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sugamehhq · 3 months

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His Angel (Johnshi)

Quick things before you indulge;

This is an au I've started working on where these characters are placed in a world of demons and angels. For this specific story part, a process known as "marking" or "claiming" is done.

In the realm of demons and angels there are rankings. The higher your rank, the more privileged you are. Anyone who falls in the 7-12 range are not lucky people. The only way to climb in the ranks is either by someone above you dies, or by a higher up claiming you as their own (with consent). The marking/claiming process can never be done without consent. An action of consent is required to begin the process.

In Johnny's case, he was born a rank 12. Being a rank 12 means he's been treated poorly most of his life. Of which leads me to say CW/TW for mentions of Sexual Harassment/Sexual Assault. Please stay safe!

(Art is included at the end for visuals :] )

“Remind me why you’re here again,” Johnny stated, avoiding Kenshi’s gaze.

The demon was a little confused by the sudden request, but complied, “I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Right,” the angel fidgeted with his fingers, “and why is that?”

Kenshi sighed, “I’ve told you already. I enjoy your company, you’re comforting to be around.”

He paused before asking a question, “Do you not enjoy our time together?”

The angel’s brows furrowed as he searched for an answer.

“Would you prefer I leave?”

“No,” Johnny replied quickly, “I’m just confused is all.”

Kenshi raised an eyebrow before placing himself by the angel’s side. His hand gently took Johnny’s, the other’s small wings moving to cover his face.

“If I may ask,” the demon spoke softly, “what’s confusing you?”

Johnny hesitated, his hand accepting the demon’s touch while he thought how to word his concern.

“Who told you about me?”

His voice was gentle, but rough enough to get the point across. He felt this wasn’t genuine. That Kenshi was sent to keep watch over him for something worse, that there were no real feelings. The fear in his mind was making it hard to see the truth. Johnny was aware there was some connection. The demon had spent months visiting, doing everything he could to protect his lower rank self, showing him respect, bringing him gifts, and yet there was still the strong feeling of it being too good to be true.

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“If you’re just here to use my body for satisfaction, then use me. There’s no need to butter me up for months if that’s all you want.”

Kenshi’s heart hurt knowing that thought has been stuck in the other’s mind for months, yet all he could do was repeat the same thing over and over, hoping one of these days it would get through that horrid road block in the angel’s mind. He found himself standing in front of Johnny, gently pulling his feathers from his face, revealing an expression of fear yet acceptance.

“Starlight, look at me,” the demon placed his hand against the other’s cheek, “there’s no need to be afraid of me.”

Johnny’s lower lip twitched as he fought back tears.

“You know that, and I know you’ve been through a lot, but please don’t be afraid of me,” Kenshi wiped the singular tear that fell, “I’d rather die than ever think of hurting you in such ways.”

The angel’s hand shakily met the demon’s wrist. His eyes closed, allowing the tears to fall.

So Kenshi continued, “A close friend of mine told me about you, how you’re a good person, that you don’t deserve what you’ve been through, so I came to see for myself. I started spending more time here than in my own territory. It occurred to me that you really are something special.”

The demon hesitated, his words feeling way too corny for himself, but he chose to keep speaking his mind.

“I grew fond of you. I’ve wanted nothing more than to bring you up from this hellhole, not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because I truly fell in love with you, and I want you to see that. So, over the last few months, I’ve tried my best to prove myself to you. I’ve brought you things I thought you’d enjoy. I respect your wishes. I avoided anything you disliked. I wanted to make you feel safe and give you a safe space. I’ve grown territorial of you. I want to protect you. I-”

The demon’s mind went blank. He had so much more to say, but couldn’t figure out how to word it. It sunk in that he admitted to the fact of wanting to claim the angel, take him as his lover. His mouth hung open, slight nerves settling in his gut as he waited for a slap in the face, assuming the angel would think he was crazy.

How many people have told him the same thing, only to turn around and hurt him for no reason at all? What he did just now, he was probably no better than the other disgusting demons that tried to get a taste of Johnny.

A laugh entered the air, a song the demon would kill for just to hear again.

“You’re so blunt,” Johnny laughed.

Kenshi’s face relaxed, assuming he didn’t mess up his words.

“Not blunt, honest.”

Johnny pulled Kenshi’s hand away from his face, squeezing it in his other hand. He admired the claws of the demon, the color of his skin, how rough yet soft his touch felt, the jewelry that adorned his arm. His eyes trailed up to his shoulder, chest, opposite arm, back to his chest, to his feet, and finally up to his blindfolded eyes. Kenshi stood still, his posture stiff in fear he was presenting himself wrong, which earned another laugh out of the angel.

“You’re trying too hard for someone like me,” Johnny smiled, wondering what his eyes looked like under the cloth.

“I beg to differ,” Kenshi sighed while relaxing his shoulders.

Johnny continued to laugh at the demon. Even if it was to make fun of him, Kenshi enjoyed the sound.

“So, run that by me again,” Johnny spoke, “what’s this about love?”

The demon’s tail twitched nervously, but he obeyed, “I said I fell in love with you.”

“Right,” the angel leaned closer to the other, his voice softening, “and what did you say you wanted to do?”

“Bring you up from this hellhole,” Kenshi replied automatically.

Johnny smiled, taking in Kenshi’s features once more.

He really did love this demon. So why should he feel guilty about this? Kenshi himself just stated he loves him, but that word doesn’t mean anything when you’ve been told all your life how loved and beautiful you are, only to be used and thrown around like a damn toy.

Even still, Johnny followed his heart. The angel planted a soft kiss on the demon’s cheek. A silent way of inviting the demon into his heart.

Kenshi was hesitant, his heart grew louder, his tail swishing slowly behind him. Was he really allowing him into his life? Was all his hard work finally paying off?

“Johnny,” Kenshi whispered in awe.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure?”

The angel froze. Did he mess something up?

“I-I mean are you okay with me. Are you sure you’re okay with it being me?”

“Kenshi,” the angel placed another kiss on his face, “I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

The demon’s lips broke into a smile, his heart pounded in his ears. He could only imagine how stupid he looked at that moment. His head fell against Johnny’s shoulder, his arms embracing him.

“You do know it’ll hurt like hell, right?”

Johnny sighed, “I’m sure I’ve felt worse.”

Kenshi cringed at the statement. Both for what it implied as well as the idea Johnny might be overlooking how painful a marking for them would be. Regardless, if Johnny was okay with it then he’d gladly deliver.

The demon lifted his head, taking the angel’s face in his palms. His lips found the other’s, testing the waters. He gave Johnny the opportunity to back out, but the angel returned the kiss.

His left hand gently trailed its way down to Johnny’s right hip, where his initial “12” mark was exposed. As if staged, Johnny’s left hand found its way to Kenshi’s exposed back, his finger tips grazing over the demon’s “3” mark. With a consenting kiss and connected marks, their palms began to glow, signaling the start of the marking process.

The two stood together, hands grasping at each other’s marks. It took about a minute for the pain to creep into the angel’s muscles. A burning sensation ran down his thigh to his knee. While Kenshi remained unphased, Johnny’s leg started to shake lightly.

Pulling away from the kiss, he rested his head against Kenshi’s shoulder, a hesitant growl resonated from his throat in response to the pain. As another agonizing minute passed, his knee started to give out, the only thing keeping him from falling over being Kenshi’s hold on his hip.

“Use your other hand,” Kenshi spoke, his voice ever so slightly shaking, “you can hold my arm.”

Without thinking, Johnny did as told, his right hand finding Kenshi’s upper arm. His fingers dug into the underside of his arm. The pain from his hip spread to his side creating a combined feeling of a horrific side stitch alongside a massive leg cramp.

In an attempt to mask the pain for the other, Kenshi returned to his prior position in providing a kiss. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for Johnny to pull away again. He tried to speak, but the pain took his breath away, though Kenshi could tell what he was trying to say.

“You’re alright,” Kenshi sighed in an attempt to combat his own aches, “I’ve got you.”

The angel rested his forehead against the demon’s in an attempt for comfort. Having been in immense pain for about three minutes, all he could do was stand there and listen to the other’s calming words until the pain subsided.

After an agonizing four and a half minutes, the pain started to dissipate. Johnny’s body collapsed on itself, all his energy had been used connecting his energy to Kenshi’s. The demon’s hands immediately moved to embrace the other, guiding him to the ground safely. While the process was draining for both of them, it wasn’t nearly as bad for Kenshi as it was for Johnny.

The angel struggled to keep his eyes open, fatigue catching up with him almost instantly. As his eyes closed, Kenshi laid him on the ground comfortably so he could rest.

As much as Kenshi would’ve loved to take a nap as well, he dedicated himself to staying by his partner’s side, keeping watch for any suspicious higher ups. Fatigue wouldn’t stop him from protecting the angel at all costs.

As the angel opened his eyes, he felt disoriented, like his world was on a tilt. He blinked a few times trying to take in his surroundings, to understand where he was and what happened. He felt a sense of fear being unsure of where he was or who was around him, but that slowly ceased as his mind registered the gentle messaging of his hip.

Kenshi had found himself instinctively brushing over the mark on Johnny’s hip, a way of comforting the other. He wasn’t sure how much it actually helped, but he did it anyway. The demon waited for a bit to eventually speak.

“How do you feel?”

Johnny hummed in response, still tired.

“Is this helping?”

The angel nodded, the comfort he felt from the other’s touch kept him from seeing the world upside down. Kenshi huffed in response, acknowledging the silent request to keep at it.

As Johnny slipped in and out of sleep, Kenshi grew tired. He too wanted to rest from prior events. The next time Johnny opened his eyes, Kenshi asked if he could move them to somewhere more secluded.

“Can you stand?” Kenshi asked while helping the other sit up.

“Mm, doubt it,” Johnny shook his head, barely able to lift himself up from the ground originally.

It was a little worrying the effect marking the angel had, but Kenshi pushed his concern aside in favor of picking the other up. He lifted Johnny into his arms, noticing his leg was still stiff, he quickly moved to somewhere more hidden, somewhere that he wouldn’t have to worry about anything happening to his angel.

It didn’t take long for the demon to join the other on the ground. Without any sort of bed, the floor was just barely tolerable, but for a fatigued pair such as them, it was the comfiest thing in the world.

Having been newly bonded, Johnny joining Kenshi in being a rank 3, the two settled for cuddling each other for a while. They’ll save rank discussion and their future for a later date.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was the fact that Kenshi’s goal was met. He had saved him.

His angel.

Some extra details to think about:

Markings hurt for every pair that consents to one. For Johnshi their marking is the most painful one of the list of character's I have.

Pain of markings is basically like a cramp in your muscle.

Receivers' markings can be found in three places: Their hip, cheeks, or their necks.

Givers markings can be found in three places: Their back, chest, or stomach.

Markings are extremely draining, specifically if the rank distance is large like Johnshi's was. (Johnny had to sit through four and a half minutes of burning pain as his mark switched through the nine stages of ranks before ending at Kenshi's rank 3.)

When bonded with another being, your energies are tied to one another. You can feel what the other feels, comfort them by touching their mark, and overall, just feel closer to your other half.

Angels and Demons all have three types: Angels can have white wings, brown wings, or black wings. Demons can have spiked wings, pinched wings, or rounded wings. (There's more to this, but I don't want to make this too long.) Johnny is a lower-ranking brown wing while Kenshi is a higher-ranking spiked wing.

Ranks also determines the kind of jewelry a person would own. Kenshi's on the higher end, so he possesses golds. Johnny originally being the lowest rank of 12, he possessed bronze.

Kenshi's whole goal in this au was to bring Johnny up from a rank 12 to a rank 3 to keep him safe, of which clearly, he won.

Here's some art to give you an idea of what this looks like :))

@s-icarus-hofmann designed their outfits ! Everyone thank them for the help :))

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!

#johnshi #mk1 #kenshi takahashi #johnny cage #johnny x kenshi #kencage #mortal kombat 1 #sugameh's fic archive #sugameh's aus #mongelmkau #Demons and Angels MK Au #johnshi fanart #mk1 fanart #mortal kombat #mk1 au #mortal kombat au

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apollokids · 11 months

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Thoughts about tsats, trauma, and the cocoa puffs

Nico’s personality in tsats feels most reminiscent of what he was like in The Titans Curse which (imo) is a sign that he is slowly healing and living with his trauma.

