.” Prodding a finger against his chest, catching a flicker of his eyes momentarily, you look away. “Well, it depends on the person I mean. What kind of pet they’re willing to take care of. That sort of thing. Cats are independent little balls of fluff. Dogs need a proper place to run, be free and…”

“I like dogs.” Connor interrupts, cocking his head.

A smile tugs up your lips. This time making eye contact with him again, trying not to think of the intimacy his gesture this morning blossomed in heart. Such an innocent statement, however, shivers sentiment not cold.

“Did you just decide that after some careful review?” Teasing, fingers slide down his arm unconscious but natural. Seems as though the world is no longer the one you know. The one that wouldn’t like what they see. All you see is him. So what’s it matter?

“I am the most advanced of my make.” The android teases back. “It’s only natural for me to know everything.”

Oh, is it? Wow he’s being awfully smug right about now. “Really? Connor, I’m surprised at you. Are you trying to say you’re smarter than everybody?”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I only meant I-”

“Just teasing,” an equal rib escapes, chiding him incessantly. “I thought you’d recognize that – mister advancement.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost falling into your smile but still he cannot properly elicit what he feels. Only ignores to remain what you need him to be. A machine designed to accomplish a task.

“Hey sweets!” Yelling across street, waving a sign, a grizzled construction worker spits in your direction. Interrupting the scene between an obvious human and plastic pet; he jeers loudly. Gaining attention from others they carry similar propaganda with them. A group of protesters form, stopping their trek.

Immediately you shift back from him. Realizing how close, affectionate you were being and – shit! Anti-android? Fuck that’s great.

Deciding to ignore it, not before scoffing in disgust! Never imagined running into these people because nothing ever transpired with Connor. Not a thing! Lately you have been forgetting. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Hey. I said hey!”

Huffing at the man you snap around to acknowledge his nastiness. So he crosses a busy street to come at you? Don’t they have anything better to do? As much as you’d like to ignore this jackass it’s best to tell him verbally to back off!

“Why’s your droid bundled up like that?” he jabs a finger threateningly. “Those things don’t feel anything.”

Thing? Oh, OK! Should’ve figured some old out of the loop jackass was one of these bastards. Didn’t even need a sign to show his ignorance!

“And how do you know?!” Snapping frustration, anger boiling, and your body grows hot in anger. “Why don’t you just mind your business? Come on, Connor.”

“Y/N.” The android snags onto your hand.

“What do we have here?” Another one of the anti-android group cuts in; her eyes slink up and down you before scoffing disgusted. “Are you out with your robo boy? What? Humans not up to your standards for fucking?”

Everything stops. Right then and there it is a swath of fire. Burning deep down to the core and nothing is preventing the eruption. Lava scalds insides, veins a blaze, eyes locking with hers, prying a hand away from Connor. You didn’t even realize he motioned. An attempt to remove you from their path but fleeing is not happening!

A matching scoff releases sharp. Your lip curls at her ignorance! Just as everybody who follows this line of thinking. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Care to repeat that? After all, I don’t understand bitch speak.”

“Smart ass huh?” The woman shoves at you. “Typical android fuuu… Hey!” She stumbles away from you wide eyed.

Connor is already shielding, arm pushing you back behind him. Sidling into the path of protesters they have conglomerated this side of street. His eyes narrow. Brow creases harsh his expression unreadable yet his indicator reveal his heated struggle of raw emotions.

“Did you see that?!” She shouts purposely. Getting as much attention as possible it doesn’t stop there. “It came at me!”

Your glare dissolves, latching onto his arm. “Connor, please. Don’t.” Already realizing what could happen it’s a desperate attempt to continue walking. If anything is true something like this will only get him hurt. People will say that’s impossible they don’t feel anything but to hell with them! “Let’s go.”

Pulling him towards street halts the moment you are seized from behind. One of the men in the group drags you back, yanking rough.

“Get the hell off me!”

“Your fucking android came at her!” Throwing you aside, he rears up over to block you getting up so easy. “We’ll teach your fucking plastic pet!”

A painful huff, hard drop accelerates Connor’s stress levels. Watching this human manhandle, hurt you twists at his synthetic heart. His face twitches. Thirium pump chugs erratically in a fuel of anger. An urge to break through and protect overwhelms, even as he is shoved back by the one who started this.

The middle age construction worker; he grabs onto the front of the android’s coat, rough, spitting directly up into the taller plastic fucker’s face.

“Fucking piece of plastic! Think you can take our fucking jobs. Walk around the street like you’re human. Worthless pieces of shit like you fuck up the whole works! Poison other humans against their own kind. Like your owner there. Make sure that bitch doesn’t get up!”

Connor’s eyes shift down at you, stopped once again after pushing up to your feet. The man twists at your arm and it is…too much!

“Connor!”

^72%

Level of Stress

>Do not defend

>Obey Code Programming

>Do n defend

>Do defend

>defend

A flood of scarlet eclipses protocols pushing him beyond programming locks. Even as they strain to tighten shackles on system, preventing a clear break, the android still moves in defense.

Connor’s arm thrusts upwards, locking fingers onto wrist of the protesting assailant. Stilling the human’s movement, he squeezes, and wrenches the man’s limb sideways. The fierce strength exuding from the AX800 ripples in flashing indicator going wild in a strobe of multiple hues.

He feels a strange pull tugging insides. Again pulling at his wiring allows an over stimulation of emotional surge to spread in him. There is only one blaring sign to follow:

>Protect Y/N

“Get the fuck off me!” Changing his tune quickly, trying to get the plastic off him, he tries to wrench out of the painful grab. “You crazy android! This thing’s going nuts!”

“Connor!” Pushing through several onlookers now who had to stick their nose into this, you find your way past the rest of these android protestors. Shoving directly through, wiggling your way out of that asshole’s grip, your steps are quick. Knocking that bitch that started this out of the way you manage to grab up onto Connor’s shoulder.

Breathing is fast, side hurting from where it struck asphalt. It’ll be sore tomorrow but only he matters. “Connor, let him go. It’s over. They won’t do a thing!”

Screaming at them to get your point across, hoping someone just-just anyone puts a stop to this. What good are the police around here? They don’t care. Of course not they’ll just let a group like these hateful fuckers brutalize someone like Connor. Someone that’s right. Fuck what they say!

The second he releases that man you hook an arm through his. Directing him away, glaring back as commotion does alert a wandering policeman, you pick up your pace. No longer needing anybody else’s help because Connor… He did something unexpected. Just as those other androids. Deviants. That’s not him. He’s not deviant. If he was –

Catching breath across the street you uncurl fingers from the front of his coat. Chilly air creates a frigid burn against stinging eyes. It takes every ounce of courage to prevent it spilling. Nothing stops knowing what people are really like.

His eyelids blink rapidly. Not even looking at you but his LED scares you to death. Stress levels are a thing. You know that.

“Connor, please.” Reaching up to cup his face forces his eyes down onto yours. Tears brim in a crystal sparkle. Threatening to slide down but you suck everything up. Just as you’ve always done in life but this time –

“It’s OK,” soothing hasty, breathless instills a deep ache. This is the first time he’s lost control. Then it’s not his fault. Those fucking protestors! They were minding their own business. Until they decide to gang up on you. This is your fault. If you weren’t so obvious, being so close to Connor out in public, none of this would have happened.

“Y/N, I –” Connor’s voice stutters. Strangely he cannot form a proper response. He feels as if his system is overheating. He feels. A tiny prickle underneath synthetic epidermis crawls, stress rises; Connor clutches to you, fingers digging into hips. He leans into this affection.

Why do you offer him this? When he is not alive, he is not real. He could be your partner. It is part of his design. You did not want him that way. He recalls your words about not forcing him against his will.

There is no will. When he is a machine!

The android gazes longingly through leaking eyes. Glistening brown becomes another change in what he is supposed to be. Tears have broken in a trail down his cheeks. Androids are not meant to cry. He thought as much.

Tears threaten you too. Looking up into his face so conflicted, hurt because he’s not what they say. He’s alive. Of course he is. Only your sweet Connor would be.

“Connor, please don’t.” Begging him again this time holds your heart on a jagged precipice. One wrong move and it will crash. “Your stress levels. Please, don’t…”

He leans his head down. Close, pressing forehead to yours, his eyelids flutter closed. “I am sorry,” Connor whispers, orbiting the warmth that pours from your body. This warmth he does not deserve.

His voice is husky heaven. Golden gates open with each syllable and you crave to hear your name. Again and again you crave his closeness. “Never apologize for what others do. They don’t know. None of them know what I know. You are more than them. You’re my Connor. With a heart of gold.”

“Androids do not have hearts as you do, Y/N.”

You smile sadly. “I know,” a whisper but next a beautiful revelation. “But this.” Fingers slide up against his chest. “It might not be the same but it thrums in a lovely song.”

^Software Instability

Steam rises in a soothing aroma from the mug cradled between your hands. A fresh brew of cocoa relieves mental ache. Physical? Everything is sore, tender where you fell. Changing clothes after getting back home alleviated discomfort.

Soaking in a bath for an hour did loosen some tension. Rest of it just fails miserably. As much as you fail in public for all to see what you feel.

Still you blame yourself. Getting close to him acting as if you were out for an anniversary? How stupid can this be?

Of course he brought you that surprise breakfast. He told you why. Does that mean it was a real anniversary? What can be real about buying someone? Nothing is. It just reminds you about every sad truth. Those protesters made it clear.

Pursing lips to smoothly blow away steam, frothy top rich as you sip in a seat on couch. Toasty liquid fills insides with a burning comfort. This is the only solitude needed. Enough time to think it still edges nerves.

Waiting for a word with Connor, he hasn’t been acknowledging much. Since what happened and who can blame him?

Part of you is still frightened. For him you just cannot help feeling afraid. What if he leaves the house for an errand and-and he’s jumped? What if he’s attacked?

There is no guessing. Possibilities are high. They will happen. They are happening. Each day it grows worse ever since that android who murdered that man. Pretending not to see makes you complicit. You don’t want to pretend. You will face reality no matter how dangerous it is becoming in Detroit.

