oh worm?

wholesome, and good (it is not a lie) - DIRECTOR'S CUT

Sat, 18 Jul 2020 10:55:34 GMT

This fic was so cathartic to write. I love it, I teared up writing it. It made my heart hurt. It is primarily about home (as all my Interesting fic tends to be) and lies, and also dealing with adulthood as a child of emotionally neglectful parents. When I decided to focus on the theme of lying, it was upon rereading a poem I had written in 2019, called a lie.

i tell a lie, every day.
wholesome, i say, like an apple
and
good, i say, for the health.
no concern of mine, whether you believe me or not.
watch me chew the truth between my teeth.
watch me form reality with my hands.

the thrill is in not knowing what will
come out of my mouth until it has been said,
until the consequences shake me awake.
my tongue, moving faster than my
brain can think, begins to weave.
whatever i say, it keeps me safe,
nestled tight in the tapestry of what was not said.
it rolls off my tongue like a dream
and escapes just as quick.

Declan, the star of this fic, and recipient of all of my excellent little projections, is very skilled at lying. It is, at some junctures, all he knows how to do, and how he copes. In this fic, I am primarily interested in how that plays out in this little family he's unwittingly created for himself, and how he chooses, or desires to choose, a life of his own, that does not involve hiding who he is. I'm aware my take doesn't delve into most of why he lies (for safety, to protect his family, etc) but instead I choose to focus on his lying as a result of emotional immaturity and neglect. Also, he makes an excellent whump punching bag.

In this directors cut, I'm only going to include the sections where I have comments, because honestly this fic is so long, I don't particularly want to copypaste the whole thing in here.

.

Ronan loves the Barns, loves it maybe more than he loves Declan. He worships the sprawling expanse of the property like he worships the glorified memory of their father, like if he ever let go, he’d have nothing left.

None of those things are true, of course, but Declan knows that Ronan believes they are, and so when he dresses himself in the morning dark, feeling his way around the room by touch and by childhood memory, he dresses in a kind of uniform he’s not worn since high school—jeans and flannel and thick socks—and reminds himself that Ronan may possibly never forgive him if, while he was away saving the world, Declan let the Barns go to ruin.

I'm fascinated by how we come to intimately know the places we grow up, or the places we are used to. The way I can walk from the bathroom to my bedroom with no lights on in the middle of the night, the way I can travel around my childhood home with my eyes closed. I think this would be a point of pain for Declan, who must have such a pained memory of the Barns.

The room is brighter, now, than it was when he woke, and the beginnings of a bird call so familiar that it twists the viscera of his stomach echoes in the silence. He should get up. There is work to do.

Somehow, somehow, birds became a motif in this story. There's a comment in my GDoc that just says "a lot of birds in this." which is an accurate assessment of the story. I think the volume of bird related descriptors came about because while I was doing my second draft, my windows were flung wide open, and the birds of suburban Australia were my soundtrack as I wrote. In any case, there is a lot of how I experience my home in this.

There is the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen, when he steps off the staircase. This does not immediately throw up warning klaxons in his head, for reasons that he should possibly spend some time investigating, and that are probably his inability to shake off memories of his father in this place. The hot-and-cool spots of anxiety that he is intimately familiar with from his time here make themselves known again, bubbling away in his chest.

He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Remembers how old he is.

There is a technique that people with childhood trauma sometimes use that I discovered from TikTok, of all places: when you are overwhelmed or struggling with a particular emotion, ask yourself 'How old am I?' Are you at the age that your trauma occurred, or are you older—20, or 30, or whatever your age is? Then, you pick yourself up, comfort the child inside of you, and deal with the situation with the adult skills you now have. A lot of this story takes influence from therapy and skills that one might learn in therapy (see the grounding technique he and Jordan use later, and Jordan affirming her right to be angry at him).

The animals miss Ronan. They keep their distance when he unlatches the gate between them and they shove when he refills their troughs. An impostor, he is, perhaps. Someone enough like Ronan to get by, but not enough to really be trusted. There is, in that, possibly an unfortunate thought spiral he could follow if he really wanted to get into his feelings today. Luckily for him, and luckily for the cows, he very sternly chooses not to touch that thought at all.

Animals suck sometimes. My family home has a small assortment of farm animals; I don't remember a time without them. The truth is: no matter how familiar you are with them, if you aren't their favourite person, the person who feeds them regularly, chances are they just won't like you.

“June—” she says, and bites off the rest of her sentence to look away, blinking away rapidly forming tears. “Fuck.”

Declan feels something distinctly vital twist in his gut. Those were her sisters.

I don't think we talk enough about the fact that Jordan and the other copies lived together for a long time and then they were just murdered.

For the first time in a long time, Declan wishes he had the skills to be able to comfort her properly. He wishes there was not so much of a distance between them, wishes his heart didn’t get so sore every time he remembered she was a dream, wishes it didn’t matter so much, wishes murderously that Niall Lynch was still alive so he could fight him himself. “I’m sorry,” he says softly instead, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Now we get into something meaty. I'm very interested in Declan essentially having been traumatised by his childhood and the way Niall (and, by extension, Aurora) invalidated his experiences, however, the does come a point in an adult's life where you do have to take control over your actions and seek a different way to move forward. Of course, Declan is not your average case, so it's unfortunate to see him go so long, clearly chronically anxious (see: the antacids and sleeping pills) and with a low self esteem (see: his everything about him).

The wildlife provides an incessant soundtrack as they wander home, as inescapable as the sound of traffic in the city. Declan notices how quietly enamoured Jordan is with the place, how her face sometimes flushes with delight when a bird is close, or when she spots the grazing cows. She has lived in cities all her life, he knows. He can only imagine how a place like this might compare.

I have no idea what Virginian wildlife sounds like, or American wildlife at all, for that matter. As I said before, I wrote the second draft of this in suburban Australia in the middle of winter, with my windows wide open, the birds nittering away absolutely incessantly, and animals playing with each other (indeed, one time I looked up from my laptop to see the goats bucking each other in play). I imagine the barns to have the same soundtrack I did, animals fighting with each other, and birds. Always birds.

Declan feels very faintly that he would like to vomit. The urge settles into the back of his throat, familiar and uncomfortable, the way it always is when he becomes aware that things have caught up with him in tragic and irreparable ways.

An absolutely nightmarish anxiety response that I have had the recent pleasure of experiencing. So, of course, I had to give it to our favourite Anxious MessTM.

Declan nods, helpless, not trusting himself to speak without ruining anything else in his already very sad little life. Jordan looks at him, really looks, for a long moment, and Declan thinks she might say something to him. Instead, she blinks and then turns to walk up the stairs.

Oh, the poor boy. He really, truly, and utterly hates himself. I truly think the fact that people actually care about his sad little life comes as a surprise to him. Poor bean.

He feels twelve, thirteen, years old—young enough for the lies to make him feel important but old enough to recognise that there was something deeply wrong with his life; old enough to not know what to do when he and his father returned home, and suddenly they were the perfect Catholic family they had always been, with Church on Sundays and confession on Saturday mornings. The perfect Catholic family, except for the eldest son, who had so much guilt and no priest who could possibly absolve him.

I don't have anything poignant to say about this paragraph, other than please read it again because I am proud of it. I can't help but feel deeply for a young Declan who had to sit next to his loved, criminal father at Church. Being the only family member who saw what his father traded in, and then had to come home to his father's loving family, he had to have felt gaslit at a certain point.