The Sun and the Star emphasizes that trauma and PTSD can make it feel like one’s past life events happened to a completely different person, and it mentions that Nico relates to this feeling. This distancing of oneself from past memories, experiences, and personality can result in feeling disconnected for a while, taking on new personality traits, feeling like a chameleon mimicking others, or just feeling empty.

For some people (maybe, depending on when trauma occurs), healing can be about reconnecting with our childhood selves. Depending on what someone was like before trauma, like maybe Nico for example, that can mean becoming more emotional, being more playful, indulging in your childhood interests (eg. mythomagic cards). And Nico’s progression practically mirrored mine exactly through the years, and the ways I changed in ED treatment.

It's hard to let go of a disorder when in some cases it feels like the only thing that’s stayed stable in our lives. Suffering is touted as the pinnacle of art-- we see its romanticization everywhere. It sounds weird to say that I miss being sick, or I miss my suffering, when I'm actively trying to make my life better, but those thoughts do come up. And when it comes to characters I project that misery on to? Well, if I’m suffering, then they have to suffer with me! (After all, they’re just characters, it’s not that deep, right?) Except I found that the more I made my characters suffer, and focused on the ‘beauty’ of suffering, the harder it was for me to heal from my own. Whenever my health was in decline, I characterized my favorite characters the same way. It was just as hard to allow those characters to heal as it was to allow myself to heal. (Other people might not feel the same, though.)

I think Nico choosing to accept the physical manifestations of his demons (while also setting them free, and allowing them to exist as they please) mirrors the suggestion I was given in treatment when I struggled with the idea of ‘giving up’ my eating disorder– because to me, it was always either defeat the disorder or be consumed by it, and defeating it sounded like killing a part of me or erasing a part of my past or my home. Approaching treatment from the standpoint of killing my eating disorder scared me too much. I knew my disorder had caused problems for me, but many of the habits and behaviors I’d developed had served as my coping mechanism and they helped me survive.

So, my therapist told me: “You don’t have to shun your disorder, kill it, or say goodbye. Instead, you can acknowledge that it served a purpose during a point in your life in which you used it to survive, but you no longer need to hold on to it and that’s okay — you’re setting it free. Maybe even instead of saying goodbye, you can say ‘thank you, I’m alright now.’”

And that’s pretty much… exactly what Nico did with the demons. Bob, too, acknowledged that he was a titan, and that was part of his past, and that’s okay — but he’s allowed to change. And Nico is too.

I just found that really really wonderful because I related to it so heavily. He didn’t want to conquer his trauma in battle. He wanted it to just… be acknowledged, and set free. And it followed him, but he can have a better relationship with his past now. He’s not consumed by it. It’s just there, it’s a part of him, and he can continue to live his life. And I think reading this book (while trying to maintain and navigate post-treatment life) was exactly what I needed to remind myself why I’m doing this.

#sentences bolded purely because it helps my eyes follow things better hope it helps others + is not obnoxious i dont usually make posts #tsats #tsats spoilers #the sun and the star #solangelo #nico di angelo #pjo #ed recovery #and yeah. with the writing at times i was like ahhh im too in-college for this book arent i #but at the same time it made me remember what it felt like to read these books when i was a kid #and im reading about this character ive loved since i was in 2nd or 3rd grade and it feels like ive grown up with him #and it feels like we went through our trauma together. i read house of hades the year my dad died. and now its like we're getting through it #idkgkdhjhf #that being said: i kind of wish the cocoa puffs came about in a different way!!#it kind of felt like SA and that wasn’t addressed

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ducktracy · 3 months

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what is your most favorite form of animation in your opinion?

OHHHH WHAT A THOUGHT PROVOKING QUESTION!! i love this!

the famous Eliza copout answer would be to go “ALL OF THEM”, and there is genuine truth in that! but i can’t entirely kid myself, i’m such a sucker for traditional hand-drawn animation. part of that comes from a sense of familiarity, but i really, REALLY love how inescapably human it is. there’s a human touch in every pencil stroke or brush stroke on a cel, etc., etc. i’m incredibly big on feeling a connection with the artists that made this possible, the demonstration that yes, this literal feat of magic is possible and here is someone physically doing it right now… not to say other mediums are exempt from this (which is a point i’m about to indulge in shortly), but, at least for me, i just feel the most powerful connection with traditional animation. actually getting to see the pencil lines on paper. seeing where the cel paint has maybe begun to smudge or chip with age or human error. it’s a living archive of human touch. and i love how that is able to translate in the actual product itself—not just talking about looking at relics! (which is another benefit: physical relics!!!)

BUT! i have to say that i am also a HUUUUUUUGE fan of puppetry and stop motion. the day the stigma of puppets being scary dies is the day i will be a free and joyous not-so-man.. and yes! this includes all puppets! like traditional animation, i LOOOOOVE how innately human it feels, maybe even MORESO than traditional animation. you always always always feel the human touch involved. that, and it’s just so CREATIVE! so many cool ways to make art!!! so many wonderful set designs you can have! so many creative PUPPET designs you can have! the challenge of making these characters or sets feel lifelike or, at the very least, convincing to your intent.

it’s a big reason why i love Popeye cartoons as much as i do, since they combine two of my greatest animation loves (traditional animation + physical 3D sets) and it’s truly a magical experience to see them together.

this is also where i take the time to shill Beany and Cecil. WATCH BEANY AND CECIL!!!!!!! more recordings have been recently uncovered and they’re wonderful!! reading Bob Clampett’s interview with Mike Barrier and Milt Gray and how he got emotional talking about his experience working on it made ME emotional! it’s one of the reasons why i love and resonate with his work so much, i definitely share a very similar reverence for stop motion and puppetry. tell me you don’t crack a smile watching this

youtube

and the great Frank Tashlin did stop motion of his own!! which, again, is why i love and resonate with HIS work so much too!!

youtube

BUT YES!! this is just a blip really—i love so many styles and mediums of animation for different reasons, and look forward to all the ways well be able to incorporate these various styles and techniques together. animation is such a great feat and so beautiful through its versatility; we’d get a lot more done if there were fewer arguments about what the Best way to animate is and, more accurately, how we can adapt and combine and innovate new ways to continuously reach new potential we’ve never seen before

#(with that said i still am all for more 2D films and cartoons HAHA)#prismvision007 #asks

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ryuichirou · 6 months

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Hello!! I'm too shy to send you this out of anon, but I wanted to let you know how much I admire you. I'm a TWST artist myself, and I like certain problematic tropes and pairings. I also want to draw nsfw of my favorite ships, but I'm too afraid of doing it. The anti movement in fandoms is too overwhelming and I'm scared of people going after me. I don't mind kids yelling at me for drawing teens doing what most teens do nowadays (like sex) but everything has escalated so far that people are willing to doxx you and ruin your life over what you ship or draw, and that's what I'm scared of. I know that you probably get nasty messages and people bothering you, but seeing you and Katsu continue creating regardless of what people might say gives me encouragement to post whatever I want. And you seem to be a sunshine of a person, not to mention that your art is amazing. I wish I could post daily as you but sometimes I'm a little bit lazy and I yet need more confidence even if I've been drawing since I was a teen. Anyways, sorry if this got longer, but thank you for contributing amazing art to the TWST fandom. (I'm also into Hetalia and SnK!!! Seeing that you like DenNor made my day haha)

Sending you and Katsu my best regards!

First of all, thank you so much for your support and for your kindness, Anon. And thank you for messaging us at all about this topic, even if anonymously. I think this is a very important thing to talk about, and your message honestly made us kind of emotional. It was a bad idea to read it before going to bed lol

Just like you said, the anti movement is honestly psychotic. I feel like a lot of people who participate in it simply don’t realise the weight of their actions and words, which make sense, because the majority of them are very young; and the ones that are adults are usually quite deranged and dangerous. It’s not rare for their actions to lead to horrible consequences, but I guess this is nothing new. It used to be overbearing conservative parents, now it’s some kids with too much free time. That being said, these days we see more and more people who ignore, criticize or ridicule the antis for their hypocrisy, and this is very nice to see.

We really do get quite a lot of hate, but honestly, we used to get even more stupid comments, even though we haven’t been hated with such passion before. But still, the support we’re getting now is also much more impactful and vocal than what we used to get. There also are people who aren’t even into our ships, but would defend us just because of what this whole thing represents: their own right to do whatever they want when it comes to fiction.

Our personal thing is that we’re just way too spoiled and self-indulgent with stuff that we like. Even if it meant that we’d never get hate, we would be miserable if we had to restrict ourselves for the sake of others; and I know that because we tried. So the worst thing that could happen is that we’ll stop posting, but we’ll still continue creating, because it gives us too much joy to give it up just because someone has no friends at school and wants to impress other antis with their sick (moronic) post when they completely miss the point of our content and ignore our 18+ warnings.

So yeah, I hope you’ll remember what you love about drawing and keep doing whatever you want, even if you don’t post it. But I also think that, if you’re comfortable at any point, you should also post it. You can create an account with no link to your regular acc and your personal info whatsoever and post whatever you want there. You could still get hate, but at least it will be safer and without any high stakes, although I understand you might feel fear because people could recognise your artstyle and connect the dots.

Also preventive bans work wonderfully. If we stumble upon a post that has certain aggressive messages (you know the ones), we simply block everyone who interacted with that post. It takes time, but it’s worth it, I think. Hell, people use “call-out” (because there is nothing to call out, we’ve stated everything plainly ourselves) posts with us to block people.

Also also, ironically, ignoring the hate also kind of helps… I know it’s easy to say, and it’s not a 100% guarantee, but we just think that people are more prone to attacking you if you react to hate in any way. So the best thing is literally to just block and delete it. Oh, and always report it if it gets aggressive – this could do nothing, but it could also bitchslap them out of nowhere lol

Anyways… I am very grateful and glad if we could give you any type of reassurance and comfort with our posts. I hope to see your stuff one day, and I hope there’ll be more people who post whatever they want, so fandoms can become healthier again.

And I’m very happy you like Hetalia and SnK too, especially DenNor! <3

Thank you again from both of us, and I hope you’re having a good day.

#replies

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pepperf · 2 months

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What do you do when you’re burnt out on fanfic? Like the characters just don’t feel the same to you anymore

I assume you mean writing fic, not reading? (For reading, I find that's the point at which I drift into another fandom).

It's...difficult, tbh. I am kind of in that place with TUA, too, and while I'm looking forward to the last burst of excitement with season 4, and that might reignite my desire to write endlessly about these characters, I suspect that my most passionate love affair with this show is winding down. I still adore it! But I'm not thinking about it 24/7, coming up with new meta, new fic ideas, things I simply HAVE to write...

I've never found a solution, honestly! I've been through a number of fandoms, and there always does come a point where it winds down, for me. I respect and admire fans who are still there, 20 years later, with the same passion! But that's not how I work. And it sucks, honestly. It also sometimes means that my fandom social life shifts - I will keep some of y'all, but eventually most people will find other shows to post about, as will I, and our paths will diverge. And I feel sad, and wistful, and a little autumnal about the whole thing.

It doesn't have to mean it's the end right now, however. Some people find a new spark in the same fandom - maybe that one fic idea that's just SUCH a challenge, SO interesting, that the fic itself grabs hold of you. Sometimes I find that I need to do something totally different - write in a different style, or create art instead, or...something, shake it up, whatever that means. Other people may have other tricks.

But on the whole, what I find is that I try to accept that it will simmer down, and that I won't finish every fic idea I ever had - and I look forward to whatever new and unexpected fandom will grab me in the future (and to having some downtime in the meanwhile, lol).

Sorry, that maybe got out of hand! I'm feeling some kinda way about the show coming to an end, I guess. XD To go back to your specific ask: sometimes I do a rewatch (because often I'm so caught up in fic or fandom that I forget where it all started, what made me love it in the first place). Sometimes I let myself start a new fic, something really super indulgent, the kind of fic that I most want to read but have been telling myself, nah, that's too much, no one will want to read that (don't listen to that voice, it's a lying liar!). Sometimes I go watch or read something else, and come back with a totally weird crossover idea (I don't really recommend that one, almost no one reads those). Sometimes I let myself just think about the characters, about something that's always struck me about them but that I've never quite pinned down and that I want to explore more in some way (usually fic, for me). Sometimes I just let myself stop worrying and go do something else, and if it comes back, it comes back.

I hope that's helpful - I'm not sure it is, but hey, the one thing I'm enjoying about TUA is that, generally, it's been a positive experience, and I am hopeful that we'll go out with a good and satisfying season 4. And we still have 6 entire episodes yet to see!