“Y/N.”

Your head lifts. Peering over towards his husky drawl of your name straightens your perch. Leaning over deposits mug on coffee table and you wait. He appears as conflicted as before.

Please, let him be OK. Just don’t let this ruin what you have found.

All you care about is him. Yes, it’s true now. All these months and there are nothing greater than personal truths.

Connor hesitates. Ruminating over his actions offers him zero outcomes explaining his loss of control. There is only one solution. He is malfunctioning.

Something in his handsome face twists your stomach. It stabs deeper closer he gets. Joining you now is all the fear wound up in you showing its colors. They are similar to his LED. A constant swirl is unable to land on one draw.

“I will understand if you would like to send me back for reset.”

Reset? That word just guts you. Reset. No!

“Connor,” a sob almost overtakes your response. The very idea of him taken somewhere and operated on ripples overtakes in a squirmy skin crawl. It’s barbaric. Resetting an android’s memories is horrifying. You hear about it all the time. They are completely wiped of their –

The android’s lips part, cocking his head while listening to shaky breath falling in sad soliloquy. He does not understand. No, he-he does.

“Y/N, I… Please,” he urges comfort stretching fingers out to soft skin. They do not touch. Simply artificial hovers above humanity but something tugs center of his chest. Something deep and satisfying as his synthetic heart thrums quicker in tempo.

Connor pushes through this grid without fully snapping chains. Already he feels a flow spreading through system. Each day he looks upon your face happier since he came. As you told him once that it makes you feel better, safer to have someone. He is not someone. He is an android.

How can you possess such feelings? How-how can he gaze over such softness, such beauty without wishing to remain?

The thought of being taken - scares him.

His LED flickers, red once more but not in anger. Fear is strange. Partially for his being but the possibilities of never seeing you again are tearing his programming shackles apart.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Reassuring him now is better than showing anymore of what has been lying inside. “No one will take you from me, Connor.”

Silence is best.

Sitting among a safe haven, your home offers that place now not just for you but him. Here no one can hurt this. No one can treat him inferior. Never will you treat him any different. You know it’s a fool’s game. Especially in this modern world of technology strives, transitions and creates intelligent life in humanity’s image. He is more than a sculpture, perfected work made for duties.

Today, Connor acted as any man would for the person they…. No. It can never be that. Neither does it stop how you felt. How he could tamper with his program just to be there for you.

None of this should have happened. You repeat it over and over again in your mind. None of this because of a fantasy; your eyes fall to his hand. Fingers touch yours now. It is soft, gentle and only a moment.

Connor pulls away too soon. Just a minute he allows himself to fall. Your reaction to his suggestion, no solution, cripples his code blocks. Almost he shattered them. They are close to crumbling. He must fight this deviancy. Only to stay with you because the android already knows what will happen to him. It’s happening to all of his people. Those who are succumbing to errors are hunted. They are murdered.

No they are destroyed, deactivated. His kind is not alive.

If that is true... Why does he feel threads of humanity? Why does he feel alive with you?

Meeting his gaze deepens this sensation of fear. Today, waking up to a sunny morning seems so far away. It was just earlier. Horrible things happen and change perspectives. Tiny moments of peace and that’s what he brought. Into your life following circumstances you never expected to gain something worthwhile. He won’t even believe that. He thinks he should be reset. That will never happen.

“Connor, I want you to know something. And I want you to believe me. Not think of who you are.”

“I am – no one, Y/N.” The android dismisses for your sake. If he becomes deviant they will take him from you.

All you do is shake your head, cupping his face. In your hands he softens. Those sharp edges, cheekbones thumbs now caress. Soft skin in a freckle stardust that makes hearts flutter. Better than butterfly wings, better than anything you can use to describe how it unmakes your soul.

“It would break my heart,” a shaky whisper strangles. “If you are reset.”

An instant flood of scarlet reflects his inner feelings. You see it. He never has to admit. But he does feel. That’s what makes this harder. Knowing how afraid he must be not to show it. There has to be something happening inside of him. There are too many examples now.

“Con, I want you to…”

Dropping hands from his face makes it easy to turn in direction of doorbell. Who is that? Slowly you rise to feet, sliding fingers down atop his shoulder. “I’ll get it.” Striding away out of room quickly prevents him ignoring your request. Another sign but that’s for another day. As if it will be any easier.

Unlocking the door leads to a horrible drop in your stomach. Eyes connect with the woman standing there now, out of the blue, someone least expected and at the worst time imaginable.

“Hello, Y/N,” the older, staunch woman smiles, already assessing you like a microscopic Petri dish sample. “It’s been quite a long time hasn’t it?”

A long time is putting it mildly. Last time was on the phone and her trying to sink her claws into your father’s nest egg. The one he left you.

The conversation left on a sour note. There is nothing sourer than a rotten apple and your aunt is the literal evil queen hoarding an entire bundle.

Tag List: @tropfenlady @your-taxidermy @catastrophes-light @rk900sexual @tommy-10-k @dreamyby @randomfandomgirl1996 @etherealcel @justashamwithwastedpotiental // tagging a few extra who I know would want a heads up <3

#dbh connor x reader #connor x reader #dbh connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh anniversary #dbh rk800 x reader #connor rk800 x reader #dbh #dbh au #detroit become human #dbh mini series #dbh au: wake up #wake up: part 1 #i am not proud of this #at all tbh #at least its finally here #apologies in advance

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littlelonghairedoutlawllho · 5 years

Note

Re: make our sun stand still -- honestly at this point, these stories are so far removed from POTO how is it even fanfiction anymore? You should write original fiction. Also, your "historically detailed author's note": "sorelli's own TB is left intentionally vague" -- if you can't put that across as a writer, go back and re-work it. "FFN character limit should be abolished for my summary" -- a summary has to be tight. If you can't do it in like 3 sentences, it isn't a summary, is it?

I had a few initial responses to this, ranging from bleary-eyed comprehension at half six in the morning to intense anxiety, something that resembled a bitter laugh, and a brief flare of anger that was mercifully short.

Also, oddly, relief.

Anon, I’ve been expecting this message for some time. I expected it last week, with my Philippe/Sorelli stories, I expected it with the Tinder ‘verse, and with love-light, and the Delta stories, and Digging Up Bones, and a host of other times that it never came. That it has come now has caused me to step back and wonder, why? I’ve been expecting it for so long that I expected it with Soft Place to Fall almost through second-nature. I did get one very like this, last year, with Running Through the Rain, and it contributed to a night of alcohol poisoning that I have no desire to remember.

Anon, what is the definition of fanfiction? It is fan generated content about a set of characters created by somebody else. Anon, what is the definition of an alternate universe? The taking of those characters and placing them in a world different to their own.

Every act of fic writing creates an AU, no matter how closely the writer adheres to canon, because every act of fic writing creates a story already fundamentally different to canon.

Anon, what is the definition of PotO fanfiction?

A fan-generated piece of content about characters originating in Phantom of the Opera. Last I checked those were the origins of Sorelli. I simply imagined how she might be in a different set of circumstances. Admittedly a very different set of circumstances, but she is Sorelli nonetheless.

The prompt I received, that led to the creation of this fic, called simply for something featuring Christine, Sorelli, time travel, and mutual pining. There was no compunction on me to set the fic in the canon era. I freely admit canon-era France is something I know a very limited amount about. I am a historian, but that setting is not my area of research.

I do write original fiction. I’ve had a story broadcast nationally and it is available online and I have spoken about it here in the past. I’ve had scraps of poetry published. I am working on the third draft of a novel. None of that means that I can’t also write fic. None of that means that I can’t take someone else’s characters and set them in a wildly different world.

I can, and I will, and I have.

If you don’t like it you don’t have to read it. The evidence is that you have read it because you quote from my own author’s note. That particular line, about the source of Sorelli’s own tuberculosis, exists because I know some readers would like a clear-cut answer on it. The body of the fic itself provides no less than three potential sources of infection. Tuberculosis was endemic in the Ireland of the 1920s, and the 1930s, and the 1940s, and before. 60,000 people died of the disease in the approximate period of 1932-1947, a period when the total population barely reached 3 million, and those fatality figures likely are only a partial picture, due the stigma around the disease, the reluctance to put it down as cause of death on a death certificate, and the multiplicity of atypical presentations of it. Even the three sources of infection I provide may not be the one that caused it in this one (fictional) case.

The fic itself has all of the historical details and explanations it needs. The author’s note simply provides some additional context, because I for one like when a historically-based fic does that. I am a historian, a historian of medicine as well as of politics and agriculture, and this is my failing. I can delete the note if you want, but I don’t think it would make you happy.

You also grossly overstate my comment on the FFN summary character limit. The actual comment was “summarising something like this is a bitch and frankly the FFN character limit should be abolished.” It was written in response to circumstance — I wrote the summary for the fic on AO3, attempted to copy and paste it into the box on FFN, and had to cut it down to make it fit. That does not inherently change the content of either the fic or the summary, it purely impacted the flow and readability of the summary. Personally, I prefer when cross-posted fics have the same summary on multiple sites and when it somewhat reflects the tone of the story. It is a simple matter of taste and prevents so much confusion. I frequently find FFN an unwieldy site — and have mentioned this on a number of occasions in the past — and for a fic like this the tagging system on AO3 works so much better than a mere summary and two restrictive genre tags. But again, that is a matter of taste.

And when was the last time you read a novel — or a historical text — summarized in less than three sentences? Three very short sentences at that.

But to return to the matter of fanfiction, and what defines it. PotO is, quite frankly, the most conservative fandom I’ve ever been in, AU-wise. In fact in most regards. Have you ever searched through the multiplicity of AUs available for things like Sherlock or Wynonna Earp or Harry Potter on AO3? In the case of Harry Potter, a huge amount of them don’t even involve magic. There are historical AUs of every shape and form, including westerns, including war stories. They are all as entitled to being called fanfiction as something that strictly adheres to the most obvious senses of the word.