He hears conversation in the kitchen from where he is in the mudroom, he hears laughter. Jordan’s voice, and Matthew’s too. Jordan says, “No fucking way,” with barely concealed mirth, and when Matthew says, “Yep!” he pops the p.

I deserve Matthew & Jordan content. I believe with my whole that they'd shoot the shit together. Two dreams, just fucking shit up. They're buddies! Bros! The dream team! They prank Declan, to his complete dismay! Where is my Jordan & Matthew content?!

Declan breathes through his nose. The truth is, he is sorry, but he’s not sure they will believe him, and he is not sure he is ready to be responsible for the very shaky playing-card house of the family myth to come floating down, and the hatred and the resentment resulting therein. “I am sorry for hiding things from you,” Declan says. “It was wrong.”

Oh, the family myth! From PsychCentral:

"The myth sets out rules about what can and cannot be said, how the parents must be viewed and how members should be viewed. The myth also sets out the roles of each member in the family, and the hierarchy of power in the family. One parent...acts as the leader of the family and sets the rule and the roles."

That parent is clearly Niall.

“Declan,” Jordan says, slowly. She is figuring it out, he can tell. “Matthew is upset with you, as he has a right to be. It doesn’t mean he loves you less, though, right Matthew?”

One of the items on my Personal Bill of Rights that I was given by my most recent mental health professional says, "I have the right to be angry at someone I love." In the same vein, I realised, others have the right to simultaneously love me and be angry with me. Further, Lindsey C. Gibson, in her book about emotional immaturity, asserts that emotionally mature people have the ability to have mixed, complex emotions. I think this is something Declan may have yet to learn—both that he is allowed to have mixed emotions about people, and that other people can have mixed emotions about him.

Somehow, after that, it all comes bubbling out of him. He didn’t used to think it was a lot, but when he speaks it aloud, when he has to consider how to structure the story, how to weave it in a way that makes sense, he discovers that there is, possibly, much more to the things that pain him than he had previously ever considered.

The comment in my GDoc for "how to weave it in a way that makes sense" is "Declan is, unfortunately, his father's son." Declan has qualities of Niall's that aren't objectively bad! Here, he has his storytelling ability. I think it's something he uses regularly as a liar, but here it is used for good. You know what that is? Growth!

Declan sits his hands flat on the table. “Aurora Lynch was not my mother, no.”
“So when you said you were the fakest Lynch brother, you really thought that.”
Declan sets his teeth and does not look at Matthew in the eye. “I was being truthful, yes.”

I am so intrigued by Declan and Matthew's obsession with family and being a real Lynch. Because there is no such thing! Ronan's parents are Aurora and Niall, Declan's parents are Mo'r and Niall, and Matthew's sole parent is, arguably, Ronan. None of them are full siblings. It's interesting that Matthew would assume that because his father is not his father, that doesn't make him a real Lynch. It's more interesting that Declan doesn't use Niall's fatherhood as a claim to it.

Matthew looks positively slapped. He stands, walks to Declan’s side of the table, and wraps him in a bear hug. “Yeah, well, it’s about you now, you big dummy.”

This fic got massively derailed in the second draft. In it's earliest form, this was self-deprecating drivel that made me kind of annoyed by Declan. Then I leaned into him actively being confronted, and growing, and loving, and being loved, and it turned into something that reflected how I wanted him to be. I love this scene, because it accurately highlights everything I wanted this fic to be: hard conversations and healing.

As all the other doors in this house, his bedroom door is locked, too—old habits from this house die harder than most—and so he must rise to answer it.

I was shocked by that one tumblr post asking users to put in the tags whether they slept with the door closed or not. I have slept with my door closed since I was about elevent, and locked since I was about fifteen. I didn't realise that was abnormal behaviour till now. Whoops!

Declan’s phone has one new message.

you’re such a dick. “please confirm”. hennessy’s in fucking hysterics.

The texts were added in the second draft. I realised I had written a whole entire fic and forgotten to mention Ronan and Hennessy at all, so I did the cop out thing and added like, five lines to account for them.

There is, after all, work to do.

Declan quite thoroughly appeals to my adult self. I've spoken about this briefly before, but he really appeals to the part of me that finds I have to compartmentalise myself in order to function. I wipe my tears in the bathroom and go to my job where I have to be normal. When people ask how I am, I say, Good, thankyou. When there is work to be done, he files his problems away, and does the work until it's time to have feelings again. It's not really that healthy, but credit where credit's due. I can vibe with that.

Declan uncovers his face and looks back at her, no longer hiding his smile.

This was the first scene in the fic that I ever wrote. It underwent many many changes since it's initial writing, but this is where it started. A messy Jordan and some comfort kisses.

When he looks at her, Jordan’s eyes have slipped away, distant, and blinking rapidly. She holds the spatula in one hand, continuing to make scrambling motions in the frypan. Her movements are jerky, uncontrolled, and lack real motivation. She’s not here. Wherever she is, she is not here.

I have a personal affection to the idea of the dreaming-state as an allegory for petit mal seizures, which are the slightly lesser known sibling of grand mal seizures (or what people generally think of when they think of epilepsy). They are also very aptly nicknamed absence seizures. Aptly named, because one literally just, becomes absent. You are very suddenly unaware of what is going on around you. I had juvenile epilepsy as an adolescent, and while it wasn't a scary experience for me, coming out of an episode and being aware you have just slipped away for an undetermined amount of time, and having people look at you and worried for you, is a singular experience. I never had the deja vu some people experience at the beginning of an absence, but I gave it to Jordan anyway, because, to my eleven year old self, it always seemed like a lucky kind of superpower to have.

Declan kisses her like she is honesty, and she is home. He wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, and the Barns wakes up.

The original last line of this was, "Jordan presses her lips to his, like a promise, and if they said that neither of them shed a tear, they would both of them be lying." Which, honestly, I like a lot better (because lying is the central theme of this work), but I struggled to make it fit once I had revised the ending. Unfortunate. I do like this new ending, however, which reaffirms the theme of home and belonging (HSC students of 2011 and earlier groan in Area of Study) which had otherwise gone missing in the body of the fic.

you’re a grown-up now.
and you don’t have to be an ingenue
and there is nothing wrong with you
as long as you make your family proud.

These lyrics are from Samia's "21". The song is about growing up, being 21, and coming to terms with the fact that you have almost nothing lined up or sorted out. I used to think the lines above were sarcastic—nothing matters at all except what your family thinks, okay, sure Jan—but then I read all of the lyrics, and realised Declan is in the processing of making his own family. For him, these lyrics are true: there is nothing wrong with him, he doesn't have to be everything he's convinced himself he has to be, as long as he makes his family—his new family—proud.

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked the insight I could give. Please stay safe, and have a lovely twenty-four hours :)

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Untitled Play

Wed, 14 Aug 2019 10:03:34 GMT

Google Docs says the last update on this was November 2016. Whew. I remember seeing someone else had written a short play on back when I was reading exclusively Supernatural LiveJournal fic in 2016 and wanted to have a go myself. I must have been going through it because I managed to spit this out in one morning, with only tiny edits made in the four days following. Wild. Also, I kind of wanna hug seventeen year old me.