EDIT: Also - because apparently I have A Lot Of Opinions tonight - I find that it never completely leaves me. I care about all the shows I ever loved like this, I watch the new stuff the actors do (sometimes), I will read the odd fic, or rewatch an episode - or the whole thing - sometimes...I'm never going to completely lose TUA, and I will take forward some of the character beats and the ideas that I picked up from it, in some form or other. I may even get suddenly inspired, five years down the line, to finish a fic. XD So it's never wasted, it's all mulch to the creative mind.

#long post #boy that got rambly #I hope you don't mind me posting this aloud #writing #tua s4 #the umbrella academy

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changelingsandothernonsense · 9 months

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Wip when I get the time.

Hey! I got tagged again. Thanks to @thequeenofthewinter, @mareenavee, @friend-of-giants, @archangelsunited and @elfinismsarts for the tags, I'll get to everyone's posts! I've been avoiding certain parts of the internet this week for my sanity so have been a bit slow getting to things <3 Anyways this week is art and writing again. I've finished 1 art, almost finished another and started one that is a little on the NSFW side, yay me. Oh and because I've been down it's obviously more Josh because that's all my brain can draw atm. Art!

Yeah, Glock!Josh is almost done and the meme is almost over! Next art is under the cut coz length lol.

And here's the most self-indulgent thing I have ever created...the safety version!

It is very self-indulgent, will be a massive pain in the ass and I can't post the full image outside of discord and pillowfort but dammit I'm going to paint this!

Now writing!

More Josh, he's gotten off the boat and is stuck in a room. What's he gonna do? Fuck with Socucius Ergalla of course! It's all dialogue so feel free to skip and just look at the art. :)

“Thank you, now on to the next question,” the Breton paused for a moment, did he expect Teldryn to interrupt him again? “Your cousin-”

“I don’t have a cousin,” Teldryn interjected, oh he was going to enjoy this.

The Breton sighed before continuing his line of questioning, “Your cousin has given you a very embarrassing nickname and, even worse, likes to call you it in front of your friends. You asked him to stop, but he finds it very amusing to watch you blush.”

“Well, I don’t know what you Bretons like to do with your cousins but-“

“Will you shut up!” The Breton finally raised his voice at him, just the rise Teldryn was looking for.

“Of course, officer, please do continue with these very important questions,” he pointed at his right ear, “I’m all ear.”

“Your three options are, A. Beat up your cousin, then tell him that if he ever calls you that nickname again, you will bloody him worse the next time.”

Teldryn nodded, he’d let him finish this one.

“B. Make up a story that makes your nickname a badge of honour instead of something humiliating. Or C. Make up an even more embarrassing nickname for him and use it constantly until he learns his lesson.”

“All three,” Teldryn stated before scratching his nose again.

“Choose one please,” the Breton’s tone was becoming increasingly irate.

Teldryn laughed and took a step towards the desk, sitting on its edge. His chains shook as he moved, “You see first I’d cover for myself, make that name sound all heroic in front of these friends.” He moved some of the papers to the side, earning a somewhat mortified look from the Agent. He grinned at the Breton before continuing, “Then I’d call my cousin over, wait for him to use it again and beat the shit out of him. Teach him a lesson and all that. I’ll have plenty of ammunition for an even worse name later!” He laughed to himself before standing back up and returning to his original position, “It’s fucking brilliant!”

The agent just pinched the bridge of his nose, bit his tongue, “Next question.” Teldryn would take that as a win.

“There is a lot of heated discussion at the local tavern over a group of people called 'Telepaths'. They have been hired by certain City-State kings. Rumour has it these Telepaths read a person's mind and tell their Lord whether a follower is telling the truth or not.”

Teldryn remained quiet this time, why not let him continue this one?

“What do you think of this rumour? A. This is a terrible practice. A person's thoughts are his own and no one, not even a king, has the right to make such an invasion into another human's mind.”

Well, this was an odd one, didn’t the Empire use these sorts of mages in their spy rings?

“B. Loyal followers to the king have nothing to fear from a Telepath. It is important to have a method of finding assassins and spies before it is too late.”

“What kind of bootlicking response is that?” Teldryn muttered under his breath, it earned him a stern glare from the Agent before him.

“And finally, C. in these times, it is a necessary evil. Although you do not necessarily like the idea, a Telepath could have certain advantages during a time of war or in finding someone innocent of a crime.”

“How are any of these answers options?” Teldryn shifted his weight where he stood, why was this room so hot? “Oh, I don’t know…The first option is the least stupid.”

“That is the most common response among recruit- “The Breton paused, he’d clearly misspoken, Teldryn decided to keep that bit of information for later, “amongst those being released.”

Teldryn just nodded silently, the word recruit still swimming in his mind.

“Question five, your mother sends you to the market with a list of goods to buy. After you finish you find that by mistake a shopkeeper has given you too much money back in exchange for one of the items.”

And the thought of his mother trusting him with coin and a list sent Teldryn into another laughing fit, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please continue,” This was just ridiculous!

The Breton furrowed his brow. Clearly, he was trying his best to keep his composure, “Do you A. Return to the store and give the shopkeeper his hard-earned money, explaining to him the mistake. B. Decide to put the extra money to good use and purchase items that would help your family. Or C. Pocket the extra money, knowing that shopkeepers in general tend to overcharge customers anyway.”

“Is this a trick question?” Teldryn asked, “You do know what I was arrested for? Right? It’s in that fancy notebook you’ve got there.” Teldryn pointed to the ledger that the Census and Excise Agent had closed earlier.

“It’s a hypothetical situation, now could you please answer the question without all the commentary please.”

“What do you think?” Teldryn shook his head.

“I don’t know, you need to answer the question.”

“The latter,” he looked up at the ceiling and noticed a long, thin crack in the plaster, how much longer was this going to take? He was beginning to feel restless, for a variety of reasons, he did just wander off a cramped ship after all.

The Breton took a deep breath before moving on to the next question, “While in the marketplace, you witness a thief cut a purse from a noble. Even as he does so, the noble notices and calls for the city guards. In his haste to get away, the thief drops the purse near you. Surprisingly no one seems to notice the bag of coins at your feet.”

“Oh, another trick question ha?” Teldryn moved back onto his heels, the shackles around his ankles pinching at his skin. He really wanted those things off. The old man ignored his comment.

“Do you choose option A. Pick up the bag and signal to the guard, knowing that the only honourable thing to do is return the money to its rightful owner.”

“What bullshit!”

The Breton glared at him again, “Do you B. Leave the bag there, knowing that it is better not to get involved.”

“Also bullshit and terribly stupid.”

“Or finally do you choose C. Pick up the bag and pocket it, knowing that the extra windfall will help your family in times of trouble.”

“Oh, come on officer! What kind of leading questions are these?” Teldryn watched as he scribbled something down into that ledger. Notes? Was he being assessed? Teldryn sighed, “Fine, the last one.”

“Thank you, question seven, your father sends you on a task which you loathe, cleaning the stables. On the way there, pitchfork in hand, you run into your friend from the homestead near your own. He offers to do it for you, in return for a future favour of his choosing.” He paused, glancing at Teldryn for a moment before continuing, “Do you A. Decline his offer, knowing that your father expects you to do the work, and it is better not to be in debt.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Enough commentary please,” the Breton snapped. He wrote something else down in that ledger as he continued his line of questioning, “Do you choose option B. Ask him to help you, knowing that two people can do the job faster than one, and agree to help him with one task of his choosing in the future.”

“Also stupid,” Teldryn interjected again.

“Please just let me finish,” no, this was stupid and Teldryn was adamant that he’d prove that point, “Or finally C. Accept his offer, reasoning that as long as the stables are cleaned, it matters not who does the cleaning.”

Teldryn smiled, He attempted to fold his arms but got caught in the chains, he leaned back instead, “Oh that’s easy, if the s’wit is stupid enough to want to shovel guar-shit, then he can shovel guar-shit.”

“Interesting way to put it, most ah, prisoners choose the second option,” he continued scribbling down what Teldryn assumed was his answer or a commentary on his answer, he couldn’t quite see.

“Well then, most prisoners are stupid,” Teldryn offered, he found another knot in his hair to fiddle with. It felt greasy, he didn’t like it one bit.

“Question eight, your mother asks you to help fix the stove. While you are working, a very hot pipe slips its mooring and falls towards her.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” The Breton questioned, pausing long enough to dip his stylus into the inkpot.

“I’m not helping mother with a stove! This question is stupid! Next!”

“Please, we only have two left!” the Breton’s composure slipped again as he raised his voice at Teldryn, “Now option A-“

“Next. Question.” Teldryn growled through gritted teeth, he was officially over these questions and it seemed that in this case, the Census and Excise Agent was just as willing to move on.

He flipped through a few pages, marking each as he went, the elderly man appeared to be clenching his jaw as he went, “Question nine, while in town the baker gives you a sweet roll. Delighted, you take it into an alley to enjoy only to be intercepted by a gang of three other kids your age. The leader demands the sweet roll, or else he and his friends will beat you and take it.”

“Kid sounds like a dick, if you ask me,” Teldryn interjected, really what was the point of this?

#wip whenever #my art #my writing #teldryn sero #dunmer #danger!josh #skyrim #morrowind #nerevarine!teldryn #nerevarine #Morrowind fic lol

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transpersian · 29 days

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Deep Cover

(copied from my twitter thread)

Alright. I got my unhinged time. Back to being regulated and strategic.

Apologies for my manic state over the past couple of days. For the past 2.5 months, I leaned into my most subservient, self-hating, self-blaming state from my past to make her feel in control.

It broke me.

I’m not here to hash out my history of trauma, but let’s just say I’m used to being in survival mode. I let the part of me that still felt for her grow like a weed, trying to carefully prune it so it didn’t overtake everything else. I gave her that power with careful limits.

The guilt I felt was real; I don’t want to do this. I want her to stop. But until she does, it’s necessary.

Alongside my love, the dissonance of guilt led to many, many breakdowns. I have friends who sat with me for hours in those calls as I lamented what Poppy could have been.

Add the additional stress of my strained trust and relationships with friends, including a half dozen that cut ties completely.

Add the viciousness people constantly spit at me anonymously on Tumblr.

Add my whole-ass personal life, which is its own nightmare of complications.

This has been hard, especially because I didn’t expect it to last more than two weeks. Especially when Poppy genuinely started to trust me. Defend me against her friends. Against Zena.

She promised she wouldn’t abandon me again and she didn’t. That’s particularly potent w/ BPD.

I still handled things.

Part of me worried that if she offered to run away from all this with me, I would’ve been tempted. People would finally be safe from her and I’d be in the toxic relationship of my nightmares.

But my principles kept me true. My love for Hela kept me true.

To help keep those feelings in check, I’d regularly read back through the documentation I was still working on. Especially Spawn’s screenshots.

I’ve literally worked myself to tears dozens of times to keep focus on what I’m fighting for.

Was this healthy? Nah.

But it worked.

I don’t need everyone to agree with what I did, or how. I just hope everyone at least sees that it’s not something I just do casually. This was a dark art, learned from many years of surviving people like PZ. I had to break this shit out like John Wick’s buried stash.

I was deeply uncomfortable with how good I was at it. I started to feel bad about it a few weeks in. I used that guilt to feed into my facade. The lines began to blur more and more.

I wasn’t going to betray my people, but I started to lose it for a while. Actual derealization.

I did accomplish useful things in there, but I can’t share them for fear of endangering them. Just know that I’d do it all over again. It was worth it.

I have a wonderful support network. Beyond just trauma bonding, I love these people. I trust them with my life.

But that last push, that desperate series of attempts to get Poppy to accept even one tiny bit of responsibility… that broke me.

Her saying that my love for her wasn’t real unless I betrayed my friends? That hurt. Telling her that she’d destroyed me and her “I don’t care?” God.

I leaned into the crazy on that last conversation because, frankly, I wanted to. I wanted to let all of the rage and fury and madness that I’d felt over all of this out.

Not just what she’d done to me. Everyone. Dozens.

And it felt good, y’all. It felt good to get theatrical.

So when I finally came out of it… that energy carried over.

I became the crazy ex-girlfriend they said I was, just for a bit. My strikes were still pointed, but yeah, I dove into the vibe.

Sorry about that.

It’ll take time to heal properly, but I’ll be okay. Survived worse.