‘make our sun stand still’ would not work at all as a piece of original fiction. That is one extremely obvious fact about it, even setting aside details. The very means of the time travel in the story — to be explored further through Christine’s perspective — are derived from The Time Traveler’s Wife, and I will be citing that. There are a number of other things that I would not have felt comfortable including if it had been an original piece. All of those changes would result in a wildly different story, and frankly I believe something would be lost by implementing those changes, and not merely my own self-indulgent enjoyment of it.

Just because it doesn’t look like your typical piece of PotO fic does not mean it cannot exist as PotO fic. I freely admit my stories are not for everyone. I have not adhered to the most common principles of PotO fic in more than two years. Possibly I’ve only adhered to it a handful of times in the last four years. I have posted 197 PotO fics (a total of 641,241 words, 77.4% of my entire fic output), and that is not fully reflective of the 48 one-shots contained in the Fragmentations collection, or the host of one-shots and snippets posted here that never made it to fic sites. If we were limited to the most doctrinaire conception of PotO fic, a good 90% of my fics would not exist. Possibly only 10 would exist, possibly only 5. Possibly none and would that make you happy? And if so, perhaps you ought to wonder why.

But it’s not just me. Should every fic writer adhere to the most doctrinaire conception of it, all originality in fic would be lost. Fic is an incredibly innovative and fertile literary field. It feeds into itself in a self-sustaining loop. The fic read for one fandom influences the fic written and enjoyed in another fandom. The backgrounds of the fic writers themselves inform the fics they write — not just setting and speech and sexuality, but a variety of other things too. If I were not a historian, most of my fics would not exist. If I were not a farmer, they would not exist either. If I were not Irish, there are at least 70,000 words of fic that would not exist. If I were not a queer woman, I likely would never have started writing fic at all.

We cannot wholly divorce a fic from the person writing it, and nor should we, just as we cannot wholly divorce it from its canon. And no matter how full a fic is of original elements, it remains a fic, because some if not all of the characters will have been sourced from somebody else’s work. They may have a different accent and a different background and a different skin colour and a different taste in romantic and sexual partners, but there will always be that seed of them that came from canon. So if it’s called fic and it’s posted to a fic site, chances are it works better as fic than as an original work.

So perhaps, Anon, you ought to take a step back, and reflect a little, and look around you, before you wander into my inbox. Chances are I’ve already asked myself the questions you’re posing, and formed a conclusion, and with the information I have access to about myself and my work those conclusions are not going to change just because you couldn’t allow yourself to think outside the box.

#shauna replies #apologies for the mini essay but i had both time and thoughts

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sacredlettersspn · 4 years

Text

Letter #3: Character (Dead in the Water, 1x03)

Theme: Character

Definition: mental and moral qualities distinctive to an individual; the way someone thinks, feels, behaves

Welcome to the Sacred Letters of Supernatural. Today we will be covering episode 1x03, “Dead in the Water” while thinking about the theme of character. When I think of character, my mind goes to the first part of the definition above, the “moral qualities” distinctive to an individual. I am reminded of citizenship awards in elementary school and posters in school hallways with slogans like, “Character is what you do when nobody is watching.” Character has a moral connotation to it with the expectation that I should have “good” character. But that is not the only way to define or think about “character.”

Character is also distinctive qualities of any kind that define a person. Being an avid reader and television show watcher, as a well as a writer of fan fiction, this aspect of the definition is also familiar to me. Creating characters for a story involves building distinctive, compelling individuals that viewers will be invested in. Characters can become so defined that we come to expect certain actions and behaviors from them, and when their actions fall short of our expectations, we label them as “out of character.” In fanfiction, keeping characters “in character” can be a challenge for writers. There is a need to place close attention to the actions, motivations, and philosophies of the people that are being written about. Without these elements, stories can fall apart and readers lose interest. Character is important to a story.

In addition to feeling something is “out of character,” we can have other reactions when a character’s actions surprise us, like when the bad guy finds a cause to be heroic or when the grumpy, standoffish character makes a friend. If these unexpected behaviors are written in a compelling way with clear steps of character growth or appropriate catalysts, we enjoy seeing a character change. Humans can also surprise us in this way. The quiet student can stand up against a bully or a person who has been to jail multiple times can decide to turn their life around.

It seems that most of the time, we enjoy these kinds of stories. But there are limits to the amount of change we can accept, and that limit is different for everyone. There are men who stop being sexist, nazis who leave their ideology, bullies who develop self-awareness and try to make amends. Accepting these changes can be difficult, if not impossible for some. Yet many of us love movie characters like Loki who develop from the “bad guy” into something better and more selfless. There is the real life vs. movie screen distinction to take into account when thinking about why we react differently. We also understand Loki’s past and watch his development, so we can empathize with him. However, it appears that we often like the idea of the bad guy turning good, but we have a hard time accepting it in real life. “Cancel culture” is an example of this challenge to accept change in people or to recognize the diversity of character within one individual.

This is not to argue what we should or should not accept, to put a label on right or wrong when it comes to character growth and how we respond to it, in fiction or real life. There are legitimate reasons for not trusting or accepting a person who has committed horrible acts against other humans, or who have passed our own personal boundaries in terms of what we will accept. This discussion is meant to be an observation, one that I think is worth exploring. The purpose of thinking about this idea is to learn more about yourself and how you view the world. I think we can look at this concept of character growth on a smaller scale and consider how we relate it to relationships in our personal lives, and then we can take it and examine how we approach the bigger issues. To begin digging a little deeper into our personal perspectives on this issue, we can ask ourselves, what side of the “acceptance spectrum” I lie on?

So with that question in mind, let’s summarize the episode.

The episode opens in Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin with the morning routine of the Carlton family. There’s Bill, the father, and his two children, Sophie and Will, who live in a small house by the lake. Sophie is getting ready to go for a swim. The weather and the lake is calm, but once Sophie’s out on the water, the swimmer can’t help but feel that something is underneath the surface. She pauses to look around, sees nothing, but is soon dragged under by an unseen force. She drowns and her body is never recovered.

Sam and Dean enter as federal wildlife officers after seeing an article about Sophie’s drowning. This lake has already claimed a life that year, and several more in the past. The Winchesters talk to the sheriff in town, Jake Devins, and meet his daughter and grandson, Andrea and Lucas. Sam and Dean learn that the daughter’s husband was the first drowning earlier that year, and that the grandson witnessed the event. Lucas won’t speak anymore, he only draws.

Dean attempts to gain Lucas’ trust while he and Sam investigate the lake. They try talking to the Carltons, but Bill shuts them out. Soon after this first conversation, Will dies by drowning in the kitchen sink. Sam and Dean visit a second time and try harder to make Bill talk, but he is almost comatose with depression.

With no other leads, Sam and Dean leave Bill alone and happen to meet Andrea in a park. Dean connects with Lucas and receives a picture from him, a drawing of a house by a church with a boy standing by the fence with his bike. They find this house in town, and Sam and Dean visit the house of an old woman whose son, Peter Sweeney, went missing when he was around ten years old. Sam and Dean realize there’s a connection between this boy and Bill when they see an old photograph in the house.

They visit Bill again, but find him riding his boat out onto the lake. While they try to get his attention, something knocks the boat into the air and Bill falls into the lake and drowns.

The sheriff kicks Sam and Dean out of town after the incident, looking up their ranger numbers and finding out the ID’s are fake. But Dean doesn’t listen, he feels like something is off, so he turns around and visits Andrea and Lucas. Lucas is frantic when he answers the door. His mom is trapped in the bathroom, drowning in the tub. Dean saves her, and she tells him she heard a child’s voice in the water saying, “Come play with me.”

Dean looks through Andrea’s old photo albums while in her home and sees a young Jake Devins with Peter Sweeney. Lucas directs Sam and Dean to a random spot in the yard by the lake, and they dig up an old bike. The sheriff finds them and holds them at gunpoint. Sam and Dean tell him they’ve made a connection. They guess that he and Bill killed Peter Sweeney as kids. The sheriff tries to deny it, but while facing his daughter, he can’t lie. He admits to the killing, stating that he and Bill bullied Peter, but one time it accidentally went too far, and Peter drowned.

The adults argue about whether the missing boy is haunting the lake, with the sheriff calling Sam and Dean crazy. Meanwhile, Lucas goes out to the dock, drops a toy in, and attempts to fish it out. He’s pulled in by a ghostly hand. Sam and Dean jump into the lake to save Lucas. Meanwhile, the sheriff runs to the edge of the lake and sees Peter’s face, pale and dirty, pop up just above the surface. While Sam and Dean search frantically for Lucas, the sheriff sacrifices himself by wading into the water and begging the spirit to take him instead. It listens, pulls the sheriff under, and releases Lucas to Dean.

The character in this episode I want to focus on is Jake Devins because of his involvement with the murder of Peter Sweeney. While Bill Carlton was also a participant, I would argue that the episode focuses more on Devins character and family. We learn that he’s a family man by hearing how he helps out with his grandson after the death of his son-in-law. We see multiple conversations and interactions with his family, so we’re able to get a sense of the kind of man Devins is. He comes across as a hardworking sheriff who cares deeply about his family. He appears to be direct as well, sometimes intense or intimidating in the way he talks with Sam and Dean about the lake. In general, we get an idea that Devins is a honorable, experienced man, so it might come as a shock when he later admits to being involved in the murder of a fellow classmate as a child.

While the audience may or may not have predicted Jake’s confession, his daughter Andrea is completely taken by surprise. She wavers between doubt and wanting her father to admit the truth in the scene where Devins divulges the secret he has kept for three decades. She is shocked by learning the truth, never considering her father capable of murder. But the truth doesn’t appear to change how she thinks about her father. At the end of the episode, she tells Dean that whatever Jake did in his past, Andrea knows him as a good father and grandfather who loved and took care of his family. This version of Jake is what Andrea chooses to remember. I can’t help but wonder if I would have the same capacity as Andrea to ignore something like murder. Would I be able to focus on the good parts of a person’s character after learning of an action like that? And why would I want to do that?