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Dear Author Letter

Thu, 25 Jul 2019 05:02:30 GMT

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will you feel anything, at all - DIRECTORS CUT

Fri, 07 Jun 2019 01:01:19 GMT

will you feel anything, at all was a massive achievement for me. I wrote my longest (completed) fic ever in only a bit over a month! It was inspired from a few things:

A scene in white blank page. a Carmilla fic, where Carmilla accidentally says I love you to Laura over the phone while they're apart, and then her phone dies, leaving both of them unable to contact the other for a long time. I do recommend it if you're familiar with the series (or not! It's an AU, and you don't need to have prior knowledge to enjoy it!)
The song Better by Regina Spektor. I have written a fic inspired by this song before, which I was rereading when I came up with the idea, but it's a terrible fic and I won't link it.
Feeling that Arkady is a very reserved person, but that all of her feelings are always just brimming under the surface. She can't keep all those feelings inside forever, can she?
My burning desire to write mid-range Vikady angst.

An addendum, too, that this fic was originally planned much darker, with blood, and fight scenes, and arguments and all that, but I realised that I didn't want it to be so horrible and dark, so I rewrote it to be happier, with only hints of sadness but infinitely more tears. The Director's Cut contains excerpts that I saved for that version, as well as things I wrote in the comments of my Google Doc while I was writing it.

A breakdown of the fic is under the cut.

“Arkady?”

Violet knocks lightly on the door, not wanting to press the bell and wake her if she isn’t still up. The lights in the tiny hallway separating the crew quarters have been dimmed, the thermostat cooled, and Violet curls her toes into her socks. The Iris II is much more conspicuous than the Rumor, and concessions in heating have been made so that they don’t need to stop for fuel as often, concessions that make existing anywhere outside of crew quarters during ship’s night almost unbearable. Next landing, Violet promises herself, she’s going to buy everyone slippers. Fluffy purple ones for Krejjh, to match their skin. Polka dots for Jeeter. Practical ones for Arkady. She’ll let RJ and Lenny pick out their own. The Captain’s slipper preferences remain a mystery. Maybe she can surprise her.

The door slides open, a sleepy Arkady on the other side. “Can’t stay away, can you?”

The corners of Violet’s mouth tug upwards. She nudges herself closer to the door, trying to warm her toes on the threshold of Arkady’s room, nestling herself against the doorway beneath the spot where Arkady’s elbow rests on the frame. It feels somewhat embarrassing, now, to say that she didn’t want to sleep alone, that she wanted Arkady beside her.

“I was cold,” Violet says, looking up. “And I missed you.”

Arkady’s face makes the same kind of fond expression that Violet remembers her making when she first asked Arkady out. It made her stomach flutter then, and it makes her stomach flutter now. “Come on in, then,” says Arkady, and she moves away from the door.

They’ve been on the new Iris for a bit over month now, heading, slowly, towards Telemachus and Campbell and the illusion of safety. Over a month, but Arkady’s quarters are still bare. It’s a strange juxtaposition, that Arkady can go anywhere and seem to belong, seem to own it, and yet her own room still feels like a stranger could come and claim it at any time. The strangeness of the room isn’t a deterrent, though, and Violet settles on her bed, relishing the warmth of it.

“I keep expecting to see your old quarters. The ones on the Rumor. I’m not used to it yet.”

Arkady hums, resting her jaw on her palm. “They’re all the same, though, once you’ve been on enough ships.”

“I guess,” Violet says. She looks at her fingers, picks at a hangnail. “You know, It’s kind of creepy how much this ship reminds me of the Iris. The other Iris, I mean.” She pauses, thinking. “God, that was such a shitty assignment.”

Arkady laughs, a puff of breath through her teeth, and leans back against her pillow. Shitty assignment is the understatement of the year. “I miss the Rumor,” she says, after a while.

Violet nods, slowly. “Yeah. Me, too.” She takes Arkady’s hand in hers, slips fingers between fingers. “I wasn’t really on there for long, but it really started to feel like a home, you know? I thought I could have a home there.”

I didn't mean to, but while writing this story kind of became a little meditation on home, and belonging, and belonging to place, and what it means to belong to a person as opposed to a place, and how maybe they're just as important as each other. I didn't explore it as much as I would have wanted to, but this story was already getting very away from me, I don't, as a rule, write very long fics (long fics being longer than 2k) and this is my longest published work to date.

Arkady separates her hand from Violet’s, and runs her fingers across her cheek. “You have a home here,” she says, sucks in a breath. “With me—with the crew. If you want it.”

Violet’s breath catches for a moment, and she blinks owlishly. “Of course I do, Arkady,” she says. She’s stunned, she’s speechless. She kisses Arkady soundly. “Of course.”

For a moment, Arkady is not quite sure where she is. Her hand shoots under her pillow, searching, and when it turns up nothing but the soft flannel of her bedsheets, she is reminded, suddenly, of the fact that this is not the Rumor.

Yes, Arkady DEFINITELY used to keep a gun under her pillow before Violet sleeping over became a thing. From the darker version:

It would have taken too much explaining if Violet ever found out she slept with a gun under her pillow. It’s not there anymore, and as long as Violet likes staying overnight, it will stay gone.

Arkady knows where to draw the line. That, and it would reveal a lot more about her than she thinks either of them are ready for. They both have traumas, things that will never really go away, things that will haunt them for a very long time, but the way they cope is light years away from each other. On her worst days, Arkady can work herself to the point of complete and utter exhaustion; she keeps a gun where she sleeps. Violet sleeps soundly through the night, and does none of those things.

Arkady and Violet may be equals, but there's no denying that keeping a gun under her pillow isn't normal behaviour, and so Arkady makes herself seem normal and doesn't let on.

She rolls over in bed to find Violet breathing evenly next to her. They both must have fallen asleep without the other noticing. It was late, after all, and the whole crew seems to be learning together that when Violet feels safe somewhere, she will sleep wherever and whenever she wants. And here she is, sleeping in Arkady’s bed.

Arkady sits up, face warming at the memory of the night before, of what she said.

There’s a running joke among the crew that Arkady is much softer than she likes to come across. It’s true, to an extent. Jeeter knows she ribs him about staying aboard the ship because she wants him to stay safe, having the least training of them all except for Violet. They all know, to varying degrees, that her armoured exterior is to protect them, and she’d do anything to achieve that. Usually, though, her soft interior stays where it belongs—tucked away inside, hidden—unless the moonshine is stronger than usual. Last night, though, she couldn’t seem to help herself but say her thoughts aloud. There’s something about having Violet in her space, in her life, that brings all of the soft things inside her to the surface. It’s always very embarrassing, and she hides her face in her hands in the pitch darkness.

For someone whose job relies on being certain, Arkady is no stranger to doubt. She offered Violet a home, an indication of a future together, and Violet accepted, but now Arkady wonders, and worries. Is she even worth Violet?

Violet isn’t as innocent as she thought she was when they met. She is resourceful and efficient and is more perceptive and a much better liar than either of them give her credit for. Still, though, Violet hasn’t done anything quite like the things Arkady has done. Arkady would be happy to keep it that way, would kill to keep her safe—has, already, done exactly that—and yet it bothers her that it might bother Violet, still.

Violet, who is good. Actually, fundamentally, good. She says please and thank you to the people selling her stolen goods and is too shy to negotiate better prices for them. She lets Arkady pick food from her plate and makes her tea.

This scene was originally much, much darker with Arkady being the most iron woobie to ever woobie. It was the first scene of the entire piece that I ever wrote (and was originally going to be the first scene of the entire fic), and it began with Arkady waking from a nightmare that she can't remember, without making a sound. She sits up and feels guilty for reaching for the gun that is no longer there, when Violet is right next to her. Coming to the conclusion that she loves Violet was much sadder and angstier in the darker version:

Arkady can walk into firefights and hit people too hard, she can hold a gun in a revolution, but she’s can’t bring herself to ever show anyone what it actually did to her, is doing to her, every single day. Her nightmares are silent, she never makes a sound, and she’ll never wake anyone up with her screams, will never have to talk about it. It makes her cowardly, she thinks.

