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softlyspector · 6 months

Text

Apple cinnamon

Summary: You and Joel get away for the weekend.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~5.3k

Warnings: fall themed!, no outbreak tattoo!au, reader has issues with touch, brief insecurity and anxiety, fluff, uhhhh and smut! (not saying what it's a surprise but be aware yknow), many feelings

A/N: Honeyed is BACK, baby! And I'm so happy I get to share them with you again. As always, we are pretending Joel can draw. Thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

You can find out how Joel and Honey got together here.

“Maybe we go north in search of some cooler weather.”

It’s mid November and the Texas sun still burns hot and bright, shining onto the back deck of the Miller home in undulating drifts.

The air is scented warm, and old. It smells like sunshine on decaying leaves, like cloves and cinnamon and the bitter acidity of Joel’s coffee.

Joel isn’t quite looking at you, his gaze turned toward the edge of his property. Steam curls in the air above his mug, liquid the color of pitch swirling in its depths. It’s some small miracle that you’ve managed to get him to add cinnamon to the coffee grounds. You have a very strong suspicion that it has everything to do with you mentioning how nice it tasted.

You put your book down and fold it closed over one finger to hold your place.

Mornings are always spent like this when you stay over at Joel’s. Coffee on the back deck in the sun, Joel silent as he stares out across the yard, you reading and pretending not to notice him watching for the deer he started leaving corn out for. Joel hadn’t named the chickens, but you’ve very sure the deer have identities, and even assumed personalities.

“And do what?” You ask, propping your chin in your hand.

He shrugs and takes a long sip of his coffee, like it’s inconsequential to him. He still doesn’t look at you, a muscle jumping in the strong line of his jaw.

But you know Joel now, and he probably has a map hidden somewhere with the scenic routes north traced out, the stops you could take along the way clearly marked and noted in the margins in his messy handwriting. He has such a particular way of making you feel special, like he was always thinking about you. You know, now, that the clenching of his jaw is his own nerves beating against the back of his throat.

“I’d like that,” you say, tilting your head to the side. “Like a road trip?”

“Mm.” He glances at you and then back to the treeline, now leafless, bare and unprotected. The world seems so much wider, so much bigger and lonelier. “Just for a couple days.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Joel sets his coffee cup down and labors to his feet and when he passes you, he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “Next weekend work for you, honey?” He asks against your skin.

“It does.”

“Good.”

The sky is still a purplish dawn blue when Joel pulls up to your apartment building.

He intends on shutting off the engine and knocking, so he can take your bag and carry it down the stairs and open the door for you, but as soon as his truck comes to a halt the street door flies open.

You cross the sidewalk in two big steps and open the truck door, even as Joel is leaning across the passenger seat to do it for you.

He huffs gently, mildly irritated that you’re snatching the chance to be gentlemanly right out of his hands. His mama raised him better than letting a lady open her own door.

But the exasperation melts away as soon as he glances up into your face and finds you smiling at him. It’s a big smile, and bright.

“Well,” he says. “G’mornin’, ma’am.”

“Hi, Joel,” you laugh. It’s a rare thing but getting less so and he already feels like he’s doing everything he should be. “I, uh,” you gesture to your bag on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he snaps his seatbelt off. “Hold on.”

He rounds the truck and takes your bag from you to slide in next to his in the backseat while you climb into the passenger seat and immediately start fiddling with the radio.

“I could have done that,” you say when he’s back behind the wheel.

“No need for you to do it,” he answers. And then, because you’re still smiling and clearly giddy, he asks, amused, “You excited?”

The morning is warm and your shoulders are bare in the early slant of the sun. He takes stock of your shoulder tattoo, eyes sliding across the ink he’d put there to cover up something you hated. It looks good on you and you seem, at least to him, to feel more confident for it.

He tells himself it’s the tattoo that’s done that, anyway.

Joel still draws designs for you anytime he gets the chance, and he pretends he hasn’t noticed you doing the same for him, though he hasn’t gotten to see any of them yet.

Your shoulders tip inward just a fraction. You fade, wilt, just the tiniest bit at his question. “I just love road trips.”

“Good,” he slides his hand over yours. “Otherwise things were about to get mighty uncomfortable.”

You loosen again, smile and lean against the center console. “Good morning, Joel.”