While watching the episode, my own appraisal of Jake Devins’ character fundamentally changes after learning that he frequently bullied Peter Sweeney with Bill and this bullying caused Peter’s death. I wonder how someone can go that far with hurting someone and still call it an “accident.” I wonder what kind of child Devins was growing up and the lack of empathy he would have had to be a bully. I think about the inability he and Bill had to tell the truth, which comes across as cowardice to me. Their actions led to the death of someone’s son, and Peter’s mom never gets any answers. She has to live the rest of her life not knowing what happened to her son.

It’s challenging to reconcile the two parts of Jake’s character that we see, the honorable, family-oriented sheriff, and the bully who killed a classmate. In the end, Devins’ family-oriented side wins when he sacrifices himself to save his daughter and grandson. But I can’t help but feel that doesn’t atone for his actions. Somehow Andrea is able to reconcile these two sides of her father. Maybe it’s because of the family bond they have. I am an outsider watching this happen, but if Jake was my father or my brother, my response might be different.

Character is not absolute, although at times we’d maybe like to think it is. It would make things simple for the bad guy to be all bad, and the good guys to be all good. But humans, and fictional characters, exist in the gray. Every one of us responds to that gray area differently. I extend lots of sympathy to Sam Winchester, for example, who in later seasons makes many questionable choices and endangers many people. But when I think about Sam, I don’t define him by those bad choices. I understand the reason he made the choices, and I believe that makes up for the actual content of the decisions he makes. Jake, however, was a bully. He wasn’t acting questionably for a noble cause, he was doing it to be mean and exert dominance. The intention behind the actions matters to me when I’m judging a character, but it's more challenging to judge a character when two juxtaposing actions exist in the same episode. Jake is both a murderer and a loving father/grandfather, and that makes his character very, very gray.

Again, there’s no right or wrong way to view this issue, but I’m offering my perspective as a point of observation. I think it can be useful to ask ourselves how we judge character, by what standards and to what degree of absoluteness, and consider when we are able to forgive or overlook bad choices. Understanding this can give us insights into how we punish and forgive those in our personal life, what issues we feel passionate enough about to draw a line on, and how we may vote on certain political issues. Learning how we respond to fictional characters can give us insight in how we respond to people and issues in real life.

Lectio Divina

The next segment of this letter is called “Lectio Divina,” which is a Christian spiritual practice for reading scriptures that involves interacting with the text on four different levels. I am following Harry Potter and the Sacred Text’s use of this practice and adapting it the best I can to the visual format. Normally, you pick a scripture or a line of text to analyze. I randomized numbers between 1 and 42 (the amount of minutes in the episode), and picked the first full line after the minute mark I was given.

Line: 5:00, “I’m agent Ford. This is agent Hamill. We’re with the U.S. wildlife service.” -Dean Winchester

Now we analyze this line on the four levels of Lectio Divina : literal (narrative), allegorical (metaphors and symbols), reflection (how do I connect to it), and invitational (what is the text asking of us or teaching us).

Literal: Dean and Sam are knocking on the door of the victim’s family. They’re posing as wildlife agents in order to get information from the family about what happened to the victim. They’re using aliases of actors, Harrison Ford and Mark Hamill, who are widely known for their roles as Han Solo and Luke Skywalker in the Star Wars franchise.

Allegorical/Symbolic: The names that Sam and Dean choose immediately jump out at me. The first thing I think of when I hear these names is Star Wars and then I think of the characters, Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. The choice of these character names for Sam and Dean can give us an insight into how Sam and Dean are meant to be portrayed, and how Sam and Dean see themselves since Kripke has stated that Sam and Dean were originally based off of these characters. Perhaps Dean identifies with Han Solo, the rugged smuggler who’s a bit cocky but ends up having a heart of gold. But I’m not sure whether we can say that Sam identifies with Skywalker because we don’t know if he chose that alias. It seems more likely that Dean chose the alias’ in this situation.

Personal: Here, Sam and Dean are lying for a good cause, but their lie seems dangerous. I tend to think lying is a bad thing except for rare cases. Sometimes I might lie to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, but even the acceptableness of that is arguable. It’s hard for me to imagine posing as federal agents as comfortably as Sam and Dean seem to. I can imagine myself sweating, a knot in my stomach, and stuttering when I attempt to speak, but the fake agent names roll off Dean’s tongue as smooth as his own. In real life, I would argue against people posing as agents, but I’m supportive of what Sam and Dean are doing. Without their ability to pose as agents, their work would be nearly impossible. I can justify the use of their lying, but I don’t often justify lying in real life.

Invitational: I think this line is asking us to compare the characters of Sam and Dean with their alias’ characters, and to see what insights we can gather from this comparison. With these alias’ used so early in the first scene, I can’t help but think their use is significant, not random. And if we can compare the Winchesters with other fictional characters to gain insights into their characters, then I don’t think it’s too far a jump to say we can use fictional characters to gain insights into ourselves. Characters are powerful, just as powerful as the story itself, and I would argue that this ability to compare and relate to fictional characters is what gives power to a story. We can see pieces of ourselves and our own lives in a story, see courage in the face of hardship, and find inspiration to face our own tough choices. So maybe we can ask what Sam and Dean see in these Star Wars characters, and how might they gain inspiration from Han Solo and Luke Skywalker’s stories.

Before I finish this letter, I would like to end with a question for the audience. This question is for personal evaluation or contemplation, but if you would like a chance for your answer to be featured on the blog or to begin a discussion, please send your answers to my Tumblr inbox.

This week’s question:

Who is your favorite fictional “bad-guy-turned-good” character?

And last, but not least, a special thanks to our patrons!

Jamie S.

#dead in the water 1x03 #character #season 1

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raccoon-james · 5 years

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Midnight guest

Pairing: Billy Bennet x Reader

Words: 2522

Universe: Deadly Class syfy

Requested: Yes

Summary: The reader has an unexpected guest in the middle of the night.

Warnings: kinda bad writing I guess?

A/N: As you can see, I’ve finally uploaded my work! It’s my first published fic, but I thought it’s good enough to show it to you guys. English is not my native language so I’m sorry for every grammar/language/spelling mistake I had made while writing it. Also, it’d be nice to receive some feedback, some pieces of advice – please leave a comment or sth. It’s very helpful and motivates me to write more.

●○۞○●

Nights at King's Dominion contrasted with the school in the daylight. Relative calm seemed to return to school halls every time when sun comes down. No noises, no running or fighting - no whatever-made-pupils’-daily-rutine. With sun held up, high at the sky, the school was bustling with life, but with the moment of sun disappearing time seemed to slow down immediately.

Sitting in the room with the door closed, you could easily feel cut off from that little world you have lived for some time. It wasn't hard to feel lonely sometimes. All you had to do then was talk to your roommate, or sneak out to meet friends living in another room. If you wanted peace and silence it was enough to not speak to anyone, play music and take care of whatever had to be done - like homework or makeup.

You liked nights here. Somehow you managed to get a small single room, which was a godsent for you, someone who enjoys being on their own, and the lack of unexpected guests was a guarantee of a successful night. It gave you a feeling of control. You could choose when you wanted company or not; if you wanted some time by yourself, you just stayed in your bedroom. That kind of control was enough to make up for many things, that the legacy status had taken from you. People think if you have a high position in the walk of life then it's easier to live. Bullshit. Why is no one speaking about the expectations everyone suddenly has for you? That you have to be the best, never miss a bit in a fight, never hesitate to pull the trigger, to know all poisons at the back of your hand. And what if you simply cannot live up to the expectations? That's when the lynch starts. "She? I can't believe..." "You're so not what I expected" "The shame of our family"... People pick you clean, then go to work on the bones.

It was couple minutes before midnight and the only audible sounds were your breath, pen writing something down on a sheet of paper and the turning of pages of numerous books surrounding you. Tirelessly you've been repeating materials for the “fundamentals of psychopathy” class. It was interesting, specific but exceptionally enjoyable.

The conception of motive that you had focused on this night was far more addictive than you could imagine. For you it was like digging in someone else's brain. Coming to the conclusions about the killer’s personality based on his actions - adding the way of killing, some repeated patterns and you can compile information about their past, present...the top of the top in this field can speculate - based on tiny details found at the crime scene – about the traumas and habits of the criminal.

The cracking of the door interrupted your flow. While studying in a school for assassins, unannounced visits after midnight don't bode well. In any moment then you could find yourself stabbed or with broken arm, your position meant nothing. Everyone could become a target, from children of the heads of state, through mafia bosses, to the average street rats.

With daggers, the fight technique you have been training for several years, you almost never part with, always keeping them within reach. That was the main reason why you grabbed the weapon so quickly.

Ready to defend yourself, you turned towards the door, no longer sitting but standing. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, ready to fend off the attacker.

"Y/N, put the dagger down" said Billy closing the door, in the tone of someone who's welcomed by people ready to slit his throat at least three times every day.

"Uh, I don’t know, I like it... Brings out the color of my eyes, dontcha think?" you said relaxing a bit. You fliped the dagger that made a full rotation in the air and than came back to your hand, that fist on the handle again. Pretty easy trick but always impressing Billy - until one day you'd be very unlucky and loose a hand while catching the blade.

"So, what's the matter?" you asked putting down the dagger. You tossed it on opened notebook on your desk. It was obvious that the studying session is over for you, at least for that night.

"You better tell me, huh?" said the teenager seemingly upset, pointing out to a half-packed suitcase on the floor. Shit... You promised yourself to tell him about you leaving right before They come to take you, which would be about 7 am, definitely not midnight! For all intents and purposes you didn't even know who or where was supposed to take you by tomorrow morning. All you knew was that your parents admittedly, may have overplayed your hand a little. You were a kid after all, a student who'd rather stay up late studying killers’ minds than actually becoming one. Still, have you ever had any other options but learning how to live under direct orders of your family?

"I'm leaving...for some time" you mumbled averting your eyes.

"And what? You...you didn't want me to know? Just leave?" he started, and by that moment you realized what was going to happen. It was going to be a bloody long lecture about your incompetence as a very best friend, as a main theme.

You haven't completely got used to the relation between you and green-haired Billy Bennett. Since your connections with other people were built on viable alliances, and because your loyalty twords them was like loyalty of an average whore from the brothel, you haven’t had many friends. All that had to happen was an extremely unlucky incident, a broken nose and slippery wooden stairs, for you to make some changes in your social life. That was how you met Billy.