It makes her feel dirty.

She doesn’t want to have to burden anyone in her life with it either. They all have so much going on, every one of them. Staying one step ahead of the IGR, missing their families, trying to forget how they all almost died from the swarm. She can’t, in good conscience, add to that. Not that her conscience is all that clear, anyway.

The thing is, they haven’t discussed any of it, not really, not since their significant meal and agreeing to see where that takes them. They’ve developed an exclusivity that is completely foreign to her, that she has no idea how to navigate. To say I love you—to say anything—now, would be admitting a lot of things Arkady has yet to admit to herself.

Arkady loves her, she realises. She loves her and she’s not quite sure what to do with the thought.

She scrubs at her face with her hands and rests her elbows on her knees, a smile tentatively forming in the lines of her mouth. Breathes out.

This version is better IMO, because we get to see Arkady being a lovesick sap. It's adorable.

There’s a rustling from behind her, and a voice. “I thought I heard you tossing.”

Arkady turns, bashful at having being caught awake, and stretches her legs out to lie along Violet. She’s so incredibly beautiful, and the thought tugs at something vital in Arkady’s chest.

Violet’s voice is hoarse, thick with sleep. She raises a hand to card her fingers through Arkady’s hair, scratches at her scalp with her nails. Arkady can’t help herself but to lean into her touch. Has it only been months with her? It feels like years and years ago they first met, she feels like mush in Violet’s hands. Months, and already Violet has her wound around her finger, willing to do whatever she would have her do.

A noise escapes Arkady’s lips, something involuntary, and then Violet’s are on hers. Maybe, Arkady thinks, maybe she can tell her everything in a kiss.

Violet makes a sound. “Stop thinking, Arkady,” she says, teeth against teeth. “I can hear you from here.”

Arkady feels so, incredibly, clean when she’s with Violet. She feels the blood on her hands wash away. It’s addictive that, for a moment, she can be whole again. Violet’s hands dance atop her skin; they’ve traced the same lines so many times and yet it still feels new. Her fingers trace skin and scars and the spot where the Major General’s bullet tore through her thigh. Arkady bites at Violet’s lip. That’s something she’d rather not think about right now.

Violet immediately moves her hand, finding purchase elsewhere, everywhere. Arkady didn’t have to say a word. There might be a word for the swell of something that builds in her chest when she thinks of Violet, when she holds her. It’s warm, and Arkady glows with it.

Violet peppers her kisses down her jaw, her neck, her stomach. She sits up and pulls Arkady’s shorts over her hip to run her thumb along the knotted scar on her thigh. “Does it hurt?” she asks. There’s a quality in her voice that Arkady pays attention to. It’s soft, adoring. Arkady’s hands tighten around the bed sheets, her eyes screw shut. She nods, slowly.

“Sometimes,” she says, and her heart aches in her chest. Her ribs feel hot and cold at the same time. Violet nods, and runs her hand over Arkady’s cheek, tugs on her hair, before gently lowering her mouth to her scar, until Arkady can feel the tension drain out of herself, until it’s better.

“Violet Liu,” she says, quietly. She can feel a smirk forming on her mouth. “Did you just kiss my gunshot wound better?”

The original concept from this fic was born out of the line in Regina Spektor's Better, where she says "Will you feel better, better, better/Will you feel anything, at all" and is probably why the original was so dark and had Violet trying, trying to pry a feeling out of Arkady by kissing her wounds better. It works much sweeter in a loving context though, and having Arkady be sarcastic and in love and floating on being loved makes me feel a bit more fuzzy.

Violet smiles wickedly, climbs on top of her. “Did it work?” she asks. “Is it better?”

Arkady is too proud to say that it did. She’s probably too proud to say a lot of things that she should, including how she feels about Violet. She pushes the thought aside, though. Pushes every single one of her fears about them, every single thing she has yet to admit to herself, to the back of her mind.

She doesn’t have to say it, yet, Arkady promises herself. She can just think of it. Quietly, in the presence of her mind. It doesn’t hurt to do it that way. It doesn’t reveal too much.

She nips at the underside of Violet’s jaw, and listens to her giggle, sensitive there. Just like she knew she would.

Arkady, in my head, just revels in the simple act of knowing someone. Knowing that someone feels safe around her, knowing that she knows how to make them happy. It's more than her guilty hands have ever had much experience with, and she does it to remind herself that she has it, that it's in her reach.

Arkady’s alarm startles her awake, and Violet, who decides it’s too early in the morning for words, groans and taps at Arkady’s arm until she turns it off. She slides out of bed and pulls on her clothes by rote, thinking only about the tea that awaits her in the kitchen.

There’s the sound of bed sheets rustling, and Violet’s sleepy voice. “Arkady?”

“Yeah?”

Violet yawns, her jaw cracking in the process. “What kind of slippers do you think Tripathi would like? Fluffy ones?”

Arkady cocks an eyebrow, pulling a shirt over her head. This is not the kind of early morning conversation she imagined she and Violet having. “Uh, not really my area of expertise? Maybe something she can run in?”

Violet considers. Hums. “I think you’re projecting, Arkady.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Arkady leaves her quarters with a stupid smile on her face.

I genuinely, sincerely, could not tell you where the slipper thing came from. Maybe because it's just turning winter, here? It came into play right about the time I decided the fic would be much lighter and sappy.

The kitchen on the Iris II couldn’t be more them if they tried.

In the very early days, it was so aggressively sterile that the Rumor crew couldn’t help themselves but scuff it up a little. Krejjh carved their name into a wall with a knife, and then again on the bench top alongside Jeeter’s inside inside a crude heart shape. Arkady, with Violet’s help, immediately repurposed an entire cupboard into a newer, bigger, greenhouse. Sana is still figuring out how she can rig up another hammock.

The new recruits, though, are like ghosts. Their dishes are always clean, they drink out of glasses, they use the appropriate utensils. Like their impact on the ship is being rationed.

Arkady’s noticed Violet fall back into old patterns, too, since they picked up Park and RJ. When, out of habit, someone gives her a bowl to drink from instead of a glass, she won’t balk, and she tore out chunks of the kitchen to fit the greenhouse, but there’s a light footedness to how she wanders the halls of the ship, now, like she’s serving on another Iris.

Okay, so this is where most of the Belonging stuff comes in. I didn't talk much about Sana's connection to the ship, which I realise now would have been SO JUICY and good, but I digress. The ship is where they are, most of the time. They own it and the ship owns them. They may have stolen the ship, but it does need to feel like a home to them. For Violet, Park, and AJ, it would be harder for them to adapt. Probably the most terrifying experience of Violet's life happened on one of those ships, and for Park and AJ, every surface must remind them of the life they left behind. Even though that life was hurting people, and made them afraid, it was the only life they ever knew, and must have been terrifying to leave behind.

Arkady fixes her tea and rubs at her eyes. She really didn’t get enough sleep last night, despite and because of Violet.

She’s also trying to keep her thoughts neatly partitioned and compartmentalised—there’s no reason for anyone to be distracted today, of all days.

Even with the concessions made to the ship’s heating and lighting, they’re running out of fuel fast. Sana is cashing in a favour with a friend who happens to know a friend who can get them fuel, but nobody has met her, and the crew is slightly on edge despite Sana’s cheerful reassurance.

So, Arkady squashes down her feelings and puts on a neutral face. Which is what she’s in the middle of when the kitchen door whooshes open.