Point being, I just wanted to make a statement discussing my recent behavior. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t regret it.

I’ve been so controlled with my emotions about all of this for so long. Please forgive me this indulgence.

I went under right before people started finally listening. It was kind of intoxicating to say things publicly and finally get so much support and visibility.

But if I’m going to continue being a prominent voice in this whole debacle, I need to be better, and I will be.

I am.

So… back to work. Back to healing.

Thank you for trusting me. It means the world.

It’s so fucking good to be back. 💜

#zenaandpoppy #poppy and zena #milena

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feverinfeveroutfic · 5 months

Text

hanukkah 2023

Fic or Art/Graphic Title: alone in the dark, chapter two: “Sea of Souls” Author/Artist Name: josiebelladonna Fandom: Testament (Band) Jewish or Jew-Ish Character(s): Alex Skolnick (and how) Bingo Squares Being Filled: k5 (light in the dark), a2 (menorah), u1 (latkes), u2 (sufganiyot), h3 (gelt) Rating: Mature Warning(s): Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings Link to Work: x @aimmyarrowshigh

Christine was one of those teenagers who not only drank coffee but drank coffee at night as well. There was something about her that intrigued me, undoubtedly more so than the blonde stewardess on the flight. I never snatched her name whereas I was right next to Christine as she indulged in some coffee and a big slice of blackberry pie with a dollop of whipped cream on top, as well as a small dish of chorizo. Every so often she flashed a glimpse over at my plate of pastrami on rye and French fries.

“You sure you don’t want anything else?” I asked her as I offered her two of my fries.

“Diabetes runs in the family,” she told me as she poured a little bit of cream into the coffee mug. “So I’m told, anyway. I’m also not really hungry, either.”

“It certainly does,” Wendy assured her as she sipped on her iced water. “Dad finally rid of it, as did your other grandfather, but uncle George still has it, though. Plus, I’ve struggle with wavering blood sugar pretty much all my life.”

“Why aren’t you taking insulin?” I asked her, slightly puzzled.

“It’s not exactly there yet,” she explained. “It’s a little complicated to explain.” I stopped for a second with my eyebrows knitted a bit. Where Christine struck me as a lot more honest, Wendy seemed to be hiding something from me: it also helped that I never saw a wedding ring on her finger, either. I then cleared my throat and turned my attention over to Christine and the bite of pie on her fork.

“So, is your dad out here with you?”

“He’s… back home right now,” she quipped, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wendy leaning away from us.

“And where would home be?” I asked her again, that time in a smaller, lower voice.

“New York, believe it or not,” Christine replied, and Wendy cleared her throat and stood up. She walked on over to the other side of the room where the bathrooms were, and I couldn’t help but notice the disgruntled look on her face as she walked away from there. I returned to Christine.

“What’s wrong?” I stammered out, and I had the weirdest little pit in my stomach upon asking that.

“My parents have been going to couples’ counseling lately,” Christine explained in a low voice. “They’ve been fighting a lot in the last year or so and it was starting to do a number on me this past summer in particular.”

“Really?” I gaped at her, and she nodded her head at me with a grim look on her face.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry—that was all so awkward,” I confessed to her with a shake of my head.

“No, no, it’s okay,” she assured me.

“No, it’s not. I stepped on some toes when I had no right to do so. I feel bad now.”

“You didn’t know, though,” she pointed out. “It’s okay, Alex, I promise.”

My heart sank at that, though, but I also showed her a smile at the sound of her saying my name, however. She returned to her slice of pie, which she slowly dug at despite it being of a good size and filled with lush berries and fresh cream atop.

“How’s that pie?” I asked her.

“It’s so good, do you want a bite?”

I cracked her a smile.

“I offer you a couple of my fries but you refuse them, and now you wanna offer me some of your pie?” I asked her in a single breath, to which she giggled at me.

“Offer you some of my pie, is that what you asked me?” she teased me.

“What else would I ask of you?” I teased her back, to which she giggled at that.

“You know, I once tried to get myself to eat a whole pie before,” she recalled to me.

“Wow, may I ask why?” I asked her.

“I was hungry,” she said with a straight face. “My skinny ass gets hungry every now and again. I got a little chubby when I was about fifteen and then I lost all that weight and then some.”

“You know, when I was a teen, I was the same way. Exact same way. It is starting to catch up with me, though, it feels like.” I rested a hand on my belly, but she rolled her eyes at that.

“What?” I asked her as I picked up a half of my sandwich.

“Pfff, if you’re fat, then I’m fat, too,” she quipped.

“If you and I were fat, it’d be kind of special if you think about it,” I pointed out to her, and I lowered my voice so no one would hear us. There wasn’t a lot of people in that restaurant and thus, I had my concerns about some of the people at the counter across the room eavesdropping on us. I took a bite and then returned my attention to her as she held the tines of her fork up to her lips.

“Did your girlfriend ever tell you that you have like the sexiest voice,” she quipped to me.

“I don’t think she did,” I confessed to her once I swallowed it down, and I couldn’t help but smile at that as well.

“If she did, I feel like you would know.”

“If she did, I admittedly don’t remember because what’s past is prologue.”

“Oh, come on,” she scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve never done a little… inventory of this side of your life before?”

“Which side?” I asked her as I took another bite.

“You know. The side of you that wants a little fun.”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I assured her once I swallowed it down. “There’s not much, though. The Jewish community is a lot more open and welcoming than you realize. I just never really had much to talk about with myself, though.”

“Really? A hot boy like yourself?” She seemed genuinely surprised by that.

“Yeah. It’s not that surprising to me, though. I just… never really saw myself as all that desirable and I never met anyone who gave me those feelings, either.”

“Wow.” Christine returned to her slice of pie for a moment before she spoke up again. “You know, if it’s any comfort, I feel the same way, too. I never saw myself as attractive enough, nor have I met anyone who made me feel that way.”

“Is that why your ex is your ex?” I asked her.

“No, it’s… not like that. I’ve just always seen my sexuality as the dumbest, stupidest, shittiest, absolute worst thing about me.” She sighed through her nose at that, and I held back a bit for a better look at the side of her head and the bright red locks that dangled over her ear and the side of her face.

“Oh, damn. I thought I had it bad.”

“It feels good to get that off my chest, though,” she declared with a shake of her head. “My parents are going through counseling right now but that doesn’t mean I have space to talk for myself, though. I always hear shit about how women are sexy when they’re confident and it always leaves me with the worst feeling instead. I know for a fact that I don’t have it, and I know that once I turn eighteen, I still won’t have it.”

“It’s like… no matter what you do, you feel like it won’t matter in the end,” I followed along.

“Pretty much, yeah.” She sighed again, and then she took another bite. “My mom always says that I’m hard to control. I’m actually not that hard to control.”

“Do you have any siblings?” I asked her as I took another bite of sandwich.

“Nope, just an only child. I’ve often suggested that my parents adopted me when I was a baby, and though they always think I’m joking, I’m being completely honest. I’ve always felt like such an odd appendage to the family, like… there’s a reason why I like hanging out with my maternal grandparents when it comes to getting together with family. They’re like the only ones who seem to get me…” Her voice trailed off as Wendy returned to the table with a stern look upon her face.

“Hey, I’m sorry about that earlier,” I told her with an extension of my free hand across the table towards her. “I really didn’t know what was happening here, and it’s bad enough I feel like I’m imposing on you two girls.”

“It’s okay,” she assured me with a shake of her head as well. “Really. You were going to find out about it at some point, just like how dear Chris here was going to find out about things like curse words and what have you. And I promise you aren’t imposing, either!”

“Yeah, we’re happy to have you here with us,” Christine added. “The other alternative is watching you walk the streets with all the snow outside and with nothing to eat.”

I showed her a smile, and I took another bite of sandwich. I leaned back in the seat all the while: the pastrami was perfect with the right amount of salt and pepper, and the mustard was light enough that I could taste everything. I did have my worries that these two women next to me had no brisket on hand, or that the grandparents even had a brisket upon their return from Carson City.

Though the power had gone out back all over town and back at that house, I was glad to be there with them. But how I wished to be home with my parents, though.

The fries had the right amount of crunch, and I knew I could go to bed that night feeling safe and alright.

I offered to pitch in for the bill as well as a tip for the waitress but Wendy promised me that she could handle it.

“A guy like you will never impose when he is as sweet as you,” she assured me with a little wink.

I took one final sip of my coffee before we left the restaurant, and the snow collected together into even bigger flakes outside, and the wind picked up as well. I closed my coat and bowed my head as we trudged on back to the car with the snow pummeled down onto our faces like gravel. I squinted my eyes shut just before I reached the front end of the car itself, but it was enough for me to see the rim of the window and the door itself. I tugged the door open and bowed into the safety of the front seat; Wendy followed suit into the driver’s seat, followed by Christine into the back seat behind us.

“Wow-ee,” Wendy breathed out.

“Goodness,” I added as I strapped myself in. “Let’s go to where it’s—hopefully, anyway—warm.”

“We’ll figure out how to be warm in all of this,” she vowed as she turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered and shook but roared to life, and we backed out of the spot, albeit with a bit of difficulty given the sheer amount of snow that pelted us and the parking lot behind us. We made it out of the spot and onto the street, however, and all the while, I kept my hands tucked into my coat pockets, and that time, I could feel the warmth that radiated off my belly. At least I had eaten something, and I crawl into a bed with a blanket and a warm feeling within me. At least I had a place to go, even without electricity.

The windshield wipers moved at a furious pace to keep up with the torrential snow and the harsh winds before us: though I was warm inside, the sheer sight of the snow beyond the car was enough to send a series of shivers up my spine. I needed to be in shelter, under a roof with a bunch of blankets at the helm.

It almost felt as though the background morphed away into the snow, and everything became monotone as it enshrouded itself in darkness. At one point, Wendy leaned forward and wiped the palm of her hand against the windshield.

“Quit breathing so hard, you two,” she teased us, and Christine giggled at that. The snow pelted against the hood of the car, and through the headlights, I could see the formation of the drifts on the pavement in front of us. The street turned white right before our eyes, such that I closed my eyes and I thought of my parents.

The only thought that ran through my mind right then was, I'm going to die here. I'm going to die here without knowing what it would be like to be touched or have my heart invested in another person.

I almost wanted to bow my head so neither Wendy nor Christine could see my face. All I could think about was my parents and how they were back home outside of New York City, how they were safe home and without a single clue that their baby could freeze or be taken out by the mere slip of the steering wheel.

“Grandma and Grandpa are home,” Wendy told Christine, to which she sighed with utmost relief. It was then I opened my eyes and I looked straight ahead: through the torrential snow and the glare of the headlights, I caught the silhouette of the house on the side of the street.

“Oh, good!” I declared. “I don’t like the thought of an old man or an old lady having to cross a snowstorm at night like this, especially when they’re grandparents. It’d be like my bubbie and zeide having to do that for themselves.” It was something to take my mind off the fact that we drove about in a blizzard and a near whiteout, plus it was the truth: thinking about the fact that Christine's grandparents were driving through a snowstorm like this down in a valley made me think of my own grandparents doing the exact same thing. I shuddered at the thought as we nearly crashed into the mailbox near the edge of the sidewalk, but lucky for us, Wendy caught it and we parked up into the driveway.

Indeed, Christine's grandparents had lit up a few hurricane lanterns and propped them up in the front windows of the house, as well as a series of candles. They returned home and knew right away what was happening there in Reno.

The only drawback of returning to a safe place was having to climb out into the snow and wind.

And that was what the three of us did. And it was especially hard for me because I had no hood.

Nevertheless, I kept my head bowed as I huddled up next to Wendy and Christine, and the three of us made our way up to the front step of the house; Wendy's hand nearly slipped as she opened the door and I almost fell ass over teakettle onto the carpet from the combination of the wind at my back and my overnight bag and guitar case slung over my shoulder. My hair was once again covered in snow to the point it made my head cold and I knew for a fact I once again resembled to one of the Winter brothers.

I caught myself and hung by the side of the door as Wendy and Christine closed it in unison.

“Oh, dear, this is something else.” An old lady's voice wafted in from off to my left as I set my things down.

“Grandma!” Christine declared; I raised my head for a look over at her embracing a woman with rich jet black hair wrapped in a thick sweater and with a single candle in hand. I never would have guessed she was a grandmother. I then reached up to the crown of my head and touched the snow that had blanketed my hair. I needn't get all of the snow onto the carpet before me, especially since it wasn't my house.