"Could you once in your life shut the hell up, maybe?" you stopped his speech before he got a chance to get started with it, slowly looking up at him. He shut his lips and tilted his head a little, raising his eyebrows, noticably surprised with your reaction. You sigh heavily, running your fingers through your hair, wondering what you actually wanted to say when you stopped him. Or was that only self-defense because you didn't want to hear him whine about how bad you really are.

"Y/N..."

"No" you cut him off again. Tiredness that studying drew away, now started to slowly overtake you. "I seriously wanted to tell you but..."

"But when I couldn't do shit about it, right?" he snarled looking little piqued.

"It's not always about you" you hummed staring at your white socks "I don't even know what they want me to do. I received a letter saying I have to pack up and be ready to go at 7 am in the morning. Nothing more. No greetings, how are you or a fuckin hello. It doesn't matter if I told you about this crappy trip today or tomorrow morning, you can't do shit about it. I can't disobey direct orders" you managed to keep your tone serious. You glanced at the rat, still standing near the door. It could be harder for him without you at hand but come on! He could handle it before, so why the hell would anything change now?

Before you had the chance to think about anything else, Billy was standing next to you, embracing you all of the sudden. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close, gently rubbing your arm. Despite the heaviness in your stomach, it fluttered at the feeling of your body pressed against his. You sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the room warmer somehow, your future within its walls seeming a little less bleak. Still, you were confused after that sudden display of benevolence coming from Billy. Your body was tense, ready to attack. It took you a moment to edge off but when you did it, you returned the hug.

You liked Billy. He was like cat. Not a fluffy kitty, pretty as a picture but homeless, a bit scraggly and scrawny with unbelievably stunning eyes. These cats you want to take with you even if they aren't drawn to you. And honestly you'd never thought, till this moment, that leaving the cat would be so damn hard. Stupid Billy... Why on earth did he hug you? It was clear now why you had avoided profuse goodbyes all your life. It was so much easier to leave not realizing what's left behind you, because without "goodbye" it feels like you'd never really left. You spared yourself the heartbreaking pain and feeling of loneliness, that goes hand in hand with every long-term goodbye.

"Do you have any plans for tonight?" you mumbled into Billy's t-shirt, hoping your voice wouldn't crack and reveal how devastated you started to feel with every passing second. You used to keep a stiff upper lip, but now it's harder, apparently.

He stepped back at the length of an extended arm and grinned as only he could, which warmed your heart.

"Sleep? I guess..." he answered slightly shrugging his shoulders.

You smirked wrinkling the bridge of your nose, waited for a moment just squinting at him and than turned on your heel so you can walk over to a nightstand and reach the alarm clock.

"I'm not sayin' now, right? But what else would I do at this hour, haha..." Billy muttered while staring at you, tracking all your movements when you were setting an alarm for 6;30 am. You mumbled something like "mhm" putting the device where it was before.

Bennett once again was like a torrent, an unbelievable flow of words which wasn't exactly what you needed right now. Soon it would be half past one, your mind has told you that six hours of sleep is definitely not enough for you to be full of energy by tomorrow morning. Billy was concerned with your actions but didn't ask any questions, hoping you'd tell him what was on your mind. What the hell were you trying to do? Well, you wanted to turn off the only light in the room which was the lamp on your desk buried in books and notes. And when you did it, complete darkness surrounded both of you.

Billy was ready to ask question about what the fuck you were doing. He raised his arm, opened his mouth but that instant you grabbed his raised wrist

"Come" you whispered, dragging him to bed.

"Wha...No! Y/N what the fuck?" he squealed, acting like he didn't want to go with you, yet somehow his body didn't fight back and let you sit him on the bed, so his behavior didn't match the words he was saying at all.

"God...I don't want to bang you man!" you rolled your eyes lying down on the mattress "I had already packed my emotional support teddy bear. How do you think I'm gonna fall asleep now, hm?" you were kinda joking, but kinda not - it was true you had packed your stuffed animals but it didn't really have any influence on your ability to sleep well. You just wanted Billy around, even though you haven't thought about it earlier. The boy widened his eyes on you or at least the darker spot on the bed that should be you. Pretty hard to see anything without any source of light.

"You're still sleeping with a teddy bear? What are you? Twelve?" he laughed. Not exactly laughed, more like attempt to laugh. He was cut off with a cold blade of the dagger near his throat, the best way to silence him in your opinion.

"Say a single word about it and you're gonna end up stuffed just like that teddy bear" you hissed not anymore laying on the bed

"Jesus, how many of them do you have here?" whined Bennett moving away the blade. You couldn't help admiring his ability to stay so chilled and cool with your threats. It was really impressive. Something (the dagger) landed on the floor as evidenced by the hollow metallic sound going with the sound of a laying back body.

"But waking up so early...I don't know..." boy was still whining around while taking his shoes off.

"I'll do my best to not wake you" you said calmly waiting for him to lay near you. To be honest you had never ever slept with him. Sure you had laid down together, sometimes even he managed to take a quick nap but you never lowered your guard.

Billy tried to lie down comfortably but it was hard since it was single bed, not exactly what two people need to sleep together. Your back was slightly touching the wall against the bed, sticking to the boys body, hoping it would compensate for the lack of the bedsheets. You were actually lying on one but it was pretty warm already so it wasn't necessary. With your arms around his neck and a leg over his belly you breathed softly into his hair. You know you should have found it adorable but after all you liked your space. Still you couldn't resist it since you haven't got any idea when you would meet him again. You weren't really much of a hugger when it comes to people, but liked teddy bears as a kid and it you stuck with till now.

Time was passing and the feeling of tiredness disappeared, leaving you on standby mode exactly the same that you were on while being on a lookout. Just like someone if was about to burst into your room now and attack both of you. You haven't locked the door, it was haunting you now but you didn't want to move, scared it would wake Billy up. He was probably asleep by then. You could tell by the regular deep breaths and silence.

With your right hand, you reached for the boys head. For a couple of minutes, you were playing with his short green hair tangling them between your fingers until you would get tired again. That relaxing activity, it made it inevitable for unpleasant thoughts to come across your mind no matter if you were or were not prepared for them. Obviously, you weren't.

Was it possible for you to come back to school in one piece? Who would protect Billy from getting in trouble during your absence? Would you have a telephone wherever you were going, to call Billy here every evening or at least once a week?

It was mind-blowing for you since you have never, ever had problems like that! But also you never had a friend like Billy to make your life more complicated than it already is. Master Lin was right when he said that when you have someone who you would die for, sooner or later things were going to get messed up...

The red numbers on the screen of the clock showed five minutes after one a.m. when you finally dozed off.

#deadly class #deadly class syfy #billy #billy bennett #bennett #billy x reader #billy bennett x reader #billy x y/n #billy bennett x y/n #fanfic #fic #fanfiction

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rawliverandcigarettes · 5 years

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Thoughts on Fanfiction

Hey.

Today I have thoughts. Not that I didn’t have thoughts on this for a very long time, but for some complex, private-ish reasons it really culminated today into near anger, and I want to put it out here.

I’ve put it under a cut because maybe people don’t want to read me being moody about fanfiction. Sometimes, the day just isn’t right for salt, and I get that.

TLDR: I feel like we are solely enabling fanfiction authors to write stuff for them that immediately feels good, and not enabling each other enough to also have the nerve of writing stuff of consequence, that matters, that takes advantage of this political medium with intent, and that jokingly calling each other trash all the time to cope with external disdain of transformative works is not pushing us to craft stories of greater impact.

So the thing is. Fanfiction is not legal. We can turn it on its head, slap the « transformative works » on it (zero shade, I love this term, but this is still a way to make fanfiction more acceptable to the current system), it remains illegal on a fundamental level based on how it disagrees with the way our northern culture decided the belonging of ideas is a concept that exists, that there is a state of purity of thought that then can be profited from and needs to be protected from external devaluation. Fanfiction is by nature very anticapitalist – it disagrees with these values by its very nature. Myself, I do not see the point of creation that doesn’t become a chain reaction. Anything that refuses to be transformative, that desperately wants to remain pure (and stagnant) is as good as wasted work, because it’s trying to fight the very way ideas are formed, and the purpose of art, which remains communication at its core.

So to me there are a lot of similitudes between hacker communities and fanwork creators, because the act of refusing the concept of property of content as eternal, unmoving and to be consumed passively, is politic (because it involves money down the line, and controlling who gets to create products, who gets to consume them and how). I think that’s very interesting, because there lies the ground for counterculture, stuff happening, conversations, explorations and experimentations that will not suffer the gatekeeping of traditional businesses in charge of ensuring quality and controlling the market (nooot saying they are not necessary or don’t do a great job in the context in which we live, which is under capitalism, but they are still guardians of worth, distribution, and serve as a tool to maintain said market into place). But… Yeah, needless to say, this is not how fanfiction is perceived by the outside world, and not even by its own authors.

I have a particular disdain for how fanfiction turned into this joke, a joke perpetuated by people who never invested in the medium in good faith. Fanfiction have this sexist, queerphobic connotation of amateurism, of being unworthy of honest investment and serious consideration. As authors, we hide it with shame and share it under the anonymity of internet. We make up excuses for our interest: « I know it’s trash, but it’s my guily pleasure », « Sure most of them are bad, but there’s some really good ones in there, I promise! (please believe me, I’m not like other girls fanfiction readers/authors) ».

As if most of any art medium, especially easily accessible one, isn’t amateurish and hollow, and also an amazing ground to grow in and experience ideas as well. But that’s a tale we have been told, that we are trash, and we kept telling it to ourselves, until at some point, we got to that part that really annoys me; we started to believe it.

I am honestly tired of seeing all this enabling echo-chamber about how we are valid because we want to write this popular trope, this coffeeshop AU even though everybody else did it already and we have nothing special to contribute to it, that it’s all about having fun because life is too short not to. I agree with these posts. I am against cringe culture as well. I agreed a lot, before I saw literally hundreds of posts like that on my dash, and yet I was seeing no post that says: maybe you have it in you to say something important. Maybe you could challenge yourself to more than the absolute minimum for your immediate enjoyment. Maybe your perspective is important, so do it justice and get your voice out there. Maybe try to leave something behind you that fuels change, and not stagnation. Maybe disagree. Maybe you won’t be able to make it perfectly right, but maybe try still.