“Good,” Sana says, “I thought I heard the kettle.”

“And good morning to you, too, Captain.”

Arkady pours them both a mug.

Sana takes her tea gratefully, cradling the mug in her hands. She doesn’t speak for a while, just leans forward against the bench top, watches Arkady, sips her tea.

“You look a bit worse for wear,” she says, finally. She’s not pushing, yet, but she can tell something’s changed. Arkady’s not yet sure whether she loves her or hates her for it.

In any case, she’ll keep quiet for now. She wants the first time she says the words aloud to be to Violet. She wants the words to mean something. She’s known Sana for a very, very long time, longer than she’s known anyone at all, but she wants to keep it inside for now, and inside it will stay.

“I’m fine, Sana,” she says, eyes on her tea.

Sana leans over the benchtop, catching her eye. “Are you really, Arkady?” It’s not accusatory, which makes it a little bit worse.

“You can trust me to cover a goods drop, Captain. I’m fine.”

Sana pauses. “I never said I didn’t trust you, Kady.”

“I know,” Arkady breathes out, diffuses. She’s not sure what Sana thinks is going on, but it is way too early in the morning for this conversation. “I just—Do we have to do this right now?”

“No, you’re right.” Sana looks at her hands. “We watch each other’s six out there today, okay? Look after Lenny. New clients aren’t fun.”

Arkady smiles, remembers the day they acquired Campbell. “You can say that again, Captain.”

There was a whole thing here, in the old version, about Arkady's struggle to let people in, to just say the worlds that would make it all better. This scene is less about Arkady wanting to say I love you, but more about her struggling with her PTSD, with her self-doubt, and not wanting to burden anyone with it, not wanting anyone to know, just wanting to soldier on like she always has, lest anyone thinks her lesser, or different, or wants to pity her. The struggle between her inner world and the way people perceive her was the absolute core of the fic at it’s inception.

The more she pushes, the guiltier Arkady feels. It’s not that she doesn’t want Sana to know, it’s not that she minds having someone be aware of how she feels, she just can’t bring herself to say the words. To anyone. It burns up in her throat, sits in her stomach, it itches in her palms, but speaking the words will always remain the hardest part.

She’s aware that she can tell Sana anything. Tell her that she’s scared about how she might feel about Violet, that she’s not good enough for either of them, that her nightmares keep her up at night. She could tell her, Arkady thinks, she could say, my feelings scare me, she could say it all and Sana wouldn’t judge, would probably say, I know, and other, true, things.

“Hey, Arkady. Captain.”

Arkady takes a free seat on the bridge. RJ and Lenny have already made themselves comfortable, she can almost forget that not two months ago they would have shot her on sight. “Hey, Jeeter. Do anything actually useful since I saw you last?”

Jeeter does her the honour of looking appropriately scandalised by the implication that he does nothing but hang around his fiance all day.

“First Mate Patel!” Krejjh cuts in, doing their equally appropriate impression of a scandalised human. “Crewman Jeeter is very useful at keeping me company while I fly.”

Arkady squints. “Of course he is.”

I WILL DEFEND ARKADY AND JEETER AND KREJJH'S TERRIBLE BANTER FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER. THEY JUST LOVE TO ROAST EACH OTHER.

The door whooshes open, and Violet rushes in, apologising for being late, and wedges herself into the last free chair on the opposite side of the room.

Sana takes this as her opportunity to start the briefing. “Okay, so, me, Arkady, and Lenny will go out together to do the drop. I don’t have to tell you guys that new clients bring a higher risk factor, but we also really, really , need fuel, so I need the rest of you on comms and life signs, and Krejjh, of course, at helm. Brian, also, you mentioned wanting to road test the new comm setup today, so while we’re out, we’re going to check the range on that, too.”

Arkady is only half listening, the briefing being comprised of information she already knows, and instead lets her eyes wander.

Park and McCabe are listening intently. Krejjh has put one of their arms around Jeeter’s shoulders. Arkady looks at Violet, next to them, and her palms itch. She wants to put her arm around Violet. Wants to sit next to her. Wants to feel her against her side like she could last night.

I love you , she thinks, wholly, truly, for the first time. Her heart twinges in her chest.

She tries to listen to the rest of Sana’s briefing, but she’s so occupied with the weight of the revelation, her mind keeps drifting to Violet, eyes keep landing on her. Once, Violet’s eyes meet hers from across the room, and Violet smiles and winks at her. I love you, Arkady thinks. Love you. Love you.

Blood rushes to her cheeks, and immediately she tries to squash the thought.

She’s embarrassed, she realises belatedly. For so long she’s had to be this invulnerable figure of strength, first on Cresswin, and then for the Rumor crew. Anything less than that got people killed. She had thought, for the longest time, even when she was a guard for the IGR, that she was above being in love. That she was too strong for it, too tough, and wasn’t predisposed in the first place. She can’t shake the thought, even now. Can’t hack the way it makes her feel paranoid, to feel this way all of a sudden. Like someone could attack at any moment.

It’s a defence mechanism, probably. A leftover from a long time ago. She had been among family when she was with the Landers, and then had ended up very much alone. It’s not surprising that any kind of intimacy that can’t be hand-waved away as something short term and practical is uncomfortable. To try to change the parameters of their relationship, now, is dealing with the unknown, it’s everything both of them tend to steer away from. Not knowing what comes next, in Arkady’s experience, almost always spells trouble, and she’s comfortable enough in the space they’ve carved out for each other to not want to probe into the almost-space.

Violet already knows what they are to each other, even if they haven’t said it in as many words. She has to know. So, it shouldn’t make a difference whether she says it aloud or not. With that, Arkady squashes the feeling inside her entirely, and if she can’t quite meet Violet’s eyes for the rest of the briefing, she tries not to let it show.

Lenny, Sana, and Arkady step out of the airlock and onto damp soil. There’s a city a bit out into the distance, buildings screaming up into the sky, and Arkady takes point, leading the rest of the team towards it.

“Hey, Sana,” Arkady says, falling into step with the other two. “Settle a bet for me?”

“Sure, Kady.”

“What kind of slippers are you into? Fluffy or practical?”

Sana does a double take. Looks at Park for confirmation. “Did I hear that right?”

“Answer the question, Captain.”

“Fluffy ones, if you must know.”

Arkady throws up her hands. Of course. “You couldn’t have helped me out, Sana? Just this once?” She knocks her shoulder into Tripathi’s, smiling. Violet’s going to be insufferable when she finds out.

A few moments later, their comms beep, Jeeter’s voice greeting them with his usual cheer. “Team, this is your comms check. Can you hear me okay out there?”

“Loud and clear, Brian,” Sana replies.

Lenny taps his comm. “Me, too.”

“Arkady?” Violet’s voice comes through the commlink softer than the others.

“I’m here. Receiving. Also, I asked Sana about the slippers.”

“Oh?”

“I like the fluffy ones, thank you, Violet!” Sana says, cutting in. Arkady groans. The captain and Violet are getting dangerously close to realising that they’re probably the only two people that can tease her this much and get away with it. Her chest tightens. She feels incredibly full. Light.

Violet laughs down the commlink. “Yes! I knew it! You owe me, Arkady.”

Arkady smiles. “I sure do. We’ll see you when we get back, you guys.”

“Okay, see you soon,” Violet says. “Stay safe everyone. Arkady.”

Arkady looks up and out towards the city. “Will do, Violet. Out.” Love you.