“Hi, honey,” he answers and it feels sappy and stupid and he loves it. You deserve it, and some days, he thinks he might, too.

You lean easily into his hands, chin dropped into the cupped palms of his hands, eyes focused and waiting. When he kisses you hello, you taste like mint.

Joel tilts your head back, slides one hand along your jaw, fingers digging into the soft skin behind your ear, while the other shifts to your waist, dragging you that much closer, even though the center console prevents him from bringing you as close as he’d like.

Your lips part against his at his slightest urging, like you’re desperate to give yourself over to him these days. He can’t say the sentiment isn’t returned. He wishes he could pull you closer, drag you into him, soothe the ache that gnaws at his belly. When your tongue slides against his you make a tiny sound in the back of your throat that makes him groan softly into you.

You’re glowing when he pulls back. You always look pretty through the haze of early morning sunshine. “Suppose we should get to it, huh?”

“Yeah,” you duck your head, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Where’s the map?”

“How’d y’know I got a map?”

You roll your eyes. “Because you’re you. And you don’t even use the computer you have, I know you aren’t trusting the map on your phone.”

Said paper map is grudgingly dropped into your hands. You unfold it and you smile when you take in the outlined routes north, the point of your finger dipping along the marked lines.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and seem amused. You lean over and kiss his cheek and everything in the world feels like it might be okay. “Let’s get coffee before we get on the road.”

The drive is long, but peaceful, and the routes Joel had mapped out are so far out of the way that you never even see a sign for the interstate.

You head east first and then north, stopping wherever Joel sees fit to, in tiny towns and oddly quaint little villages where the trees are somehow still fringed in orange and red and brown, where locals tell winding ghost stories, where everything feels storybook perfect in the chilliness that settles in the air, swaddled between one night’s moon and the morning.

Each stop feels like it’s preserved in honey and amber.

There always seems to be some tiny autumn festival with apple bobbing and corn mazes and haunted houses and stalls that sell apple pie and cider, locally made crafts and novelty t-shirts. The ghost tours are a little funny, and not at all spooky. It’s surprising they’re still telling those stories, so far past Halloween.

You get lost in one of the corn mazes, fingers tangled together stickily, the red syrup from candied apples staining your tongue red and pink. Joel doesn’t much care for public displays of affection, but when you find yourself in a particularly deserted portion of the maze and escape seems impossible, he pulls you in tight and kisses you. He kisses the cherry and apple taste right from your lips. He tastes like the sweetness of caramel and cream, coffee and cinnamon.

There’s a buzzing kind of lightness in your veins, like a colony of little bees busy building something permanent in your chest. The chill feels nice, the heat of his chest pressed to yours, even better. The quiet shush of the stalks is a gentle music.

When you escape the maze, Joel folds his fingers between yours again and kisses the back of your hand.

You pick apples right from the tree one state over from the corn maze, and promise Joel that you’ll try not make them into something resembling pie when you get back home. You’re both poor cooks, and even worse at baking.

But you’ll try, for him.

And Joel will eat it and grimace, and tell you it’s good, and you’ll pretend to believe him.

A couple hours down the road from the apples, there’s a pumpkin patch. You pay a couple bucks each to smash the last of the season’s left over pumpkins, already starting to rot. The cab of the truck smells like pumpkin guts for a few hours after that, on account of all the muck of it all over your clothes. You think it's funny, and Joel smiles, a good sport about pumpkin guts all over his truck and clothes.

Joel hums while he drives, to whatever music you put on. Sometimes he complains about your choice in music, but he always settles into it. He holds your hand and turns down the volume when you start to talk about something.

He doesn’t complain when you keep his hand in yours, tracing the lines in his hands and the bump of veins in his wrist and the back of his hand. It’s his fault, you’d say, if he ever said something about it. He’s made you like this, desperate and needy for something only he can give to you.

It’s his fault, that you’re healing and happier and looking to the future. It’s his fault, all of it.

On your last night you stop in an inn after driving and indulging in any little thing for the better part of a very long day. You’re still a day’s drive away from home, but in the morning you are heading home.

You eat at the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel, watch Joel finish out dinner with yet another slice of apple pie and another cup of black coffee before you head to your room and throw open the window of your room to a chilly night.

Real chilly, that is, not Texas chilly. And tomorrow you’ll go back to that decidedly not seasonally appropriate weather.