“Oh, hello—I didn't know you girls brought home Boo Radley,” she said, and I showed her a little smile, even with the snow capped all over my head.

“Mom, this is Alex—he was on our flight and he got stranded out here,” Wendy was telling her. “He doesn't have that much money so we decided to take him in for the time being.”

“I was going to New York to be with my parents for Hanukkah,” I filled in, and for once, I could feel a bit of warmth in my face.

“Oh, a Jewish fellow!” the old lady said with a warm welcoming smile on her face. “Well, we better pay some respects then. We don't really have brisket in the house, but we do have a roast as well as apple pie and potatoes. We have a fireplace and a hot plate, too.”

“So, we can make matzo balls and latkes!” I followed along. “Excellent. Um... do you have a clean towel on hand? I'm afraid to shake my head about.”

“Of course, dear,” she assured me, and she raised a finger to Wendy and Christine. “I'll be right back.”

I held still with my hands on the lapels of my coat as I was afraid to take it off. Christine sauntered over to me with a little smirk on her face, and I could only feel butterflies within me at the sight of her.

“What's that look for?” I asked her.

“Get some good fats into your skinny little ass,” she joked, to which Wendy chuckled at that.

“Skinny? You know, I've put on a few pounds since the summer.” I fluttered my eyelids at Christine, to which she ran her fingers through her fiery red hair and then pressed her hands to her hips.

“And let me tell you, it looks really good on you, too,” she assured me, and Wendy chuckled some more.

“Oh, I think she's got a little thing for you, Alex,” she pointed out; in the dim light, I could see her shake her head at Christine. “Honey, he's too old for you. How old are you, Alex?”

“Twenty six,” I replied.

“Yeah, he's too old for you!”

Then again, when I was seventeen, I was having thoughts about women like Madonna and Valerie Bertinelli, women who were ten years older than me. Christine still ran her tongue along her bottom lip and turned away from me with a glimpse over her shoulder back at me.

Totally flirting with me.

The old lady returned to me with a soft clean white towel in hand, to which I thanked her and ran it over the crown of my head. I ruffled my hair and stray tendrils of it dangled down around the sides of my face as I held it before my chest; through the candlelight, she showed me a little smile, and I returned the favor to her. I couldn't help but show her the lopsided quality to my smile, either.

“Oh, you're as humble as you are handsome,” she told me.

“Handsome?” I retorted to her. Beyond her, I saw Christine flash me a wink, and maybe I was missing something after all.

The three generations of women stayed around me as we all gathered together in the kitchen to see all the food that Christine's grandparents had bought down in Carson City. It was a lot like that night before the first night of Hanukkah where my parents and grandparents would have a lot of food in their houses, and we all made sure we had something to eat before the sun went down. I stood there next to Christine and her grandmother, the latter of whom stood a little too close to me. After I was introduced to her grandfather who looked as though he could have been a model for the painting, “American Gothic”, all the way down to the hat on his head, we took everything out of the bags and rested it on the table. It was cold enough in the house to warrant none of it going into the fridge or the freezer as of yet.

“Who wants a slice of pie?” he offered us.

“I would love a slice of pie,” I declared as I rubbed my hands together; I was eager for a slice especially since it was apple pie. Christine meanwhile took a slice for herself, even after she had eaten that blackberry one back at the restaurant as well as a small dish of chorizo. She huddled close to me as we sat on the other side of the room together with nothing more than candlelight all around us.

“You just ate a big pastrami sandwich on heavy as hell rye bread with some French fries, and now you're eating a big piece of pie?” she chuckled at me in a low voice.

“Yes!” I said. “Hey, it could be worse—I could be eating this with a dollop of sour cream on top.” To which she wrinkled her nose. “It's actually not bad,” I assured her. “I mean, just like whipped cream, it's all milk and heavy cream. The only difference is sour cream has vinegar in comparison to sugar with whipped cream. And you're kinda one to talk, too, as you had a piece of pie yourself back at the restaurant.”

“Hey, what can I say?” she assured me. “I'm not turning down a slice of pie, especially a big Dutch apple one that my grandpa bought from a real authentic bakery rather than some random place somewhere.”

“Plus, it's not often you get to have more than one slice of pie,” I pointed out as I took a bite: indeed, the top was lush and crumbly, and paired with the apples and the spices, it only made me think of home even more.

“Exactly! I mean, this is the time of year when we can actually have a shitload of sweets like pie and what have you.”

“Pie and chocolate,” I said once I swallowed it down. “Yeah, we like to eat a lot during the eight nights. Eat and spend time with each other because we're all one big human family after all.” I took another bite of pie and all the while, I watched her grandparents over on the other side of the room with Wendy. Even though the house remained dark, and nothing in there ran except for the water pipes, I could not hear a word they were saying to one another, and I knew right away that they wouldn't be able to hear us, either. I took another bite of pie and turned my attention back to Christine.

“So…” I started, that time in a near whisper, “seeing as you’re so different from the rest of your family, do you think that you could understand what I’m going through as a Jewish man?”

“As a matter of fact, I can,” she decreed to me; through the dim light, she showed me a comforting little smile, and then she gestured for me to follow her somewhere. She slid out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway, right as the snow pounded hard on the roof and the wall before us. No light except for the glow of the sky outside.

“So, you think that you could stand up for me?” I asked her in a low voice, and I took another bite of pie: that sandwich was in fact filling, and the inclusion of the pie only made my belly feel like it was swelling up from the feeling within me.

“Always,” she vowed, and she tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I tilted my head back to show her my neck and my throat.

“You would stand for me, a little Jew boy trying to celebrate Hanukkah out in the wilderness even when he’s not with his parents, in the face of all the bullshit that’s badgered us for thousands of years? You would stand up to those people across the street?”

Christine moved her lips to the side of my face as if to kiss me there, but she never did. She instead held herself close to me as if to cuddle me right there on the spot, but she only held still right in front of my body. Her chest pressed itself up against my own. I wanted to tell her that I just wanted to curl up on the guest bed and call it a night, but my body was wanting something else. Three months without having my heart invested in another person, and I could feel something welling up within me. The feel of her body against my own was enough to stir up something inside of me like that of a burgeoning tornado, something that my ex never gave to me before.

“I’d like to break their fucking faces,” she whispered into my ear.

“Oh, my—” was all I could muster out at the sound of that.

I was raised to be peaceful about it, but there was something about the thought of someone like her going that far to stand for me gave me such a rush of blood to my head. I finished the last bites of pie so I could focus my attention on what she wanted to do.

“Mmmm, you smell good...” she whispered to me. No sonner had I swallowed the final bites when Christine caressed her lips up against the rim of my ear, followed by the side of my face and under my jaw. I curled my toes inside of my shoes and for a second, I thought I was going to faint right there on the spot. She held back and took one final bite of her slice right then.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that,” I sputtered out as she moved in closer to me.

“Let’s just say I’ve made out with my hand more often than not,” she whispered into my lips. Another chill down my spine, this time sealed with a kiss of cinnamon and the sin of apple. She held back again and that time I nearly dropped the plate from the feeling.

“Phew.”

“Did you like that?” she asked me.

“You wanna mix it up when the power comes back on?” I offered her.

“Like, how?” she asked me with a sly smirk on her face.

“I have a pair of leather pants in my bag,” I said. “I was going to bring them with me because they’re actually pretty warm and they look nice on my legs.” I rested my hands on my thighs and my hips, and she lowered her gaze all the while, even in the darkness. I could feel her warmth right up close to my own body.

“Well, with your tummy nice and full, let me see you in those tight pants,” she suggested.

“I dunno if I can put 'em on, though,” I told her with a shake of my head and a gentle pat of my belly with my free hand. I could feel myself poking through the bottom of my shirt: I had had enough to eat for the evening, at least until the morning hours and when the first night of Hanukkah went underway.

“Come on,” she coaxed me. “Get your things.” I swallowed at that, and then I bowed over to the front door to put my coat up on the hook, and then I picked up my bag and my guitar case from the floor there. She then took me by the hand and led me back down the hallway to that guest bedroom, which I assumed was her room. She had brought in one of the halogen lights from the car and clicked it on, and she propped it upright on the dresser in there, right next to her grandfather's old camera.

“Can I at least have some privacy?” I asked her as I set my things back down again, and I set the plate down on the desk right next to me.

“It's so dark in here,” she pointed out with a gesture to the shadowy room all around us. “And this is my room, I ain't leaving here.” I squinted my eyes at her and then, I unbuttoned my pants in front of her and I let them fall. There was a part of me that wanted to turn around and show off my ass and the backs of my thighs to her as I took the leather pants out of hiding, but not with her mother and grandparents in the next room, and not with the door open, either.

I had stashed them underneath one of those knit sweaters that my aunt had made for my brother and me, and careful not to upset my stomach, I slipped them on over my legs. I buttoned them up and the waist was a bit more snug than I remembered.

I then reached down and peeled off my shirt so she could see me all the way, but at the same time, I was rather nervous. I was showing off my body to a seventeen-year-old girl, and so soon after she and I both were fresh off the boat together.

“I don’t know, Christine, I don’t really feel right about this,” I confessed to her, and I ran my hands down my thighs towards my knees. The leather was taut and smooth and pressed firmly up against my skin; though my mind was against it, I had the feeling within my body. I could feel it. I could taste it.

For a brief moment, I flashed back on the thoughts I had whilst in the car, in how I thought I was going to die there without knowing what it would be like to be connected to another person. I thought that in my own voice as well.

Christine licked her lips and held close to me as if she was about to kiss me on the mouth again.

“My desires, your desires…” she said in a low voice and with a pointing of her eyes up to the dark ceiling overhead; through the pale light of the halogen flashlight I was able to make out the twinkle in her eyes; “we came together by circumstance and a snowstorm. We should try and feel each other out before we grow old and before the oil of the menorah dries out.” She kissed the underside of my jaw again, and that time she added in a few kisses on the front of my throat as well. Her fingers caressed down my stomach onto my thighs: her two main fingers wandered down in between my legs. She had a hold on me like the blizzard over the western wing of the country.

I relaxed every inch of my body as she kissed my neck and squeezed the crotch of my pants. I lifted one foot up onto the wall right behind me so I could steady myself against the wall. I never thought a seventeen-year-old could be so good at feeling and kissing. It made me wonder what exactly she and her ex did together when no one was looking.

It felt so wrong, especially when I kept on thinking about her age, but it also felt right, as if it was just what I needed. It was everything I could have ever asked for, no matter who it came from. Maybe I really was that desperate in that I would give myself to anyone willing to love my body. But I could feel something in her kiss, however, something that I missed with my own ex, something that I wanted and needed so badly and yet I never really realized it before. A burning feeling, a low and slow cooking feeling like that of a smoldering fire underneath the earth, and yet it rushed in like the babbling flow of a river against my body. The water of passion and the cleaning of fire.

Christine brought her knee up on the side of my hip as if to pin me down.

But then she rubbed her thigh against my hip. She rubbed up against my hip, and I immediately knew it was to feel the leather on her skin.

She took me under and yet I was wary of touching her in return.

“Yeah, you like a little bit of that, don’t you, baby,” she teased me, and she showed me the tip of her tongue as well. But then again, I had no idea if I did or not. The feel of her body against my own, the way that she seduced and teased me, it was all something I needed and something I yearned for on so many levels.

“Christine? Alex?” Wendy's voice floated in right then, such that Christine leaned her head against my shoulder.

“Ooh, you’re so soft and warm,” she whispered to me.

“It’s the pastrami and the rye bread,” I told her, also in a near whisper lest her mother or her grandparents hear us in there. “That piece of pie, too.”

“Kids?” Her grandfather's voice followed suit.

“In here!” Christine called out. Quickly, I put my shirt back on in case they came in there and caught us in the act.

“You have such beautiful skin,” she remarked. “I want to touch it and feel it when we go to bed tonight.”

“Oh ho, we're not going to be bunkin' together, bubbeleh,” I assured her with a wag of my finger.

“What'd you call me?” she giggled.

“Bubbeleh. It's what my mom likes to call me.” Wendy then ducked into the doorway right then with a bewildered look on her face.

“Oh, there you two are! What's going on in here?”

“Nothing, we're just talking,” Christine told her with a quick shake of her head. It was right then I was glad the power had gone out because I knew in my heart of hearts I could not explain the blush on my face or the fact that my pants felt extra tight around my hips.