In my planning notes (yes, you heard me, I had planning notes) for this scene, I have this incredible paragraph:

arkady says i love you over comms, then comms cut out. sana is frantically motioning for lenny to NOT SAY ANYTHING PLEASE DON’T. The rest of the bridge crew are just. shellshocked. Krejjh wails.

RJ is like, “oh, what? you haven’t said ily yet? thot u guys were married lol”

arkady, on the other hand, is a dumbshit who doesn’t even realise that’s what she’s said.

Violet rocks back on her heels. Sits. Then scrambles to reopen comms. The rest of the crew are silent.

Jeeter gets up. “Violet?”

“I’m trying to get comms back up.”

“There’s, uh, a dampening field? Active wherever Arkady’s just walked. You can’t reach her until she comes out.” He blows out a breath. “So much for the comm check.” He rests a hand on Violet’s shoulder. Her arms go slack. What just happened? “You wanna talk about it, bud?”

Violet slowly turns her head to look at the rest of the crew. Jeeter looks concerned. Krejjh looks like they’re going to start sobbing. McCabe looks confused.

“She said.” Violet almost can’t get the words out. This is not unwelcome, just unexpected and so quick, like they’d been saying it to each other for years. “She said I love you. She hasn’t said that before.” And then the comms cut out, and I am never going to forgive her .

Krejjh emits a small wail. “Oh, don’t mind me,” they say, and dab at their eyes delicately.

Violet laughs, a puff of air through her teeth. Then, a familiar feeling works its way up her collarbones, into her neck. What if she didn’t mean it? What if it doesn’t mean the same thing to her as it does to me? What if she regrets it?

She knows the worrying won’t help, and she knows that worrying about her worry won’t help either. It’s hard to distract herself though, when the rest of the crew is still, waiting to see more of her reaction.

That is, until RJ coughs delicately. “Uh. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but this is really only the first time?” When everyone in the room turns to face them, they duck their head a bit. “I just thought—well, we spend every day stuck in here together, and...the recordings, you know?”

Violet can feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes. “I don’t know, I just never wanted to push, I guess. We go slowly.”

“Yeah, Arkady has never really been super forthcoming, RJ,” Jeeter says. “It’s a part of her charm? I think?”

“Yeah, no, I just meant…” RJ has to take a moment to search for the words. “I know we don’t really like to talk about it, but I was listening to you guys for a long time. Every second pretty much. I listened to you two hate each other, then be, I don’t know, indifferent? Towards each other, and then like each other. If you’re worrying, I don’t think you need to.”

Violet bursts into tears.

She really hadn’t been expecting this to be how her day was going to unfold. She could guess, now, at all the things Arkady had been thinking about while they were in bed together. She seemed so in her own mind, distracted. It’s not the first time Violet’s helped draw Arkady out of her head by kissing her, but now it feels so, incredibly, different. Was she thinking about loving me, when she kissed me? When she said she’d be my home?

“Oh,” Violet says, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I’m sorry. A few things are starting to make sense now, I guess.”

“Well, if you ask me, Science Officer Liu, you’re doing really well. Better than I did when Crewman Jeeter said he loved me.”

Violet knows that story. Krejjh wasn’t aware of the nuances of the Human English ‘I love you’, and spent a week thinking it was the platonic, familial, form of the phrase. Violet laughs despite herself. But she just really, really wishes she could say it back.

“Hey, Jeeter?”

“Yeah?”

“How long ‘till they come out of the dampening field?”

“Probably at least another thirty minutes, bud.”

“Okay.”

I love you, too, Arkady.

Arkady clicks off her comm, and can hear a commotion behind her. When she turns, both Sana and Lenny’s faces are suspiciously placid. Okay, sure.

Before I had stuck myself firmly in third-person limited, I had this idea that when Arkady says I love you, Sana is just frantically motioning to Lenny to shut UP shut UP don't say ANYTHING. Just absolutely going wild making the kill motion across her neck with her hand because ARKADY JUST SAID I LOVE YOU WHAT JUST HAPPENED AH. That's exactly what happened here, we just don't get to see it, because we're in Arkady's point of view.

Sana sidles up to Arkady, lowers her voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Arkady bristles. “I would tell you, if there was anything really important. I would.” She can’t tell if Sana believes her, but they’ve been partners long enough that she can tell when to drop it.

“Okay, that’s that, then,” Sana says, and they continue on in blessed silence.

In the original version of this, the scene following this one was going to actually show the exchange and end with Arkady misjudging a stream of sunlight for the tracking beam on a [INSERT SPACE RIFLE NAME NERE] and accidentally start a firefight when everything was going well, effectively ruining their relationship with the buyer, but somehow they all make it out alive with the fuel tank. It was going to be super gritty and horrible and grimdark, but ultimately I’m glad I cut it. Also: I do not have the range for something like that to be perfectly honest.

An hour later, the airlock breezes open, and as soon as she’s stepped back onto the ship, Arkady takes a step back.

They have a welcoming party. How...cute?

“First Mate Patel,” Krejjh says with a shit eating grin, dragging out the syllables of her name. “How did it all go?”

The urge to podfic this JUST so I can say all of Krejjh's lines in this fic here is so, unbelievably real.

Arkady raises an eyebrow. “Good?” she says. It doesn’t seem to be the answer to the question Krejjh was really asking, which is annoying, because Arkady doesn’t know what that is. She looks over to Jeeter for backup, but he has the same kind of placid expression she saw on Lenny and Sana on the way to the drop zone. RJ’s sweetly innocent expression feels carefully schooled.

Violet looks mildly uncomfortable, glancing between Arkady and Krejjh. “Um,” she says to the room at large. “Would you all mind giving us a moment?”

Krejjh starts ushering the rest of the crew out of the room, taking Jeeter excitedly by the hand as they depart. “That is absolutely no problem at all, Science Officer Liu. No problem at all. We are all going right now.”

The door slides shut, cutting them off from the rest of the ship. Suddenly, the room is very quiet.

The dark version of this scene took place in Sick Bay, when Arkady is being treated for wounds/scratches et cetera. It was maybe the second part of this fic that I ever wrote. From the original:

“Violet—“ Arkady hisses in a breath. The bruise Violet was probing with her fingers has already turned Arkady’s brown skin a deep purple-green. She breathes out. “That hurt.”

“Sorry,” Violet says. She moves her hand away, looks into her girlfriend’s eyes. The medbay on the new Iris is spacious. There’s no beanbag anymore, no closet space, just the professional sterility of the Regime. Arkady’s legs swing over the edge of the examination table. She moves to the head of the table, away from Arkady, and busies herself uncapping a salve. It hurts to look at her, hurts to keep seeing Arkady go out on missions and come back hurt and brush it off every time like nothing’s happened, when it very clearly has.

“Violet?” Arkady asks. She leans over to snag at her elbow. “Violet, look at me. What is it?”

Violet turns back, without meeting her eyes. She gently prods at the salve, and massages it into Arkady’s hip. Arkady curls a fist into Violets shirt, staying her between her knees. She leans her forehead into the crook of Violet’s neck.

“Please talk to me.”

Violet’s voice breaks. “I get so scared. That you won’t come back. And—and I know we’ve had this conversation and I can’t stop you and I wouldn’t want to stop you. We both chose this life, for whatever reason, but I worry. I can’t stop myself.”

Arkady looks her square in the eye, then kisses her soundly. She can taste Violet’s tears.

Violet’s hand bunches in Arkady’s shirt, and she feels her waist squeezed close by Arkady’s knees on either side of her. Violet’s heart beats in her ears. She moves down, slowly, finds the knotted scar on her shoulder where her wound is, and rests her lips there. She can feel Arkady tense beneath her, hears her suck in a breath. She moves again, this time to the other side of her, where her bruise is spreading along her hipbone. Her lips barely brush the skin. Then, then, her thigh. So many injuries. So many of them.