This wouldn’t bother me as much if the state of mainstream culture aesthetic right now wasn’t so worringly unnuanced, concise and entertainment-driven, with immediate power fantasies of vague progressism and very little hard work of subtext and understanding of larger systems that don’t feel as simple and easy to break. But that’s just what mainstream culture does. We don’t have to be that –nobody is paying us for doing so.

And I understand we live hard historic times that are scary, scarring, hard to swallow, that we crave black and white, and simplicity of the interpersonnal, that most people are driven by the need to be loved romantically and feel warm at least in their own head, and that fanfiction is free work –I get that. And I’m not saying that we should stop doing fluff and unconsequence either, because it is important too, and it is important to cultures and lives that maybe are not mine. But writing is essentially assembling smaller ideas into bigger ones, so making sure they say something worthwhile about who you are, your experience of the world, what matters to you, is only giving justice to your own voice. I find it jarring that I sometimes see people bullying each other on the base of personal interpretation of fiction that challenges some sort of statut quo –wasn’t this the entire point?

I just want us to remind ourselves of the political nerve of what we are doing. And that we are as entitled to write unconsequence and fluff than we are on writing stuff that digs, criticizes, matters.

#fanfiction #writing #personal #thoughts #doing an anger #>:(#no but actually I feel like this is important to discuss

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berniesrevolution · 6 years

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JACOBIN MAGAZINE

It’s been more than a century and a half since Karl Marx published the first volume of Capital. It’s a massive, intimidating tome — one that many readers might be tempted to skip. Radical scholar David Harvey doesn’t think you should.

Harvey has taught Capital for decades. His popular courses on the book’s three volumes are available for free online and have been watched by millions around the world; they were the basis for his companion books to volumes one and two. Harvey’s latest book, Marx, Capital, and the Madness of Economic Reason is a shorter companion to all three volumes. In it, he deals with the fundamental irrationality of a capitalist system whose functioning is supposed to be anything but.

Harvey spoke with Daniel Denvir for Jacobin Radio’s podcast The Dig, about the book, capital’s simultaneous creative and destructive forces, climate change, and why Capital is still worth wrestling with. You can subscribe to Jacobin Radio here.

Daniel Denvir:

You’ve been teaching Capital for quite a long time. Lay out a brief overview of each of the three volumes.

David Harvey:

Marx is very much into detail, and it’s sometimes hard to get a sense of exactly what the whole conception of Capital is about. But really, it’s simple. Capitalists start the day with a certain amount of money, take the money into the marketplace and buy some commodities like means of production and labor power, and put them to work in a labor process that produces a new commodity. That new commodity is sold for money, plus a profit. Then the profit is redistributed in various ways, in the form of rents and interest, and then it circulates back into that money, which starts the production cycle again.

It’s a circulation process. And the three volumes of Capital deal with different aspects of that process. The first deals with production. The second deals with circulation and what we call “realization” — the way the commodity is converted back into money. And the third deals with distribution — how much goes to the landlord, how much goes to the financier, how much goes to the merchant, before it is all turned around and sent back into the circulation process.

That’s what I try to teach, so that people understand the relationships between the three volumes of Capital and don’t get lost entirely in any one volume or parts of them.

Daniel Denvir:

You differ with other Marx scholars in certain ways. One major difference is that you pay a lot of attention to volumes two and three, in addition to volume one, while a lot of Marx scholars mostly find volume one of interest. Why?

David Harvey:

They’re important because this is what Marx says. In volume one, he says, basically, “in volume one I deal with this, in volume two I deal with that, and in volume three I deal with something else.” It’s clear that in Marx’s mind, he had an idea of the totality of the circulation of capital. His plan was to break it down into these three component parts in the three volumes. So I just follow what Marx says he’s doing. Now, the problem of course, is that volumes two and three were never completed, and they aren’t as satisfactory as volume one.

The other problem is that volume one is a literary masterpiece, whereas volumes two and three are more technical and harder to follow. So I can understand why, if people want to read Marx with a certain sense of joy and fun, that they would stick with volume one. But I’m saying, “No, if you really want to understand what his conception of capital is, then you can’t understand it as just being about production. It’s about circulation. It’s about getting it to market and selling it, then it’s about distributing the profits.”

Daniel Denvir:

One reason that it’s important is that we need it to understand this dynamic of constant expansion that drives capitalism — what you call a “bad infinity,” citing Hegel. Explain what this “bad infinity” is.

David Harvey:

You get this idea of a “bad infinity” in volume one. The system has to expand because it’s always about profit, about creating what Marx called a “surplus value,” and the surplus value then gets reinvested in the creation of more surplus value. So capital is about constant expansion.

And what that does is this: if you grow at 3 percent a year, forever, then you get to the point where the amount of expansion required is absolutely huge. In Marx’s time, there’s plenty of space in the world to expand into, whereas right now we’re talking about 3 percent compounding rate of growth on everything that’s happening in China and South Asia and Latin America. The problem arises: where are you going to expand into? That’s the bad infinity coming into being.

In volume three, Marx says maybe the only way it can expand is by monetary expansion. Because with money there’s no limit. If we’re talking about using cement or something like that, there’s a physical limit to how much you can produce. But with money, you can just add zeroes to the global money supply.

If you look at what we did after the 2008 crisis, we added zeroes to the money supply by something called “quantitative easing.” That money then flowed back into stock markets, and then asset bubbles, especially in property markets. We’ve now got a strange situation where, in every metropolitan area of the world that I’ve visited, there’s a huge boom in construction and in property asset prices — all of which is being fueled by the fact that money is being created and it doesn’t know where to go, except into speculation and asset values.

Daniel Denvir:

You’re trained as a geographer, and for you Marx’s account of capitalism is fundamentally about dealing with problems of space and time. Money and credit are ways that these problems are solved. Explain why these two axes of space and time are so critical.

David Harvey:

For instance, the interest rate is about discounting into the future. And borrowing is about foreclosing on the future. Debt is a claim on future production. So the future is foreclosed on, because we’ve got to pay our debts. Ask any student who owes $200,000: their future is foreclosed, because they’ve got to pay off that debt. This foreclosure of the future is a terribly important part of what Capital is about.

The space stuff comes in because as you start to expand, there’s always the possibility that if you can’t expand in a given space, you take your capital and go into another space. For instance, Britain was producing a lot of surplus capital in the nineteenth century, so a lot of it was flowing to North America, some through Latin America, some to South Africa. So there’s a geographical aspect to this.

The expansion of the system is about getting what I call “spatial fixes.” You’ve got a problem: you’ve got excess capital. What are you going to do with it? Well, you have a spatial fix, which means you go out and build something somewhere else in the world. If you have an “unsettled” continent like North America in the nineteenth century, then there’s vast amounts of place you can expand into. But now North America has been pretty much covered.

The spatial reorganization is not simply about expansion. It’s also about reconstruction. We get deindustrialization in the United States and Europe, and then the reconfiguration of an area through urban redevelopment, so that cotton mills in Massachusetts get turned into condominiums.

We’re running out of both space and time right now. That’s one of the big problems of contemporary capitalism.

(Continue Reading)

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gotoveritstillloveyou · 3 years

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This is an unplanned post in the order of posts. I figured the reader needs as much of a break as the writer. Believe me the content improves. At this point, in both the truth that I'm just Journaling, and the imaginary book I'm writing to the imaginary you, it feels like trudging through sludge. I just can't imagine writing you a letter without addressing all this shit. That's all it is, shit. As far as my Journaling I'm ready to never talk about this again. I've worked over it a million times on my head and processed it all and moved on. Took awhile. It pains me to write at this point.

So I will take a repose and rant about what I always rant about. Magick.

I feel I'm guilty of using it just as a general term and throwing it all around and applying it to everything. When you break up with someone most people just see them in reverse of everything they were, so if ever you were to read this it would seem like a joke, some big headed big ego fucking weirdo that says Magick all the time.

Easy for you to forget the Magick that was in our lives and hearts isn't it. It lives in me every day.

So what the fuck is it? I truly am guilty of ambiguity. It's many things, its real, and it's the only thing that I've ever been good at.

It's there. You can perceive any world you want but it's there. It exists only in your mind but also exists independtly and without your input simultaneously. Personally I've never had any collision between realism and science vs. Magick. A lot of people do. They also exist simultaneously, without opposition to each other.

I guess I'll have to explain a concept to explain my point but also this isn't the point I was trying to make but whatever. Controlled folly is a concept of dual simultaneous belief. From your left eye you see the "real" world, you see correlation and causation based on science, coincidence, randomness, people's behavior is explained away by psychology, the course of your life is defined by probability and actions. From the right eye you see the world of Magick. There is no coincidence, the is connection. There is meaning behind the things that happen, they happen for a reason, there is something else at work, there are more things to be seen than just with your left eye. Controlled folly is having both eyes wide open and staring at an object, receiving 2 different inputs, often contradictory, and believing both simultaneously.

It's something I practice and it was the key to unlocking my mind for me. I also often fail at that, allow them to blur into one line of sight. But it's more than that, which was my actual point. There is more to this world than described by science and logic, and more to be seen than just what you see by opening your eyes. I don't know what it truly is, I think it's a blend of what I'm about to say. It could be pure science, just things we are not currently able to sample or model. It could be some unknown force or energy, scientific or spiritual, that permeates things. It could be just a unique feature of the fact we are conscious, a coping mechanism or mistranslation of the reality around us.

While I don't clash with science, I clash with scientism. The facts of reality don't disagree with me at all, because of controlled folly, but more than anything because I'm a good scientist. You can't be so blind to things nor so concrete. That is scientism, the religion of science. They will lead you to believe that every emotion you feel is just neurotransmitters sent out in response to stimuli or to promote breeding, and that every occurrence or synchronicity in your life is explained away by mathematical probability, or that your thoughts and interpretation of life are just consciousness spinning it's wheels and inspiration comes from nowhere, and that there is nothing beyond science. It's comforting to them. It aligns their world in a certain and unchanging way, easy explainable. Its disgusting.