The sky is a dusky, autumn purple, tinged at the edges with midnight blue and a dying crimson. A sharp wind whips the curtain back, and the air you breathe in burns your lungs.

You shiver and turn to Joel with a small smile. His mouth quirks in return.

“Good day?”

“Mhm. Really good.”

He shifts and then pulls off his jacket and toes off his boots by the door, still looking down. “You sure?” Joel asks offhandedly. “This trip wasn’t a total waste of time for ya?”

“Of course not,” you murmur, trying to suppress a smile.

He glances up from folding his jacket over the back of the chair in the corner.

The question mark etched into his voice makes your chest ache. “I like spending time with you, you know,” you tease. You reach a hand out, open and close your fingers to beckon him closer.

“I know,” Joel says but doesn’t protest, just walks closer until you can fit your hands against his chest. You trail your fingers to the collar of his flannel, not daring to meet his eyes, and pluck open the first button.

When he doesn’t stop you, you continue, pushing one button after another through its little pocket until you run out of room and the material parts in your hands. His breathing hitches when you draw your hands back up to his chest, nerves stretched thin. You are still unable to meet his eyes, and so you stare at his collarbone instead, the broad planes of his chest, the line of his shoulders, and slide your thumb along the base of his throat.

It would be nice, to kiss him there, to press the edge of your teeth against his skin.

Joel’s skin is warm, shaded from hours spent in the sun. The muscle flexes beneath your touch, tendons tightening and straining in his neck. This close he smells like the earthen fields you’d walked through earlier, the crisp tangle of apples, woodsmoke on chilled air. He groans softly when you lean in.

The breeze from the window is icy against your back, raking deep nails into your flesh in a shiver that traces each vertebrae in your spine. You lean in, tipping your head forward, intoxicated by the scent of him, the feeling of his skin beneath your hand, the warmth he radiates like a furnace.

Maybe he’s looking at you the same way, drawn like a moth to flame, to your body, to the heat of you.

Joel cups one hand around your wrist and the little illusion shatters immediately. “Look at me, honey.”

You raise your eyes from the broad stretch of his shoulders to his gaze, embarrassment pooling in your belly with a sharp twist. “What?”

He shakes his head and presses one big hand against your jaw. Instead of answering, he kisses you, his other hand anchoring against your hip. You feel him smile against your mouth, amusement pouring off him in waves. “You’re just real pretty when you want somethin’.”

“Ugh,” you push him gently away and turn out of his grip. A smile pulls at your own mouth when you close the window to the night and pull the blinds and then the curtains. “You’re very funny and very cruel.”

His arms circle you again, tight and thick around your body. “I ain’t either of those things.” His lips brush the space behind your ear, the shell of it, until another shiver slides up your spine. “But you are pretty.”

And he is cruel. Your want for each other has flowered over the last few days. Though you’re used to sharing a bed with Joel, sharing a hotel room has been different. It’s been more intense, more intimate. Especially when you’ve spent every single second together, still smelling of each other and the cold and outside when you climb into bed, even after showering, like you aren’t quite able to rid yourself of the other.

Joel is too polite, too cautious with you, to do anything about it. He waits for you, always.

But you want so badly it’s like a physical ache in your chest, resting thick fists against your breast bone, hammering against your lungs, the slippery, wet viscera of your heart.

The stubble on his jaw scrapes against your cheek, the prickle of it pleasant. It sends shockwaves across your skin, bolts of electricity sparking in your veins, right to your belly. Something in your chest tightens, but not the usual thing that makes you want to cower away from arms curled around your body, but the kind that pinches in and makes you want to stay, makes you want to fall into him.

His hands could wrap around the curves of your ribs and tear open your chest and you would let him, because he would be that much closer. The feeling still scares you, just a little bit. It makes your skin tighten and smart.

It also makes you feel safe and calm.

The contrast is dizzying and, you feel, easily misplaced in your mind, considering how badly you want him. So, you turn in his arms and say, “You are, too. Real pretty.”

It’s delightful, the way his cheeks go pink right beneath his beard. He clears his throat gruffly and pulls just slightly out of your grasp. “You, uh, wanna get ready for bed? Or we can go on that shitty ghost tour that guy at the front desk told us about.”

You think of it for a moment—you and Joel, hands tangled together, led around the little town’s main thoroughfare, staying toward the back of the group packed with local couples having a date night outing. It would be cold and Joel would put his arm around your back and you’d probably drink something warm.