When Violet rises, finally, Arkady is still. Her eyes are squeezed shut, like she’s holding something in. Violet leans her forehead against Arkady’s.

The scene is similar to the one that eventually made it into the fic, and I kept a lot of things I liked about it, but I also had to get rid of Violet's feelings because I didn't feel like I had the range to explore them properly in this fic, which was already much longer than I'd bargained for.

Arkady is becoming more confused by the second. “What’s going on?” she asks. There’s no way Sana had a chance to talk to Violet about their chat this morning. She barely admitted to her that there was anything the matter, and, anyway, she doubts Krejjh would have that reaction to her and Sana’s breakfast time conversation. She blinks. “Has something happened? Is this about our paranoid contact and her dampening field?”

Violet’s brow furrows for a moment in confusion. “Do you—” she stops for a second, considering. “Do you remember when you confirmed that you receiving on comms?”

Arkady nods. Remembers the conversation, the slippers. She shakes her head. “Of course.”

Violet’s expression is unreadable. “Think harder.”

So, she thinks back. Then, suddenly—

Will do, Violet. Out. Love you.

Oh. Arkady thinks, suddenly missing the vents and secret passageways on the Rumor. This can’t be happening.

“Violet, uh. You know Sana got pretty scratched up back there, we should probably, you know, check on her.”

Violet is a great liar. Arkady? Only when she isn't staring the person she loves in the face.

It’s a weak deflection, they both know it, but Violet’s expression is soft. “Arkady, you and I both know if we open that door the entire crew will be out there waiting for us, injuries or not. Let’s do this now, okay?” She cradles Arkady’s face in her hands, looking up at her. “I can still hear you thinking. Let me in. Please.”

Arkady’s chest tightens, and she gently breaks away from Violet’s grasp, scrubbing her face with her hands. “Fuck,” she breathes. “Okay. I’m not always so comfortable with feelings, and, uh, you should probably know why. I don’t—I never. I haven’t done any of this before. Never really thought I was good enough. And I still don’t think I’m good enough, but it’s okay, because I have you.” Her chest is pounding. She can’t think. “Violet, my heart aches when I see you. Shit, when I think about you. My heart hurts all the time. ”

If you don't think Arkady swears all the time in appropriate and inappropriate places alike, you're dead wrong lmfao. Also, she's a major fuckin softie.

She presses the heel of her hand onto her forehead. Her eyes sting, her skin feels warm.

Violet steps forward, tears in her eyes, and puts her hands on Arkady’s face. When she kisses her, her tears have spilled onto her cheeks. Arkady can taste them on her tongue, feels her sobbing into her mouth. Violet is so gentle, so soft. There’s none of the playful aggression that Arkady saw in her the night before. This is something else. Something raw. It tugs and pulls and tears at her chest, her stomach. Makes her feel .

Violet gently disentangles herself, pulling away only slightly, and looks at Arkady levelly, as if trying to gauge something, as if making a decision. When she moves again, she moves slowly, and takes pains to look up at Arkady’s face every few seconds to gauge her reaction. Her fingers are nimble, undoing the first few buttons on Arkady’s shirt. She carefully peels away the material from over her heart. Then, gently, gently, she presses her lips there.

Arkady closes her eyes. Tears prick at them. Her face grows hot.

“Is it better,” Violet asks tenderly. “Is it better, now?”

Words fail. Arkady can only nod, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth over a silent sob. “I love you,” she says, aloud. “Violet, I love you.”

Violet kisses Arkady’s palm, her collarbone, her jaw, her mouth. “I know,” she says. It’s a whisper, a hymn. “I love you, too.”

Because she keeps everything inside her, there's no other option than for it to all just come spilling out when it finally does. It doesn't ever just rain for Arkady, it pours. Poor baby.

Thank you for reading! This fic took a lot out of me emotionally and I've been rereading it since I posted it just to make sure it's actually real. Thanks also to the kind people who left kudos and comments on AO3, they make me squeal in delight!

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I'm Not Dead! And I Have Hobbies, Too!

Mon, 27 May 2019 09:51:12 GMT

I've been working on myself and university and some fannish projects that I'm excited about and now that I have a moment, am ready to share.

Firstly, I recently produced and printed a bound hardcover version of Tara Gilesbie's infamous fanfiction My Immortal, which I am immensely proud of. Producing it was the first time I've read it through properly, and boy was I not disappointed. (I was, however, impressed that it actually had plot.) It confirmed my belief that I don't think the story was written in earnest, despite the time period it was written in. Even if the author comes clean and says it was written sincerely, I'm not sure that I would believe it. It's just too consistently bad, tbh.

To format the book, I used LaTeX on Overleaf.com, using the Fiction Book source code as my base. I imported all the text, wrote a preface, coded the chapters, and then used some StackOverflow code to generate the 8 page signature PDF (flipping on the long edge when printed). I folded the pages into signatures, sewed them up, using one of SeaLemon on YouTube's excellent tutorials, and then glued it to the cover, which was some wrapping paper from Big W.

At the moment, I'm working on formatting The Cassandra Claire Plagiarism Debacle writeup into another book. I always want to go back and refer to it when I'm discussing Cassandra Claire's (Clare? Claire? Who knows?) various exploits and so I think a clean, plaintext version in hardcover would do me quite well. I'm about halfway through importing all the text, but I do have to go back and unbold things and remove links and such. I'm very excited to finish it! I can't wait to get to the folding pages and sewing them together bit, because then I have something to do in front of Netflix.

Another project I'm working on is a podfic version of my kiradax fic, the world goes blue. It's a very self indulgent fic, and it's only right that I indulge myself further by gifting myself a nice, clean podfic version (hopefully including bloopers, too, which I've recently discovered is my favourite part of listening to other people's podfic).

My last pet project is a lengthy (for me) The Strange Case of Starship Iris fic, which explores how Violet and Arkady might eventually say I love you, and how that would take place. (ETA 07/06/19: You can find the director's cut of the fic here) It's also a meditation on belonging to place and people, and continuing a personal tradition of using Regina Spektor's "Better" to inspire fanwork. It's been written and rewritten a billion times at this point, after working on it for over a month, and at this post I just want to post it, incomplete, to get it out there, but I really want to get it right. The tone changes constantly, because it was originally a blatant angsty self-insert that was never going to see the light of day, but then I deleted the moody parts of it because it didn't fit the tone of the rest of the fic, and I convinced myself I should rework it to post it, and here I am, a month later, still working on it. It's currently sitting at almost 5k (4700 words), and it's the second longest thing I've ever written. I'm hoping to finish it soon, now that my relisten is over and I want to post a Director's Commentary/Cut of it as well, if I ever finish it.

Aside from fandom things, I've been working at hard at staying afloat on uni stuff. Who knew programming was so time consuming and difficult? (Me. I knew. And yet I pursued Computer Science anyway. Hmm.) I also have a research paper to finish, and a bunch little quizzes to study for, as well as exams, too. I've been really pushed. Also, I've been seeing friends and trying to work through a lot of insecurities I have about my life at the moment. It's been incredibly taxing on my emotions, but I'm hoping that the conclusion of this semester might hold some resolutions to Real Life things that have been a drain on my mental energy.

I've been very busy, but I also feel a new page in my life coming, and I want to be the best, most interesting person I can in order to meet it.