#hanukkahbingo #hanukkah 2023 #hanukkah #alone in the dark #as the seasons grey #as the seasons grey fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #testament fanfic #testament #alex skolnick #testament band #oc tag #also on ao3 #writing #text

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ladygoofball · 2 months

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Adults need to stay out of self indulgent fan spaces. Is this reactionary content for adults? Or do we want them to keep playing the soundtrack of our pains and misery for clicks and laughs.

This is Nobody’s problem Consider it a gesture of good PR when it smacks you in the face.

It should not have to be my problem right now. I am tired.

But riddle me this:

If you saw thought that Keith Harring would have put his entire fucking ass on the line to make sure Aaron Bushnell’s name did not get forgotten?

You’re not alone. I am always being told I am too inexperienced. I need to shovel someone else’s mess for no money. My cats are dying and I don’t have time.

Consider this a healing word:

I have people who are in film school right now? Who can’t fathom a world where the people in front of them can’t fucking conceptualize having the wind knocked out of you with just the power of their words. But a Director comes to fans saying they are tired. The industry is collapsing. I’ll make a whole god damned new one do not TEMPT me with magnum opus status. They do not understand the definition of the word.

That…can’t be right? Is it? You’re all letting the industry standard of VIDEO GAMES whore out your art? Your craft?

For elon fucking MUSK!!

I have had to endure THAT? For weeks. In my self indulgent spaces. Fan run shit and Corporate shit need to be separated. Grooming on the internet moves too quickly. We need to stop allowing grown ass adults to fall into grooming algorithms because Elon FUCKING Musk bought them all. The way that this video game is communicating to us sonatically without REST?!! like we can’t get the POINT?!

It’s always too late.

I have been afraid of going near a good idea for too long but my ideas? KEEP GETTING FLIRTED WITH IN CHAT ROOMS. But everyone is too tired to take my words anywhere.

Nobody gives a damn now BITCH.

Over seven excruciating fucking years i’ve had my ideas flirted with and gone nowhere. That is how groomers speak on the internet now. They never wanted me to know. I can’t say who. I was in film school. They told me I was not smart enough with my degree to redefine the word comic book. I keep having my ideas flirted with and having nothing done about it around VALENTINE’s DAy which was actually supposed to be my birthday. I was born on the 10th of February though.

I cannot put my family’s names out there in a military regime. My money? Is being used to kill kids. Already.

Algorithms are smarter than me? No, i tell THEM how THEY work. With my words.

But NOBODY cares

Tumblr was the first fucking space I had where groomers would make me fucking react to them and keep me on the line for suicide watch. You don’t think I know what crazy sounds like? When your psyche is fractured?

When they want you to have read books you can’t understand out loud and laugh in your face when you try? You need to plug in to the internet

That can’t be your only media diet. It can’t be! I have to change that.

Do you think you are going crazy right now?

That is. An algorithm at work. Bought and paid for, cheap, commercial bullshit. I promise a good idea can sound just as good on a dead platform as it can on a groomers fucking paradise. They won’t publish Jeffery Epstein list.

Nobody will.

Maybe that’s a good thing? Maybe that is intentional. I cannot fucking believe that I have to debase myself using TUMBLR to act like a fan in order for people to start getting more literary with demanding combat training and rest from your video games. I need oaths sworn on camera that I can take that team to combat training and get their fucking winds sailing. No one else seems to want to do it anymore, and I really can’t afford to wait another minute. My cats are dying i’m in tracy chapmans fast car. My cat yowls whenever I get activated now, I can’t stop hearing the day care that I worked for but I was told I was not qualified to work in. I need a FUCKIng BREAK from creating for god damned NOBODY.

I have been telling Elliot for 7 years. That it will be okay. I don’t have hopes left, I’m going to lose them because I don’t have a job.

I am tracy chapmans fast car.

I have a list of video games that you would love, if your self indulgent spaces are getting too full of Marketing getting cheap reactions out of someone for LAUGHS. They think they can take screenshots of my words to pass along and make themselves feel better without sharing?

Who the hell do you think I am? I invented overthinking on the internet motherfucker.

They think you forgot the definition of the word. They did that to you on purpose.

Please tell me you are alright. Because this word doesn’t sound right in your head it’s concerning it’s alarming. It’s going faster than I can type.

#tw: grooming #video games #you wish you had an idea that sounded this fine #personal post break #I’ve been trying to get a microphone for years but they want me?#using a fucking walgreens piece of shit #I’m not debasing myself in front of people I respect #I am trying to get your aching mind to stop screaming #No one thinks we can do it anymore #Right now is too late #aaron bushnell #bg3 #tw: mental health check #if you can hear this in your head go take a walk #me to my duzumi #character analysis

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lurkinglurkerwholurks · 7 months

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Look for the Helpers

First posted: November 13, 2018

Focuses on: BatKids (Dick POV, Jason focused)

Favorite bookmark: "I am bawling."

Tier: Decidedly mid.

This is my "behind the scenes" series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

I'd been chewing for awhile on the idea of Mr. Rogers and how much he meant to people. The Won't You Be My Neighbor documentary had released in January of this same year, and I'd sat in a theater and quietly bawled with a dark room full of strangers. Because his show was on PBS and geared, like Sesame Street, toward low income kids, making him have an outsized impact on Jason made the most sense.

Dick wondered if he would ever be used to the feeling of disconnect that came after a disaster. It felt like… He stabbed at a macaroni noodle and considered the radiant numbness spreading out from his chest.

This first bit, Dick mulling on the weirdness after a disaster that you manage to survive, was pulled from personal experience, but with the last half decade being what it's been, I can't even tell you which one I was pulling from. Hurricane wakes, most likely, though who really knows.

The never-ending white noise of sirens rushing to and fro weren’t real. The loss. The devastation. The chaos.

That said, wow, what a weirdly prescient thing to read back through on this side of 2020.

“I don’t think human eyes are supposed to be that big,” he remarked solemnly, which prompted a snort of laughter from the others and placid disregard from Tim. “It’s anime, Dickie, don’t be so uncool.” Jason’s faux-whine made it clear that he was not, in fact, defending Tim’s artwork. “It’s a legitimate art form, and you both are snobs,” Tim said, his tone unruffled as he reached for his sandwich with his right hand, his left never slowing as he traced the warrior girl’s floating hair in purple crayon. “It is,” Damian agreed, which surprised Dick until he added, “when done correctly.” “Oh, bite me,” Tim retorted, but without any heat.

Of course Tim is a weeb. Tim and Damian.

“Is that Steph?” Jason asked, head now tilted to get a better look at Tim’s drawing. Intrigued, Dick craned his neck as well. “What? No!” Now Tim’s head snapped up, and he glared at Jason as one arm curled protectively around the crayon drawing. Dick would have been inclined to argue that the drawing could have been of anyone, as Tim wasn’t quite good enough to render a clear likeness. But the tips of Tim’s ears were pink.

Nowadays I'm awfully ambivalent on Tim/Steph and trend toward apathetic neutral. CECverse is an exception.

“Jason, if you lean over any farther, you’re going to knock over your soup,” Dick pointed out instead. Jason scowled, but settled back in his chair. “I’d make a joke, but one, we don’t make gags about Nazis anymore, and two, that show is old as dirt.”

I could not have predicted the Seinfeld renaissance among the youth.

Beneath the table, Dick tapped his fingertips together, one after the other. The numbness was still there, but if he didn’t think about it, it receded from the foreground. Not lessened or disappeared, just backed away to hover like a thin blanket over everything except what he was focusing on, which in turn made what he was focusing on seem harshly bright and loud. That was okay, though, if what he was focusing on was his brothers. Dick popped another forkful of cheesy noodles into his mouth and studied them, careful to keep a slight smile on his face as he did.

Oh. I remember what I was pulling from now. Not the numbness but the way you can chat and laugh and joke and seem normal when the world is upended and nothing is normal at all. Loss is weird.

They all tended to huddle a little closer together when Bruce was away.

I like this, the idea of them all gravitating, deliberately or subconsciously, so they're a team huddled, facing outward, without Bruce to hold their center.

Only Cass had been allowed to stay at the Manor. She and Alfred were planning a Masterpiece Theater Poirot mystery binge, with some Miss Marple and Jeeves and Wooster thrown in for flavoring. Dick wasn’t sure how much of the dialogue Cass could follow, but she seemed to find it a fun challenge to identify the murderer by body language alone. And anyone could enjoy the comedy of old J&W.

This took me a second to figure out, what Alfred and Cass might bond over and why, especially since Alfred is verbally cerebral and Cass finds words less useful. I think I made it work.

Jason was picking at Tim, who pretended to be grumpy and ignored his aggravating older brother in favor of tackling his roast beef sandwich with both hands.

Why roast beef, I don't know.

Dick took a few texts himself, mostly to coordinate the efforts and to relay the continued lack of news. Jason received none, though Dick caught him peeking at the screen once or twice.

I had a whole secondary storyline worked out with Bizarro that wasn't necessary or important at all but that would include a line about Jason taking care of Biz's plant. Something about it was supposed to be absolutely gutting, but I couldn't fit it in and now I don't remember what I had in mind.

Dick ducked his head as a familiar face filled the screen—Superman, a lone curl tumbling charmingly down his forehead, his chin turned to stare bravely into the distance. It was a stupid photo, boldly heroic in none of the ways that made Clark truly brave. That was the point, he knew, of a secret identity—no strong points of connection—but it rankled him to see the man portrayed as a stoic bastion of strength instead of the smiling, gentle man who used to pick Dick up by his ankles and swing him upside down.

Dick's point of view was a deliberate pick, as the eldest brother minding the wellbeing of the youngers, but also for how this specific worry would pick at him. Clark is a bigger part of his life than for the others.

But that was how these things went. Those that left were free to be reshaped into whatever was needed by those who were left behind. A beloved friend. A solemn warrior. A good soldier.

Yes, that was a jab.

The other members of the superhero community did their best to fill the power void, especially in Metropolis, which had been hardest hit and was now missing its white knight, though the Kent boys and Kara did their best.

I think this is the only time I ever acknowledge Kara in my fics. I don't know her. She will not appear.

Dick clamped a firm hand onto Damian’s shoulder and shoved the boy back into his seat before he could crawl over the table to stab Tim with his fork.

I make too many Damian stabbing jokes in these early fics. Or rather, I the writer mean them as funny moments but in-world they wouldn't be funny or in character, really. He's got a temper but he's not an impetuous hothead. I think I've gotten better (I hope) about, when I do joke, they're in-world jokes as well.

The diner was nestled between a rising skyscraper and a small neighborhood park, the kind community developers liked to slot into any little niche so that they could advertise nearby green space to prospective renters. It was no more than a small patch of green ringed with trees, bisected by a path with a small, two-tiered fountain in the middle. This neighborhood had been untouched by the extraterrestrial destruction, and the paths were at a midday lull, soft greys and greens and whites unbroken except for a jogger here, a mother and child there, a dogwalker off in the distance.

I plucked this park from real life. I don't remember where I was now, maybe Maryland, visiting friends? But I can still see the real-world park in my head, and how I altered it to make it into a place I could use in Gotham.

From what Dick could remember, even before, Jason had hated to show weakness. Though more expressive than Bruce by far, he hid his fears and sorrows beneath anger and rage. He had, in many ways, been more vulnerable with Bruce than Dick had been, willing to confront and challenge the older man when upset, but he had hated being coddled. The safest thing to do when Jason was in turmoil was to give him space and return when the dust had settled.

meeeeeeeeeeeeee

“Maybe.” Dick tried to remember everything he had seen Bruce do right and everything he had seen Bruce do wrong. “But it’s still important to you, so it’s important to me. Tell me.”

I firmly love best a Bruce who doesn't always get it right but also doesn't always get it wrong. He's just a guy doing his best.

“I thought…” Jason slumped to the side until his shoulder rested against the tree. “I thought it’d taken everything it could. I lost a year of my life, my family, my home, my sanity.” He barked out a laugh, raspy and rough and dark with bitterness. “What else could I lose, right?”

I also love Jason getting to grieve his missing years, not just raging against Bruce and Gotham. I should do more with that.

“It wasn’t exciting or really funny. It was just this… this old guy. He’d come in to this clean house and hang up his jacket and take off his shoes and sing. He’d tell stories with these stupid puppets, and he never yelled or got mad. And he’d talk right to me. Every time, it was like he was talking right to me.” Jason swiped at his eyes again, fast, hard. “I guess it was because it was public access and they didn’t have a lot of other programming, but it felt like every time I needed him, he was on. Even when I got older, I’d turn him on sometimes, because no matter how scared or angry or sad I was, I knew he’d fix it. He’d tell me he was proud of me, that I was special, that I was okay just the way I was.”