But—

“Mm,” you hum, looking him over. “I’m tired, I think.”

“All right,” he pushes on your hip, pats the curve of your waist gently. “Get goin’ then.”

You cup your hands against his jaw and kiss him one last time, tasting the lingering press of apple pie and vanilla cream against your tongue. “Thank you for today,” you say. “For the last few days.”

Joel, always bad with thank yous, just nods, like it was a given he should give you such a special little trip.

More weekends than not, these days, you stay over at Joel’s place on the weekends. He likes having you there, even if the weekday evenings are a little lonelier for it. He likes waking up with you, likes getting to see you at your most raw and unfiltered. And, you always look most beautiful in the morning light, when you’re smiling at him just because he fixed you a cup of coffee.

The other part of that is that he likes getting to sleep next to you, even on the nights where you don’t touch. He likes having you within an arm’s reach, rather than halfway across town in an apartment he worries about the safety of. Most nights that you stay with him are bliss. They are—you in his arms, your mouth against his, his hands tracing your bare skin, your tattoos, in the darkness of his bedroom, your fingers on his naked skin.

He always stops before things go too far, because that’s not what you need from him. You need slow and steady and sure. And that’s what he gives you. Even if he wants you so badly it hurts sometimes.

But you’ll let him know when you’re ready. He knows you feel it too, that pull, but he also knows that the fear always wins out, too.

This night with you, fresh from the shower, skin pliant and soft against his, feels different.

You’re just as easy in his arms, just as comfortable and soft.

But, somehow, it feels different, in this dark, unfamiliar hotel room in this tiny town with winter cold knocking at the windows. The scent of your skin is different, like salted caramel and chilled autumn air and him. You’ve spent so much time in his truck and his house that you’ve started to smell like home.

Usually, you smell like summer, like the earthy smell of sun-warmed skin, like coconut and spun sugar, and he misses it. He can’t wait to have you back home.

He swears he can taste the damp of your skin, water left over from the shower, the tang of your sweat against his tongue when he sucks a harsh line down your throat.

You make a keening noise, delicate with want, low in the back of your throat. His thigh is between your legs. That’s new, something recent that’s been happening more and more in the last few weeks, something you haven’t gotten self conscious or worried about wanting, about taking. You never get off that way, though he wishes you would.

He can feel the heat of your pussy through two layers of fabric. You grind against the muscle. That feels different here, too. It feels more.

He presses warm palms on your waist and hips and ribs. He traces the outline of your tattoo, taps his fingers along your spine.

His touch is the same as he always makes it, slow and steady and sure, and only asking for as much as you’ll give.

But your hands trail hot across his chest, against his neck. Something about you seems different, hungrier.

“Joel,” you murmur into his throat, lips brushing his collarbone. Your hips stop their slow roll against him. “I want to touch you.”

“Honey,” he grits, an ache forming hard and low in his gut, when your hands slide down his chest to his belly. His cock twitches and he knows you must feel it. “You sure that’s what you want?”

You stop, fingers grazing his lower stomach before you retract them. “I won’t if you—”

“No,” his hand curls around yours, keeping it in place against his skin. “I want it more than you can know, darlin’. Just don’t seem very gentlemanly of me.”

“Why?”

You tilt your head, that odd little thing you do, more animal than person sometimes in your curiosity. The dark of the room casts your face, and your eyes, in shadows. You look hungry, needful.

“‘Cause the right thing for me to do would be to touch you first, honey. Ladies first n’all.” The ache claws at him again, slides hot fingers around his lungs. “Baby, I want to. I wanna touch you so bad.”

It feels damn near wrong to admit but you just hum.

You nudge your forehead against his. “I want this first. I want to touch you. Wanna make you feel good. Can I?”

He nods, just once, and releases your wrist, because you said it’s what you want. And he does too, whether he should or not. Your hand slips lower, beneath the waistband of his briefs, and then your fingers are circling tight and hot around his cock.

A curse breaks past his lips.

Your breathing hitches against his neck, the muscle straining against your lips when he grits his teeth. You press your mouth against his skin, your curled fist slowly stroking down, thumb curving over the tip. “Oh,” you murmur, your lashes tickle against the underside of his jaw.