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ro laren and kira nerys: bajorans and why i love them

Tue, 11 Dec 2018 09:11:30 GMT

ds9 was a lot of things to me when i first watched it. i watched it during probably the hardest year of my life so far, 2017, which was the year i took final high school exams (i take study seriously and failure hard. that year was a learning curve).

watching ds9 this year shattered the illusion of the utopian federation that tng had provided me with the year before. when i went back and rewatched episodes like ensign ro and preemptive strike after discovering the atrocities the cardassians committed against them in ds9, i felt that the federation wasn't doing its level best to genuinely help the bajorans, who you find out in ds9 were genuinely suffering horrifically by cardassian hands. you can attribute the discrepancy between the two series as Poor Writing, and that maybe the writers didn't know that there would be a whole star trek series devoted to Cardassians And The Shit They Did And Are Currently Doing, but nevertheless, it's painful to watch. despite jean-luc picard's avid pontificating about the Need To Keep The Peace, i kinda just wanted to punch him in the face and be like, "hun, your libra is showing".

it's kind of why i side with the maquis a lot, too, but that's a whole other post (which is titled: Reasons B'elanna Torres Is The Love of My Life, and The Reasons She's The Love of Yours, Too)

but back to the main point of this post - why i love the bajorans.

kira and ro are two sides of the same coin. kira is this powerhouse of physical and mental strength. she's deeply devout. she wears her earring on the correct ear (sorry, ro). she goes to services at the temple. she also fought in the resistance on bajor.

ro laren is a struggle (and is probably my favourite minor character in the star trek universe, although im loath to call ro laren minor in any way). she was ashamed of her people for a time. she wears her earring on the wrong ear.* she never even believed in the prophets until she suspected herself a borhya in the next phase. where kira is primarily at war with forces outside herself (primarily--i don't want to reduce kira to a stereotype, because she's complex and that would be unfair) ro is at war with herself.

what i loved about ds9 was that we got the opportunity to see a lot of bajorans! but they, at least to me, seemed a bit homogeneous - you don't get the kind of rebel bajoran on ds9 that you get in ro laren, which i think was maybe a missed opportunity. to be fair, i haven't read the books where ro becomes security chief on ds9. i would love to, because there's something to be said for the ability of beta canon to do things alpha canon can't, but i have a bad history with novelisations (see: my black widow forever red review).

shipping them is, unfortunately, rare. which is understandable - inter-series ships are never quite as popular as canon ships - but there's something about their dynamic which i would like to see more of (recommended reading: (space)ships in the night by ericine, one of 5 kiro fics on the ao3). it's part of what i find attractive in kiradax - the faith/reason dichotomy has always been interesting to me as a person of faith, and in an increasingly secular society the interactions between religious people and nonreligious people (especially those in relationships) becomes doubly fascinating. how do you reconcile somebody else's truth with yours? how do you do it when you're the same race, have been through the same horrors, and come out of it different people? by the end of ds9, kira becomes a bit softer - she finds love, she's easier with her smiles, there's less for her to be angry about. by the end of tng, ro defects from starfleet and joins the maquis. she hasn't quite abandoned the criminal role that she had been handed.

maybe that says something about being in an open federation environment, not just a starship, how that changes a person. maybe close contact with the bajorans gave the starfleet officers a bit more perspective, which in turn gave their bajoran counterparts a bit more trust in them. a starship or starfleet advanced tactical training (where ro was before she returns to the enterprise in preemptive strike) is much more insular, and maybe is more conducive to ro, as a bajoran, resenting starfleet.

i feel like there's a lot to unpack here. i haven't discussed everything, because i'm not that smart and i think i've written a lot, but the bottom line is: i love ro and kira, i love their characters, i love their complexity, and thanks for coming to my tedtalk.

*yes - many people involved in tos were jewish/religious, however the federation of tng is a secular environment. worf was allowed to wear his klingon sash even though it wasn't regulation uniform, whereas ro was forced to remove her earring despite it being a religious symbol

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cassandra clare, msscribe, thanfiction, and fandom history

Fri, 07 Dec 2018 02:45:25 GMT

i consider myself a,,, mild online fannish history nerd.

i've been in fandom proper since june 2012 when i joined tumblr, but i had been reading fanfiction on ffnet since probably 2009 at the earliest. it started with twilight fic. dont judge me.

my interest in studying fandom history only really began in earnest this year, when i read the cassandra clare plagiarism debacle and then soon after, the msscribe story (which still has me thinking about it months and months later). now, i'm reading about andy "thanfiction" blake.

for those that don't know:

the cassandra clare plagiarism debacle occurred in 2001 and surrounded a hp slashfic of cassie's that sparked debate about whether she had plagiarised because she took phrases (and sometimes whole paragraphs) from a published novel. it also sparked debate as to whether doing so (despite whether you believe cassie did it or not*) was ethical. *spoiler alert: she did

the msscribe story is about how, in the hp fandom, another user made sockpuppet accounts to boost her own popularity. even when the appendices were being written for the journal post about her, it is suspected she was still pretending to be other people as an "anonymousie"

andy thanfiction has been active in fandom for about 20 years now, creating cults of personality first around his "ability" to channel other people, then his DAYDverse fics. he has lured in women, men, and minors, has been accused of (and confessed to) sexual assault, and is a threat to everyone he comes into contact with.

i like history. i think it's fun to analyse shit that happened in the past so we can try not to repeat it. what keeps happening again and again, though, is that fandom idolises these big name fans - who are just normal, complex people (except possibly in the case of andy, who is skilled at creating cults of personality and shows no intention of stopping.) msscribe wanted to be popular. cassie wanted people to think her fic was good. hopefully, as fandom, there comes a point where we can recognise these desires in ourselves and work on them so that they don't become as toxic as they did in history.

it's not just the dramas that i like about fandom history.

i love the newsgroups and email chains. webrings, just,, as a concept. fic websites. fandom_wank (what 2014!me wouldn't give for a tumblr f_w - it would have been an absolute dumpster fire but every second would have been good to watch).

i like the way early fic feels different to modern fic. i frequent trekiverse (a star trek archive) and gossamer (an x files archive) and love that each fic, especially the ones written prior to the finale of each show, has its own feeling of age. i love when i read a fic and in the author's notes it denotes the zine it was originally published in - a testament to the fact that fandom doesn't need the internet to function, that we were and always will be fans!

however, there are horrible things that happen in fandom too, like andy blake.

despite these stories, i do believe that fandom and fannish culture can be a cool vehicle for artists and ordinary people to come together and do something fun. i think the otw is a testament to the ability of fans (esp. women) to think of something, to band together, and to achieve it. that the otw is not for profit speaks for the love people have for what they do: that they'll donate for something they believe in, that they'll volunteer hours to work for it, and that they'll create fanworks for free (i considered applying for a fanlore position recently, and if entry-level positions at the otw become available, i'll likely apply for them).

like everything people do, though, there are people who have motivations that aren't sincere and ruin it for everyone else. as a very curious and interested party, though, i think it's an important part of the culture, i think it's important to preserve, and i'd like to keep looking into it as much as i can.

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i am here!

Thu, 06 Dec 2018 07:15:22 GMT

i haven't quite decided to make the jump from tumblr to here, i don't think much can really make me do that other than tumblr becoming completely devoid of all fandom activity, however! i do want to cross post some of my film reviews and watchlists and other fannish meta to here, to 1) make me feel a bit safer and 2) so that i can be like "yes i do have a dw account" and feel like a good early 00's lj fan.

you'll see some updates as i become more motivated to update.

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