I always hated the puppets, so that bit was more me than Jason. Jason was too young to get the show on first-run, so it makes sense that the reruns would be frequent and seemingly available whenever he needed them to be on. And it makes sense that a calm, gentle, supportive show would be a lifeline to him, a world where big, scary things don't appear or are talked through when they do.

Instead, he had ended up a murder victim and a killer. Dick wanted to pull Jason into a hug and let him know that he could still make a difference, that he had made a difference in Crime Alley, even if they still butted heads over methodology sometimes. He didn’t need to be ashamed of who he was. But then Jason whispered, “I didn’t know he’d died.”

Dick: Oh he's having a crisis about his behavior, oh no.

Jason: actually having an entirely different crisis

Like, imagine if you blipped out of existence for a few years and when you came back, you found out about Robin Williams or Steve Irwin retroactively.

They had never done anything like this, even before. Dick had been too busy being Nightwing to be a big brother, and Jason had had no reason to trust him. But that didn’t mean Dick couldn’t be here now, to make up for all his failures before. He pressed his lips to Jason’s scalp, then rested his cheek atop the man’s head and waited.

I still haven't fully settled in my own head exactly what the Nightwing-Robin transition was like for the three of them. When I started, I leaned on the fanon interpretation of Bruce and Dick fighting a lot and Dick and Jason as emotionally distant strangers. Now I think I've relegated a lot of that to individual interpretation (Dick feeling a lot of guilt that doesn't wholly match reality, for example), but it's still pretty fluid.

Dick could feel a tear or two wash down his own face as he tightened his hold on his brother’s shoulders. “He would be proud of you, you know. He wasn’t the kind of guy to ask for perfection, right? Just that you try. He’d be so proud, Jay.” “Why, because you are?” Jason had tried for sardonic, but the wry jab came out waterlogged and muffled between sniffles. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” Dick murmured.

Choked myself up a little there.

“Mine was Bob Ross,” Tim offered suddenly. He had sat on the end, furthest from Jason but still close enough to be heard even in a low voice as he hugged his knees. “Not his death so much. He died before I knew who he was. But I liked to watch him paint. He made beautiful things from his mistakes. His happy accidents. It was good to hear, sometimes.” Dick and Jason took that in silently, digesting everything Tim had said and everything he hadn’t.

I knew each kid would have their own person to name, because that's how these conversations go. Mention Steve Irwin and someone else will mention Robin Williams or Chadwick Boseman or Amy Winehouse or whoever. Everyone has a death of a stranger that meant an awful lot to them. Figuring out who to pair to whom was an interesting puzzle, and I think the pairings I picked made sense. (Am realizing now how many shocking celebrity deaths are men.)

One quirk of timing with this fic was I wrote it and happened to post, completely by accident, the day that Stan Lee died. Folks were really feeling it in my comments section.

#fanfic bts brain dump

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threewaysdivided · 9 months

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I just wanted to say: I love your art and especially your banner rn by talos! also your fic as well thank you for creating everything that you do for people, it’s awesome!

Second: what’s something that you’ve been chewing on lately, story wise? What character conflict, or plot point can you tell me about (that doesn’t spoil too much of course)? I wanna hear your thoughts about the characters you write and your head-cannons on them too! Just spit some word vomit at me!

Thank you!

My current banner art is actually a crop of the first paired piece I ever did to go with my Deathly Weapons fic. (Specifically Chapter 11, which I still have a soft spot for since it’s one of earliest chapters that really let me lean into scratching the thing-I-haven’t-seen-too-often-in-fanfic itch.)

I recently got my hands on a discounted Wacom (my digital art process got tanked a few years ago when my poor art-compatible hybrid tablet-laptop was tragically taken from us by a cracked motherboard) so I’m looking forward to getting into a faster art workflow again and maybe putting some new pieces out more easily. I’d like to do more comic art pieces for the Chapter 18 mission, and there’s a silly little concept drawing for the planned Mission 5 that might be new-blog-banner material if it turns out nicely. We’ll have to see how that goes.

As for what I’ve been chewing on story-wise lately… I’ve sort of been all over the place. I’m still on burnout recovery so I’ve been letting myself move non-sequentially, working on the bits my brain feels like focussing on rather than trying to force creativity where the juice isn’t flowing. (One of the things about being my type of writing-nerd is that “self-indulgent” for me means a story with plenty of material to analyse, which is very fun as a reader but has created a lot of work for myself as the writer. As mentioned in another post, I have a full-blown TV-show-style story-bible for this one.)

Recently, my authorial ping-pong-ing has been going into a fair bit of spoiler territory. There are some chunks of the Act III endgame plan which are underdeveloped in the specifics of what the big-boss bad-guys’ plan is, whether I want to involve the Anti-Ecto Acts more, and the logistics of both the counter-strategy our heroes are planning to use and how to make its more action-heavy parts look cool in writing. When I’m not doing that I’ve been focussing a lot on the upcoming Wally-centric chapters, which are a set I’ve been wanting to keep schtum about since there’s a small potential spoiler mixed in and I don’t want to risk giving the game up or pre-setting people’s expectations before they have a chance to blind read (even if a few people have already made some close guesses in the comments). It puts me in a bit of an odd-spot right now because the chapters I’m drafting are an immediate spoiler, the later sections I’m working on are a major spoiler and there’s a good chance that a lot of the character stuff going on in the middle won’t make a whole lot of coherent sense without prior context because of how I like to layer foreshadowing/development.

That said, Wally-centric chapters mean Wally thoughts, and of those I have plenty to share:

First of all, I want to establish that I really do like Wally as a character. The DW chapter set comprising Flashpoints through to Equilibrium is going to explore and develop some of his flaws and insecurities, which means he isn’t going to be looking his best, but it’s not meant to be a Ron The Death Eater situation. He’s just a complex person, and taking him warts and all means sometimes you have to get up close and personal on the warts.

Something that I’m maybe a bit over-conscious of when reviewing my DW story notes is worrying about letting Wally slide into just being punching-bag joke-fodder. Wally is quippy, irreverent, a little tactless and prone to being a bit of an impulsive goober who sometimes gets possessed by teenage boner-brain, which makes him easy to fall back on as a default source of incidental levity (whether cracking the joke or being the punchline). Because I’m now writing an 8-character ensemble where most non-focal characters only get a few lines per conversation, it’s easy for characters to slide into being defined by their strongest surface level trait(s)… and something I worry about with Wally is that his availability as a source of jokes runs the risk of Flanderisation into a disposable Scrappy/ Flirty Comic Relief, which isn’t his character. Wally is actually really important – not just for his scientific book-smarts but for his perceptiveness, earnestness and ability to function as one of the emotional barometers for the squad – so I always have it in the back of my mind to make sure I include enough moments that actually demonstrate those qualities and the other characters’ appreciation of them/ their friendship, so that it counterbalances the more light-hearted goofery.

I think he’s walking the same tightrope as Sokka from Avatar: the Last Airbender – yes, he tends to take the L more often than the others for comedy purposes and sometimes he gets stuck with supremely dumb side-plots for the sake of tonal balance, but to claim that it’s the entirety of his characterisation really misses the point by a wide mile.

On that note, I actually really like the decision YJ!Animated decided to go with in its first and only season (ahem) in giving Wally a normal and functional family background. I know that’s not the typical background for his comics counterparts (and no shade on other fan-writers who want to write AUs exploring the abuse dynamic, those are really interesting stories) but I think it was a smart deviation for the purposes of a large ensemble, and offered a fair bit of potential for cast-balance. It lets him serve an important role as the normal one – not only as an easy window into what the current lives of ordinary middle-class civilians look like (which is good because ordinary people are who our heroes are donning the masks to protect) but also as a touch-stone for the others, most of whom either come from different cultures or from very atypical backgrounds. Even if we discount the Impure Atlantean with military training, the ostracised White Martian and the Half-Alien clone-weapon, the other members of this line-up are an orphaned circus acrobat adopted by a billionaire, a girl from a dangerously dysfunctional criminal household where she was forced to fight her sibling, and a fledgling sorceress raised by an overprotective single Dad. The others might intellectually understand what a “normal” childhood and family look like but they don’t necessarily know it as intuitively and intimately as Wally does. That normality gives Wally the potential to be a more stable foundation for the others, a source of emotional contrast and of a necessary wholesome mundanity. That is a good thing for the Team to have. I think it also speaks volumes to the heart of his character. For this Wally, the Flash and heroism weren’t an escape from a bad personal situation. His life was actually pretty comfy and privileged - he didn’t experience a brutal wakeup to the injustices of the world or some other personal call to action. This is a Wally who opted into the game because he loves the players and sincerely believes in their values and mission. And while that might mean he has a more romanticised idea of what heroism entails – and will probably face some rough shocks down the line as that rosy vision runs into those more brutal realities – it also means he brings a sincere hopefulness to the job that is less hardened than a lot of his roughed-up, pre-jaded peers. Underneath the teen sarcasm and surface-level lancer/smart-guy traits, this Wally has as much power to be a stealth-Heart as any of his Flash!counterparts.

Something else I find interesting when using Wally is how a lot of his strengths and flaws feed into each other – and I think this alternate backstory is part of it. For all of his good heart Wally can come off as insensitive, and I think some of that could be read as a product of living a more charmed life. I think he’s susceptible to a thing that a lot of real people do – universalising their own personal experience as the default – and that while he is canonically a geek and somewhat genre-savvy about hero cliches, he’s a geek about in-universe media so he probably doesn’t think to apply those tropes to “real people” like himself or his colleagues. While this Wally is a skeptic, he’s not a cynic, and I think he might forget how much of an outlier he is in a world where things like living parents and loving parents are often mutually exclusive. He’s smart enough to connect dots but there’s a little blind-spot where he simply might not think to until one of the others jabs an elbow into his ribs, because his default view on humanity is in some ways a little kinder than typical due to that small but still significant amount of privilege.

At the same time, Wally is also someone who has probably run into (or watched his mentor run into) a lamp-post at high-speed at least once in his career. He contains multitudes and among those multitudes is an endless capacity for some absolute Looney-Tunes nonsense, which the world is 100% better off for having.

I love him, your honour.

#striking the balance between silly and genuine with Wally is a challenge but you gotta have both #young justice: deathly weapons #YJ:DW Meta #young justice #young justice (animated)#Young Justice Season 1 #Wally West #Kid Flash #DC Comics #potatoeofwisdom #3WD Answers

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caliginouscreature · 2 years

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If you may have a fictotype, how do you tell your “noemata” apart from strongly-held headcanons or projecting?

Psychological nonhumanity is a hot topic for all kinds of debates and discussions, and understandably so. There’s tons of room for variation, and infinite possible reasons and presentations for it from copinglinking to fictherianthropy. But with non/alterhumanity of any origin, lack of “memories” is a known struggle with those wondering whether or not they may “count” (and is something I intend to dedicate a separate post to talking about later). This is where a new community term, “noema” (pronounced “no-ee-muh”), was introduced to possibly fill in an area of ambiguity left in the wake of such worries. It’s a term left rather vague on purpose, making it useful for describing many kinds of feelings.

It is often described as feeling like “just knowing” something about your ’type, whether it’s something about their body, past, home, opinions... could be anything! But, in some circumstances, how can you tell the difference between true noemata, and fan theories one has dwelled upon so long and hard that they just “feel right”? Can you trick yourself into thinking you “just know” something by forgetting how long you’ve actually thought about it? Is “feeling right” all it can take to count?

In this thinking-out-loud post, I’d like to point at the character of Snufkin from the Moomins franchise-- a character who seems like a great example to use due both to how I myself find him relatable, and how I’ve seen other Moomins fans receive and interpret him through fan content.

Isn’t he spiffy!

There is no other fandom I’ve yet been in where so many of the fans (at least in the english-speaking one, that I myself was in) had never actually interacted with the bulk of the source material. Sure, some watched the ’90s anime on youtube, but large quantities of fans never touched the books or comics (even those that have official english versions, pirated or not), or sometimes even only got their material through fanart and fanfic. A quantifiable amount of english-language Moomins fanworks from around 2019 are going off of nothing but what “feels right”.