He grunts against you, but you just kiss the rapidly pounding pulse in his throat. Your teeth dig into his skin, the curve of his collarbone, sharp and sudden. You bite him, tongue following the sting, hot and wet. You twist your wrist around him, dragging a sound up out of him that borders on obscene.

“Is that good, Joel?”

Christ.

You’re going to kill him.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

You’re going so fucking slow at it, the caress of your hand careful and too warm, dragging the precome at the head down, your palm not nearly slick enough.

But he doesn’t want you to stop, it feels so fucking good. And Joel knows he’s going to embarrass himself, because he’s older and no one had touched him like this in a long time. He’s going to come quick.

The way you’re stroking him is better than the way he’s hastily been touching himself in the shower lately, his own palm so rough and quick, staving off the images that come unbidden. You above him, sinking down onto his length, features twisted in pleasure; you falling to your knees, lips a little o as you take him into your mouth—

Another moan slips past gnashed teeth when your fingers graze the skin of his balls, palm almost curious when you cup him in your hand.

“Gimme your hand.”

You’re breathing hard against him, chest rising and falling against his arm, the peaks of your tightened nipples brushing his bicep. You nod against him, forehead pressed against his jaw, eyes glued to his cock when you push his briefs down and pull your hand away from him.

You don’t question what he wants with your hand, and so when he spits into your palm, you gasp and then groan.

Well, thank Christ for that. Thank fucking God you liked it. His dick jumps in your hand when you slide it back over his skin, the slick noise of it intoxicating.

Your hand is smaller than his, the way you touch him so different from the way he touches himself. You’re soft with it, and slower. When you curl yourself tighter into his side, mouth pressed to the pulse in his throat, he reaches for you, touches the curve of your hip and the dip of your waist.

A needy little sigh snaps out against his collarbone, and you tilt your face up to kiss him, the press of your lips wet and soft and open. He wants to devour you, push you back and learn every single inch of you, all the parts of you he wants so badly to memorize.

Really, he just wants his face in your pussy, to swallow you down, find out what your cunt feels like clenching around his fingers.

But you said—

This first. Him first. Your tight fist around his cock, learning him first, making him come first. His hand trails up your side, cups your breast through your shirt, pinches the stiff peak of your nipple softly to be rewarded with a keening sound that makes him buck his hips up into your hand.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, cupping your jaw in his hard. Your pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing him. You tasted like apple pie, even though he was the one that had it at dinner. “Doin’ so good, feels so good. My good girl.”

Your eyes flutter shut, forehead knocking against his again, moaning so soft against him, breath a tiny little huff against his lips. “You feel good,” you say, stroking him slower, steady. “So good, Joel.”

He’d never admit it, but that white hot thing curling around his spine goes tight with your words, and just like that he’s at the brink of spilling over your fingers.

“Honey—” he tries to warn you but you just twist your wrist and say it again.

“So good. Always good to me,” your breath washes warm over his skin. His chest goes hot and tight, a groan tearing right out of his throat, straining against you, fucking up into your hand as he spurts over your fingers, praises from your mouth still being gifted to him, over and over and over, pleasure stealing his voice.

You, you, you.

Everywhere, his whole world in this dark room, kissing him saying thank you and you did so good and thank you for letting me touch you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. He doesn’t do well with thank you, it curls up tight around the bones in his chest, stomps on something delicate.

His mind goes silent and still, satiated and warm with your praise, despite himself. You believe things about him that he’ll never believe about himself. But he needs to give back to you, sink his fingers into you and give that pleasure right back to you. He’s desperate for it. He doesn’t need anything else but that, to make sure you’re taken care of, that you feel as good as he does, better.

But when he reaches for you, you push his hands away. “No. No. I don’t want anything. It’s all right. It’s okay to just take things sometimes, Joel.”

It feels wrong to let it go, to take from you, but he does. You’re saying no, and he has to be okay with that. There are tissues in a box on the nightstand that make for quick cleanup. He’s only a little shamed by that, though you don’t seem to mind.

Hands through his hair, massaging the back of his neck, the knots permanently twisted into the top of his spine. Your fingers are sleepy, going slower and slower until they stop and only occasionally twitch when you momentarily jerk back awake again.

“Go to sleep, darlin’,” he murmurs against your forehead, the curl of your body tucked in close to his, warm and safe, both of you.