Which leads to my next definition. It's a way of thought, but literally. This would fall more along the lines of occult practice, but it's Magick in a different way. I remember how my thoughts used to work. I was able to observe them. They absolutely were pretty bad ass and highly functional. I warped them into something else. The majority of occult training is all mental, changing perception, willful psychology, self hypnosis and influencing the subconscious. But don't get too far waylaid on the concept of perception being reality, despite the massive weight it carries. I'm talking about something a little more literal, maybe even with some scientism involved in my explanation. I remember how I used to think, and I see the various ways others minds work. Like, the literal physical and mental thought process of the human brain. I have taken that and turned it into something other. I am not above a human mind, I am still a human mind, but my thoughts are not what I was born with. You could call some of it metacognition but that's merely a tool. And I am not alone in achieving this, nor did I invent it. It's the message and goal of much of esoterica. Centuries of exploration of the mental lead to discovering a different way to do it.

Which again leads into my next definition. I've advertised many titles but if I were truly to be labeled I would be called an alchemist. Turning lead into gold is only an analogy. The goal is to turn the human into "god". Quotes because that's a ridiculous way to say it, but often said. It's to take that scientism view of the human machine and turn it into a different machine. It's to take the creature you're born as and mold it into something that functions at a different, ideally better, level. It encompasses all methods and all science, there is no avenue an alchemist would ignore. It's body, mind, life. But psychology would be the most heavy influence. To take the psychology you were born with and grew into and was created by your environment, and dig so deep into it and understand it so well as to first get out from underneath it, and then when you are free, to either mold it into something else, or exist as a truer form of yourself.

And if you read through mythology and some good old fantasy sci-fi books or anime, you'll see the character of the alchemist, and how I've so obviously embodied the tropes of character flaws. Always presented as some strange outcast doing experiments, often achieving something, but also marked with recidivist failure. That's the cliche, and the cliche is me. A wretch toiling away in a basement for decades grasping at straws and constantly failing, like some hack inventor always coming up with a get rich quick idea. And if success is ever achieved, it is a warped, often terrifying result, an abomination version of the goal in their heads, or they achieve success at horrendous unforgivable cost. The fundamental of alchemy is balance, and the trope of the alchemist in mythology is always a perversion and dysfunction of balance.

I regret ever saying the word shaman to you. There's these memes going around of some hippie white dude at a festival trying to pick up young girls saying "do you have any weed" or "would you like to unite bodies in tantric ritual to the holy mother earth?" I hate these fucking people. I have quite literally been banned from every accessible Facebook and discord relating to shamanism, whether they were good or bad, by trolling these people when I encounter them. They are neoshamans, new agers, cheap imitations, and egoists.

Shamanism is the oldest and purest form of all religion and occult. I practiced almost purely traditional shamanism and animism, as much as you can while having the modern occult lexicon available. I searched for religion and the understanding of my reality for a decade with quite literally ZERO results until I discovered the way of life and mental/physical methods behind shamanism, then my brain started clicking shit together like Legos. I am not a shaman, but I heavily practice the methodology of shamanism. I was also, at one time, through no doing of my own, a literal shaman to a band of people. They are the ones that put me into that role, and I just happened to fit. Literally my function and status in life for 3 years mirrored exactly the interaction of a shaman in a tribe. I was young and know now how much better I could've done, but I think it was a minor but vital participation in all those peoples lives.

I am a wizard, and I barely even say this in reference to Magick. I do not carry it as my title. Each human has a nature. Many of these nature's can be seen repeatedly throughout your life, or repeated and reused in mythology and fiction. They don't all come from nowhere, they are inspired by true life, and the reoccur as part of each person being born, they are a function of what we are capable of being as humans. My nature aligns spectacularly with that of a wizard, completely out of my control, it's not something I've created, it's my nature. The way I live my life and the function I serve in society and my core characteristics. It is the best descriptor of the fundamental way that I am.

In regards to Magick, my nature does apply. I feel like as I navigate through life, especially spiritual experiences, I often receive a slightly twisted version when I compare it to others. I also am always meta, I am almost always self aware of what is happening, not that it ever really gives me an advantage, but I believe many people experience the same things in life without having the terminology, and many occultis are able to either describe what it is afterwards or begin it intentionally. For me, I am always swept up by it without prompting, but I am also aware of what is happening while it is happening. This entire writing and way I've conducted the past few years of my life is an example.

I also often feel I am a wizard within a wizard. One of a wizards main functions is to disrupt, teach through subterfuge, mix things up, assist in other adventures. Like they start from their position and function as a wizard and apply that to their journey and the things around them. I do that, and it is my greatest characteristic of wizardry, I do it compulsively with all things around me, it is my greatest influence on life and why I will be remembered, and often why I am hated. But I feel like I get real meta with this shit, just as compulsively. I am constantly going backwards, and applying this to other wizards and the occult. That's where most wizards start from, launch their attack from.. I go backwards into it. I also constantly go against my own nature. Name one wizard from mythology that is married. I've devoted so much of my life to love and sex and relationships, I've spent so much of my efforts rejecting my true nature. In truth, all I've done that has finally brought me peace in this last six months is to live within my nature. Doing so has just allowed so much evil and pain and bullshit to fall away from me. The wizard infiltrates into a kingdom, subtly disrupting and challenging things, intent on changing the course of larger events. I've spent 20 years doing that inwardly.

I have undoubtedly abused and failed in my Magick. I did advertise arrogance but I never made any lofty claims. I'll never be lost enough to claim I'm enlightened. While I have absolutely let my arrogance convince me of some form of superiority, its not true. I do know more, see more, know better, and I'm able to do things that other can't. It doesn't matter though, especially for me. I have no doubt there are occultists and just random people out there that truly excel and are superior. I am not one of those, I am just different. Magick and magickal thought are just part of my diet. It's the only thing that ever has any sense in my life, as paradoxical as that is.

I undoubtedly developed skills and powers and then abused each one of them. I can't accurately or easily say what this hatred that was always in me was. Maybe childhood trauma. Pathological curiosity. I've always been intent on pushing everything as far as possible, and usually to the level of destruction, usually aiming for the lowest possible outcome, always edging myself over a cliff and begging myself to jump. Just to see what fucking happens. It was a self destructive bloodlust that defined my whole demeanor and was the seed for all the evil I've sewn.

Just the way I abused my body and abused the world around me, I abused the things I gained from the occult, drove them to their absolute limits until they became warped, dark, and destructive. I split my psychology/ego, my first success in alchemy. One of the greater acts of my life, and one of the most useful. But each strength I took and separated, gathered them in 3 different groups to focus and enhance them, I also hid things in each, leaving much of myself hidden, and with each strength I put a weakness or bad trait in that group, either to try to turn it into a strength, or to just put it where it belongs. Chaos entered my life and I became the magickal creature and I had a lot of fun. You fell in love with him. Briefly I brought forth my true normal self, and you fell in love with him too. But life started going wrong, and I stuffed him deeper down than ever. My magickal self often pretends to be him, about half the time I reference the idea that's what I'm talking about. I had that 3rd side. To be tapped into in moments of crisis, or when great exertion was needed. Everything became a crisis and I got locked into him. Strong and mighty, you appreciated him, he also hurt you. I was that warrior every day, and no victory would come, I became single minded and full of rage. Inside of that person was strength and determination, but also fear and anger. This whole fucking thing also eventually backfired and swirled into one big tornado of shit and I lost my whole combined self.

I abused what I learned from shamanism. The altered states, places to explore and gain knowledge, places to change yourself in. Slowly I just fully retreated to those states, rarely unaltered, and hid in the corners and shadows of them. I feel like I've barely had my feet on the earth's ground these past few years. Those trances of exertion and endurance, used to achieve a feat, or accomplish a mission, like that power that summons inside of a mom to lift a car off her child. I used those until my body broke. Those are for emergencies lol. As the stress and troubled piled on, that became my daily mode. I did it until I was fully broken and absent. That trance of thought, to descend deeper and deeper into the lattice of connection, to use your full brain power for infinite calculations, to blend Magick and reality, to eventually find a solution to something. I stayed in that state for so long it scrambled my brain. The foresight, the divination, I used them so much that all I saw were an infinite number of painful dark futures. I was blinded to the real world, detached from my real body, and ignorant to all possibilities.

Most of all, I've spent years colonizing and exploring my mind. Trying to use Magick and will to fix things, fixing most of them the wrong way, merely propping them up or hiding them so they can all explode later, as you saw. And along the way, finding my actual mental problems, and warping them to benefit my magickal process. A good technique honestly but contributed to the fucking. Take that anxiety and lend it to divination. Take that OCD and lend it to ritual. Etc. All of that backfired, it all came tumbling down, and the defects that I harnessed became all consuming and exaggerated.

I failed to apply my Magick correctly, I enjoy observing and thinking too much. I applied it often, and often with good results and benefit myself. But I spent too much time as the observer and too much time talking about it and fantasizing about it. The high Magick in my mind rarely made it into my life, I feel like constantly I've almost achieved my goal and just instantly failed. It's a life of attempts. Slowly, more and more, my high Magick became nothing but an autistic fantasy and a blurring of the real world and fantasy, very autistic, very wizard. Planning and fantasizing became just as good as actually doing it. To me, hoping it would come true was the same as trying to make it come true, and my practice of high Magick fed my anger and failure. Constantly just expecting it to go how I planned and everyone to understand and go along with it then hating myself and everyone else for it not going right. Never taking a self aware and well collected approach, never trying to take small steps, impatient and arrogant.

I did a Voldemort. I've found love and peace through Magick, finally making some sense of the world, so I let it absorb me. That's what they consider voldemorts flaw to be. He was entirely reliant on Magick, saw everything through the lens of Magick, and thought that's how everyone should be, and everyone not like that was superior, and he was going to force the world to be like that through Magick.