Now, this isn’t just me looking for an excuse to whine about the shallowness of the Moomins fandom, or me trying to invalidate people who don’t really interact with the sources of their ’types. But in my opinion, it’s a comparison I can’t help but make. How far can you basically just go off of vibes? How do you know what counts?

It’s like, fascinatingly easy to get your brain used to a certain headcanon. Even some diehard Moomins fans-- ones who actually do go to the trouble of digging up and consuming obscure canon material-- could admit it’s easy to forget that Snufkin isn’t confirmed to be canonically transgender. “Trans Snufkin” is an extremely popular headcanon in the english Moomins fandom, and most who hold it, myself sometimes included, would tell you it’s because it simply “feels right”. It’s to the point that many consider it a vital part of how they write and read Snufkin!

Projecting onto a character you see a bit of yourself in is also pretty easy to do, by accident or otherwise. Most Moomins fans I see doing this do it with Moomintroll, but it’s arguably even more obvious when it’s done with Snufkin. I once saw a fic (which I won’t link, so as not to possibly get them teased), which the author admitted was written as a form of vent art, where Snufkin hated coffee... but if you read Comet in Moominland, where Snufkin is introduced, one of the very first things he ever says is asking for coffee, he likes it so much! Something similar goes for fics that make Snufkin speak any swear words, a thing he is confirmed to dislike. How much of this is active self-indulgence, and how much is due to it “feeling right” to the author? I try and notice when I may be projecting on a character or not, because I find it to be useful in my work, but we can’t all be so self-aware (and who knows, I may be less self-aware than I think!).

Back to fictotypy... I am well aware that one’s ’type ID isn’t always going to be a 1:1 to how it is in canon. To compare the phenomenon to fictives, I’ve met multiple manifestations of the same character across different systems, and none of them are identical (even if there are multiple fictives of the same character within one system!)! If someone turns out to be a Snufkin, and they can’t force themself to like coffee, that doesn’t make them any less a Snufkin. They may just be a Snufkin from an adaptation where his opinions on coffee are unclear, or a Snufkin from an AU! ... or maybe they just hate coffee that much, hehe.

But how can a Snufkin-- or someone who may be of any character/species ID-- tell their possible noemata apart from some other similar non-noemata thing? When I come to a “headcanon” or “interpretation” of something from fiction, it often feels like a process of going “Hey, it’d be cool or interesting if...” or “It could make sense that...” and then pondering and scanning canon material to possibly back it up so that it can sound legit enough to not ping as OOC to an onlooker (at least if I explain it, depending). Ponder any of these long enough, and they can wind up “feeling right”, in a way, even if I took an active role in figuring out how they might work and know they may not be truly canon. Are my numerous theories and headcanons about the species that the Groke belongs to that have little-to-no canon backup the result of me being very autistic and having an immense passion for worldbuilding, or could their combination of how I relate to the Groke herself make them evidence of noemata for a possible ID? When I get offended if Snufkin is written or treated a certain way in fanworks, is it just me being a stickler for canon compliance and feeling hurt when traits in him I relate to are demonized, or could it also be a sign I may be a Snufkin? I’m already pleased that I look a bit like him in real life, but I’m not sure I feel if I am a Snufkin, as it’s not really as intense a desire as some of my other possible IDs... folks argue that such IDs need not be intense or constant and can be experienced casually, but how can I tell the difference?

When, as beings with human brains wired to delight in such pattern recognition and ascribing meanings to the like, can anyone tell the difference? How do I tell my noemata apart from what may just be thoughts about my possible IDs that I like to have? As someone who’s questioning several possible IDs and is uncertain about ’most all of them, it’s hard for me to know the differences that define this.

A fun little question to any artists with ’types from fiction, to close this post off with: When you write or draw fanart of the character or species you may ID with to post in public, do you base their interpretation off of what you feel are your noemata, or do you tend to lean more to what will be more definitely canon-compliant? Why or why not? If you do the latter, does it make you question your ““validity””? Is making fanworks of your ID a pretty personal experience, or is it more of a separate thing you can do for fun? Does it vary?

#noemata #moomin kin #fictionkin #fictionkind #fictionkith #fictionhearted #otherkind #synpath #tagging this w moomin kin b/c it's relevant tbh. maybe a serious Snufkinkin might see this #this post is obv very much more about psychological IDs. if you get Visions or your Soul just Knows then good for u #I'm so perplexed like would I ACTUALLY have a semi-prehensile tail or do I just think it'd be nice? also who doesn't want that lol #I'm full of ponderings like that. and ones even yet more niche and specific *shrugs!!*

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backwards-readings · 6 months

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The Door that was Never Supposed to be Opened.

Chapter 4: A Bird in a Cage

{Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3}

{A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, if you would like to read it there you can find it HERE. I'm going to be straight up with you and tell you that this is pretty much a self-indulgent self-insert fic. I'm not gonna lie. If you don't like that, that's cool, have a good day. But if you're DTF with it, let's get right into the story.}

{Art Credit: this lovely artist

++TW: There are depictions of Suicide. Please, if it is a sensitive topic for you, skip this chapter. I'll add notes on the next chapter a quick summary of what happened without going into detail. I want you to be safe more than I want you to read my writing. If you're struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to someone you trust. If you're in the US, you can call 988 to talk with someone, or text HOME to 741741. There's help. There's hope. Be safe, please.++

The next few days I am consumed by anger. I scribble more sketches in my book, but the strokes are dark, and in places the lead of my pencil rips the paper. I tear the pieces of the ruined paper out of the book in strips, balling each strip up and throwing it into the unlit fireplace. I sit on the floor for a bit, staring at the torn pieces of paper sitting in the soot. Tears begin to form in my eyes and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. All this just because I wanted to help someone. I pick the journal back up and begin drawing again, this time taking time to carefully sketch out the face of the man in the basement.

My tears stain the page around the drawing as his face takes shape. I stop when I get to the hair and set down the journal, leaving the drawing unfinished. His face already haunts me, the hopeless look follows me when I close my eyes. The hopeless look that I’ll soon have as well. I stay sitting on the floor, numbness creeping across my body. A numbness that starts in my hands starts spreading across my body, taking hold of me. A tightness creeps into my chest and something tells me it’s here to stay for a while.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The next few days I don’t even bother getting out of bed unless it’s to use the bathroom. What’s the point of putting in an effort to eat and drink water if you’re just going to be stuck in the same room for possibly the rest of your life? Ms Downard comes in a few times and clicks her tongue at the untouched food, taking it away and replacing it with fresh food, but she never says anything to me.

The first two days my stomach grumbles, and on the third day my stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots, but I don’t care. Better to starve to death than to live out my years in this god-forsaken place. After five days of staying in bed and not eating, Ms Downard finally addresses me.

“Honestly, you think a hunger strike is going to do anything for you? Eat, don’t eat, Master Burgess doesn’t care. It would just be one less thing for him to worry about. One less thing for me to worry about, too. Lord knows I don’t have to bring you fresh food every day. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, not asking for anything in return.” She lectures me but I don’t respond. If this is her idea of kindness then I don’t want it.

“Nothing?” She huffs “Fine. I don’t care. Have fun sulking in bed until you wither away into nothing. I don’t care.” She leaves a tray of food on the table and leaves, the click of the lock a bitter reminder. That night I take a few bites of the bread that she left, but I throw it up as soon as I get it down. I crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blankets, a chill clinging to my bones that I just can't shake.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

I’m so tired but can’t sleep. I try again and again to eat, but only a few bites make me sick to my stomach, no matter what it is. I drink the water left for me but it doesn’t seem to stay my thirst. I run a bath and sink into the water, the sting of the cold water doing nothing to wake me up. I wash up slowly, letting my hands and feet get wrinkly in the water. After my bath I sit wrapped in a towel on the bed, not waiting to put on the dirty clothes I’ve been in since getting imprisoned. I’m clean, but I don’t feel like it. My chest is still tight and my skin crawls with invisible dirt and bugs. I try to eat a bit of bread again and this time it stays down, feeling like lead in my stomach.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The next morning, there are clean clothes laid out for me on the table next to my tray of food. It’s a servant's uniform just like my old clothes were. They’re ill-fitting, probably left over from one of the girls who left. The sleeves cover my hands, and I trip over the skirt. There’s no apron to put over the plain dress, but I don’t think I would put it on if there was. I have no need for one as a prisoner. I sit down at the table and eat a few bites of cured meat that sits on the tray, the salty flavour causing me to nearly gag. I eat a little of the bread, hoping that it will calm my stomach, and sit on the bed with my journal and draw.

Once again, my drawings turn from inanimate objects to him. No matter what I do, I can’t get him out of my head. I hate him for it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be locked up. But instead of minding my own, I had to try and become his saviour. I scribble him over and over again, his features flooding my mind. As I create him over and over again, anger begins to bubble. He haunted me when I was free, and now that I am captive he is all I can think about.

He may not have actually been a devil, but he tricked me just the same. If he is such a powerful being, why didn’t he warn me this would happen? Why didn’t he tell me? He let me try to help him when he probably knew the outcome. That bastard might have even wanted this, envious of my freedom. I get up and throw my book across the room, sick of drawing. Sick of everything turning back into him. It hits the wall and falls with a loud thunk, but does nothing but make me more angry. I begin to see red and next throw the tray of food that has been given to me, and then push the vanity in the room to its side and let out a yell filled with anger.

I stand there, seething for a moment before my seething hot anger is replaced with ice-cold sorrow. Tears fall from my eyes faster than I can wipe them away and I sink to the floor, unable to stop the convulsions of cries. I curl up on myself, my sabs raking through my body like waves crashing into rocks. I don’t know how long I lay there for, but eventually my ragged breaths even out and I lay on the floor in silence. My eyes wander around the room, taking in the destruction of my fit, and they fall on the broken mirror of the vanity, shards of the silver-backed glass strewn across the floor.

I drag myself towards the broken glass, grabbing a shard that fits perfectly into my hand- as if it was meant to be. My head throbs with every heartbeat as I palm the glass, feeling the sharp edges. They may have taken away my freedom, but I am not helpless. I don’t want to live caged like an animal. I can’t. I won’t. I hold the shard in my hand, shaking as I sit up and press the jagged edge into my wrist, a hiss of pain coming from my lips as it bites into my skin. Tears well in my eyes again as I watch a stream of blood trickle down my arm, landing in my lap. I dig deeper, pain clouding my vision before I remove the shard and move it to my other arm, my hands shaking more and more. I repeat the process, digging into my flesh until I have to bite back a scream. I remove the makeshift blade and drop it in my lap, holding my bloody arms out in front of me. My eyes begin to feel heavy, and I lay down, not caring about the shards of glass on the carpet that dig into my skin.

Despite the pain, a small smile graces my lips as I lay there. My eyes land on the book I had been drawing in it, the pained stare of my drawing subject meeting my eyes. I don’t remember drawing him looking like he was pitying me, but then again, I had drawn him so many times, that I probably just forgot. I close my eyes, ready to let the darkness take me, to embrace death like an old friend, but instead, I hear a voice. Soft and comforting, like a warm breeze on a summer evening.

“Oh, you poor little thing.” The voice says, and I use what little strength I have left to open my eyes. A woman kneels in front of me and gently brushes a bit of my hair from my face. The woman has dark skin, and her beautiful curly hair hangs around her face. Her eyes are soft and kind, like she knows every hardship you’ve ever been through, but wouldn’t dare judge you for them. She smiles at me kindly, and I blink slowly, trying to figure out if my loss of blood is causing me to hallucinate.

“I’m so sorry for what they’ve done to you.” She says, cupping my cheek with one hand as she brings her other hand down to my arm, gripping my wrist. But I don’t feel any pain. Instead, it feels like warm water is being poured over my wrist, and I feel a bit stronger, but nauseous.

“I did this…” I say, my voice cracking as hot tears roll down my face.

“No, dear. You are not at fault for your death. You saw the only possible way out and you took it.” She says, moving her hand to my other wrist. I feel the same feeling of water running down my arm and I gag, rolling a bit more onto my side as I dry heave.

“I know, I know. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The woman says, gently stroking my back. “You fought a battle that was stacked against you from the start, and you should be proud of how long you held up against it.” She says softly, gently pulling me upright.

“But I’m not ready to take you yet, Patricia Everly.”

#the sandman #morpheus #dream of the endless #self insert #fanfic #slow burn #eventual smut #eventual romance #ao3 #ao3 link

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