The next morning, you wake well before Joel. His face is slack, years washed away from his face in sleep, hair mussed and unkempt.

He’s snoring lightly.

When you pull away and sit up next to him, toes brushing the cold floor, the worry hits you like a freight train. Anxiety, like it had pooled somewhere different during the night, rushes in to hit you all at once.

Maybe you should have let him touch you. You have that feeling again, like maybe you’d done something wrong, maybe you were proving again that you were too slow to love and so that was grounds for him to decide you’re not worth it.

You touched him, made him come with your hand, praised him for giving that to you when you could not give him yourself in return.

That had been easy in the moment.

Now, it just feels wrong again. You should have given more, given him your body.

But. . . it’s just the past snapping at your heels again, old worries with a new person. A different person, who doesn’t think those things. You trust Joel, in so many ways. You trust him with this too, that he wouldn’t take what you weren’t yet willing to give.

That slows the spiral, just a little, and so does his hand against your back, his lips against the column of your neck. “G’mornin’,” he grumbles, the sound of his voice deep down in the well of his chest.

“Hi.”

“You upset with me? Looks like you’re thinkin’ pretty hard. I’m. . .I should have—”

And, typical, Joel is thinking the opposite.

“No,” you say and twist to face him, pushing him back down with a palm against his chest, sitting cross legged beside him. “No. I was thinking you might. . .just the same shit as always. I’m hard work and I’m taking too long for you.”

He watches you, one big hand cupped around the back of your knee. “You know that ain’t it,” he says, so steady and steadfast.

“I was trying to remember that,” you admit.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Good. But I’ll tell ya. It ain’t that.” His thumb arcs over your skin, the knob of bone in your shin, careful and slow. “It’s not that.”

You smile and lie back down with him, fingers against the edge of his jaw. “That’s not it either. What you’re thinking.”

“Okay.” He tucks an arm around your back, hand flat between your shoulder blades. “Should have at least asked a second time before fallin’ asleep on ya.”

“No,” you say. “You were perfect for me.”

You swear you can feel the heat of his flush against your skin.

Even though you have a long drive ahead, the bed is warm and the air is so cold, so you stay wrapped up there between the duvet and Joel’s arms, careful as he always is with you, waiting until you absolutely have to get up.

The knot of want in your belly hasn’t loosened, but something is satiated all the same. You have something real now, an image of Joel’s cock in your hand, the straining pulse of his throat, the sounds he made. You have that, for those nights you let yourself think about something more. You gave him something, instead of the other way around, something you wouldn’t have been able to months or weeks before.

The scruff of his beard is soft beneath your fingertips, his eyes shut now as you stroke his skin, those little lines beside his eyes, the scar on the bridge of his nose. “When I’m ready,” you say, not looking away when he opens his eyes, even though you want to. “I think I’ll probably let you do anything you want to me.”

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 1 year

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what is (chronic) autistic catatonia?

// why specify “autistic” catatonia? //

catatonia most common associate with schizophrenia, but increase realize also happen in things like bipolar & depression.

if look at some of typical catatonia diagnostic criteria in DSM 5 (but in easier words): catalepsy & waxy flexibility, grimacing (hold same stiff facial movement), mutism, echolalia, echopraxia (copy movement), exaggerated mannerisms, stereotypies/repetitive movements, etc… wait! some of these things happen in autism!!! (like 7 out of total 12 can be seen in autism)

this is why important to know how recognize catatonia in autism. because overlap.

catatonia in schizophrenia most common start fast and get worse fast. but chronic autistic catatonia typically slow onset and slow but visible deterioration. (always have exceptions though)

not know a lot about schizophrenia catatonia, so this post largely focus on autism. everything below, when say “catatonia” or “autistic catatonia,” mean chronic autistic catatonia with deterioration.