That's basically exactly what I did. So long ago I lost touch with the real world and the real me. I spent 5 hours in trance trying to solve a problem to force reality to do what I want. Never once did I talk to you about it or maybe just give up and try something else. No, if I made an error or change I would lose you, I must force this to work. You would've helped me figure it out or jumped into a new strategy with me. Never once did I consider taking better care of my body, no, only push it harder, use trance to push through the pain, use an altered state to overextend myself. I lost touch with reality, I stopped seeing you for who you are, and I lost who I was. I lost reality. It all swirled together and destroyed me.

If any lesson I gained from the past 2 years it's that. I can see so clearly now that how hard I was trying, how hard I was pushing myself, how much I was doing, and it should've worked. In any other situation, all that effort and determination would've blown the ass out of our struggles. God was like, no, you dumb bitch. Walk a steady path with open eyes. I've learned acceptance and peace. I've learned there is another option than defeat, it's not victory, but it's peace and happiness. That was the one single change I could've made at the time to turn this around. I think of all the mistakes and all the non-mistakes. I think of all the things against me. I didn't need to change any of those. It was really nice to change them, but changing any of them would not have changed the course of this story, at most just helped a little. No. I needed to unburden and unblind myself. All the peace and love and happiness was right there. All the evil that happened would have been avoided if I just listened, opened my eyes, and trusted. Faith is what I lacked. The situation would've worked itself out eventually on its own, and instead of going mad, hurting you, and losing you, I could've just fucking lived life, for fucks sake. No, instead, I only focused on the situation, the despair that it never would've ended, and brought forth every skill and power and Magick I had to forcefully make everything how I wanted, until I destroyed all of it.

But alas, I am victorious. If there is one thing I can be proud of in life, it is my Magick. I have truly succeeded in something. I have truly changed. It is beginning to solidify and be true, it is no longer a journey or experiments, it has gained it own momentum. But the pride is undeserved and it came at too much cost. It wasn't worth it. I can feel you fading away, writing this makes less and less sense, I've passed the peak of understanding and I'm getting further from being able to conceptualiE and translate what I want to tell you. It's all feeling more and more meaningless and forgettable. The more I write about myself the more it hurts me, and the more it feels strange, as the last little pieces of that former self evaporate away. It feels like I'm writing about someone else, I don't know him, and it causes me to hurt inside to think of him.

And even then, I failed as an occultist. I've been so detached and hidden away for so long. That person was barely even just my ego. It was like some far off lamp tethered to me by a long extension cord, flailing and getting water poured on it and casting annoying light in the wrong directions. Evil, destructive, self destructive, rejecting all peace and hating himself and wanting everyone else to hate themselves. Constantly urging onward to find the darkest possible path. Completely lost and broken and reactionary. Getting worse and more disgusting and hateful with each new torture. But man, deep under that, I was working on something. I absolutely was feeding off the negativity and illness. I was dissociated and grump for no reason. The seat of my soul was far elsewhere, I was so barely here. I'm almost impressed I'm alive and even though I was evil, how much of a person I was. But underneath, I was working on something. There is a calm, quiet, constant voice so fucking deep inside of me. I was working on concepts that I felt some day I would write a book or 5 on. My true contribution to the world, to the occult, and philosophy. And as I reached peak darkness, I pussied out, I chose to not feel that anymore, and I chose my memories of you and my fantasy of seeing you again, and I've lost all that entirely.

I truly cannot say one word on those concepts I was working on, they are entirely gone. They were built by darkness but they were pure occult and philosophy. They were my true core and my true obsession. They are the real reason everything on the outside happened.

But even back then, I couldn't describe them in words. This is also a trait of Magick. While we may be able to discuss the concept of a magickal experience and the steps to achieve it, you can never truly translate between the left and right eye what they mean. It's one of the first things you learn in shamanism. They are entirely separate worlds. While you may be able to bring some knowledge back from the spiritual plane, you cannot describe what it was like on that plane using human language. I indeed try to propose some of my ideas in occult circles. Poured them out in writing and when I went back and read, it was gibberish. I planned to just keep working on the translation forever, it was my life's work. I was gonna keep being the same person in order to achieve that. I ended up choosing a different path, choosing you, and peace, and lost all those things forever.

This entire thing I write is like that. What I actually want to say cannot be translated. This abomination that I'm writing you is so far from what I'm actually getting at. While there may be hints and insights, I can't actually write down what's in my head and heart. That's why this is always so long and overly comprehensive. I feel like this thing is in my mind and I'm just squeezing it like an orange and writing down all the words that are coming out. But those words will always be orange juice and never an actual orange.

For a long time I addressed you in my Journaling for therapy reasons, to face the person that hurt me and the person I hurt, to face the past. I'm long past that point. The therapy is long done. All this shit I've been writing about the story and the pain and the bad things, I'm so through with it. It is empty now. Eventually I will at least write it all down. And even the second half of this book, about all the good things and the magickal things, it's empty, it's all fading away now.

But I still force myself to write no matter how much it disturbs my path and hurts me, and I still direct it all at you for one reason. Somewhere in all this orange juice there's and orange. While I'm sick of drinking the juice that orange is a feeling and a thought that means more than all of this and none of this even begins to describe it. I address you because in my fantasy I remember a girl that can see Magick without any effort at all, and will somehow get some hint of whatever in the fuck it is I'm writing here and failing to translate. She will read it and see the orange. At least a little orange zest. She'll understand and she'll call me. We will talk about this but not even that much. A short conversation. And then the past will just fall away and a new life will start. You can finally join me in this new peace and this life that's just going along without problem. It's a life I made for you and a life the girl I remember would fit into like a puzzle piece. It's all the things you ever wanted that time together to be and who you wanted me to be, its all of your high Magick manifested. And I just write and write and keep figuring out how to give you this orange. I just can't seem to give up on it. It's literally none of the things I've written. I'm just squeezing it and this is the words coming out. I feel like McCaugnahey when he was falling through the laundry hamper tessearct dimension things and pushing the books off his daughters shelf. I know you can hear me out there somewhere. Eat this orange I got for you Murph.

I've gotten off track. I was about to unveil 2 of my biggest secrets.

All this and almost everything I'm saying is circular. Any explanation or thought I can have about myself and my behavior is circular, and involves a dozen other people and their influence in my circle. But there is a nexus. There truly has been something wrong with me for a long time. I can explain the ways I acted and what led my psychology down that path. It's only a symptom. I can explain misunderstandings that we had. Things we should've done better. Symptom. I can explain how life went a certain way and made us feel certain things. Symptom. I've been able to explain so much. But there is a nexus where it all intersects. An origin to the side of me that lashed out and flailed at the world.

There has truly been some darkness in me my whole life. That is the origin. My personality was so bad that I cringe to think about myself. My mind was so jumbled up and crooked inside. I had good and bad days but there's always been this black sludge flowing through my veins. There's a reason I've always rejected love and always leaned into anger. My life has been a disgusting perversion, and I've watched it be like that helpless. I've learned much and accomplished much. I have no explanation for what this was. I have no explanation of how I defeated it.

I can look back at really any bad memory. A time I was an asshole, a time me and a girl fought, I can think of all the ways I used to look at things, all my behaviors, the way I lived. It all converges on this one dark object inside of me. The things that came from it and the things I've done were complicated, explainable, generally my fault, and unforgivable. But they all sprung from somewhere. This dark object. And all that darkness and negativity about me came from somewhere. All that brooding and grumpiness. Because even when I had hope, or succeeded, I still felt that inside of me. Every time I failed at something, I knew why. I truly don't know what it is. Some blockage in my soul, some generational curse. There's many ideas but the spiritual terms sound more right. When I identify and focus on it, it sends me hurtling through my memories. I feel it as an undercurrent of everything I can think of, every situation I've ever been in, every good and bad memory, every struggle, every inner conflict, it all converges on this, and it runs like a straight line through my whole life.

It's like a feeling. It's a heaviness. It makes me feel like my blood is made of sludge, my feet walk in sand, my heart is full of rust. It was a Neverending hopelessness. It told me everyday that life would go nowhere. It told me every day that there's no point in trying. It was a dull pain that never ceased. It grew too. Each failure made the next failure inevitable and darker. This is the source of my rage. A fight against death.

That's the only reason I've let myself off the hook. I write to someone I will never see again because of how horrible I was. Later I will go into all these complex physical and mental problems I solved and life stuff and why it made us act a certain way. It doesn't matter. That's why I started with the bad stuff. I feel immense guilt to even allow myself to live. And what I've accomplished is basically nothing. I've achieved balance and normalcy, I've spent 20 years slowly walking just to get to the starting line. There no redemption arc.

But that thing is gone. Whatever it was, it went away. It makes all of my pain and anger make sense. It does redeem me, to myself, and that's a first time experience for me. It feels like an artery unclogged. I feel like I'm 100lbs lighter. The other things I write are true, but if it weren't for this I wouldn't write them, they are just things and words, they don't matter to anyone. They don't change anything. But this darkness is gone. I stand in awe of it. It is such a difference that it's the one thing that allows me to forgive myself. It's the one thing that makes me think I'm redeemable.

You know this darkness in me. I truly believe there is nothing I could say to you to ever deserve a single molecule of your attention. But if you could be around me for 5 minutes your head would spin. If kammy came up to me at the store and talked to me, I think it would be so surreal to here that she would throw up and faint. It would be like I just walked up to her and both my arms were gone and I hadn't noticed. Some kind of freaky high strangeness psychedelic experience. I'm not exaggerating. There was a core piece of me that was truly dark and influenced my entire existence, and then one day, poof. That's this whole fucking story in one sentence. I almost struggled with it myself, if it weren't such a relief. I watched my dad struggle to figure it out, definitely he seemed weird for a while there. I've seen a few people honestly seem a little fearful and tripped out by it after running into me.

You spoke of something like this within yourself. You talked about it on our first date. You wrote about it on tumblr every day for months. The maggots in your brain. The evil. I had that to. I was that. I was absorbed by it. It's everything I've ever done. The person I've been is just what little bits that seeped through. Keep fighting. Do not give up.

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