// before move on— //

sometimes professionals do connect autistic shutdown with/as catatonia or catatonia episode or catatonia-like episode to draw connection. this not talk about that. this about chronic ones with deterioration. personally for community identity purpose i don’t enjoy (already have term for shutdown). but personal opinion aside, again this about the temporary vs long term all the time. if experience temporary shutdown, remember to leave space for and not same as those of us deal with chronic autistic catatonia.

important to distinguish from autism because autism and catatonia share many symptoms. (for example, physical stimming or “stereotypies” is autism diagnostic criteria AND catatonia criteria). autistic catatonia should only be suspected IF have new symptoms OR change in type & pattern of old symptoms. cannot. stress. this. enough. again. it not about IF you have these symptoms it’s about WHEN and HOW and CHANGE. it's about NEW.

and. please do not diagnose self based on one tumblr post. yes even if i do extensive research and cite sources and have lived experience. many many many disorders look similar. am all here for educated self diagnosis because medical system inequitable BUT am also sick of every time write this a bunch people comment “oh never heard this this is so me.” one tumblr post not educated self dx. it not a cool new thing to add to carrd to hoard as much medical label as can, it miserable it makes my life hell it not a joke it not cool. not every autistic have chronic catatonia, not every shutdown means chronic catatonia, even if you autistic and see these signs, may be separate unrelated disorder altogether, like Infectious, metabolic, endocrinological, neurological, autoimmune diseases, all can see catatonia (Dhossche et al, 2006). some of you all will read this and truly think this is answer been looking for so long—great! still, please do more research.

// chronic autistic catatonia with deterioration and breakdown //

the key defining symptoms of chronic autistic catatonia is gradual lose functioning and difficulty with voluntary movements (shah, 2019, p21). “gradual lose functioning” will come with regression in independence & ADLs & quality of life. it usually gradual, chronic, and complex. but can vary in severity. some need prompts on some day & some situations, while others need prompt and even physical assistance for almost everything.

how common? have seen statistic estimate from 10% - 20% of autistic people adolescents & above experience chronic autistic catatonia.

typical onset for autistic catatonia is adolescence. some study samples is 15-19, some as early as 13. some professionals think this autistic catatonia may be a reason for many autism late regression (Ghaziuddin, 2021).

can happen regardless of gender, IQ (yes shitty), “autism severity/functioning labels” (is what most studies use, so i keep, but yes have issues, probably also mean happens regardless of autism level 1/2/3 and support needs before catatonia, but need more research to confirm since these thing don’t equal eachother).

// primary symptoms //

from book "Catatonia, Shutdown and Breakdown in Autism: A Psycho-Ecological Approach" by dr amitta shah, recommend read at least first two chapter and appendix.

1. Increased slowness

often first sign but not always

periods of inactivity or immobility between actions which appears as slowness, e.g walking, responses (verbal & body), self care, mealtime, etc

2. Movement difficulties (freezing and getting stuck)

difficult initiate/start movement

freeze or become "stuck" in middle of activity for few seconds to minutes

hesitate & "to and fro" movements

difficulty cross threshold/transitions like door way

difficulty stop action/movement once started

affect speech content, fluency, & volume

eat & drink difficult (like movement for fork & knife, chewing and swallowing, etc)

spend long time in one place

(new) ritualistic behaviors

3. Movement abnormalities

repetitive movements like in tourette's & parkinsons

e.g. sudden jerky movement, tremors, involuntary movements, blinking, grimacing, unusual & uncomfortable postures, locked in postures, increase in repetitive movements, etc.

4. Prompt dependence

may not be able to do some or any movement/activity, unable to move from one place to another, unable to change posture, etc without external/outside prompt

5. Passivity and apparent lack of motivation

look unmotivated & unwilling to do stuff, include activities used to like, probably because can't do voluntary action or have trouble with request and make decison.

6. Posturing

classic catatonia symptom of being stuck in one posture, sometimes for hours

7. Periods of shutdown

8. Catatonic excitement

episodic & short lasting

e.g. uncontrollable & frenzied movement and vocalizations, sensory/perceptual distortions, aggressive & destructive outbursts that not like self

9. Fluctuations of difficulty

e.g. some days better can do more need less prompt! other days worse. sometimes emergency can act as almost like a prompt! but fluctuate doesn't mean difficulty voluntary

// secondary difficulties //

Social withdrawal and communication problems

Decline in self-help skills

Incontinence

‘Challenging’ behavior

Mobility and muscle wastage

Physical problems

Breakdown

// autism breakdown //

can be in addition to autistic catatonia. can look like autism is getting worse, even though autism by itself not progressive disorder!

i also call this autism late regression. separate between autistic catatonia & this not very clear, not enough research.

1. exacerbation of autism

1a. increased social withdrawl, isolation, avoidance of social situations

1b. increased communication difficulties

1c. increased repetitive and ritualistic behavior

2. decrease in tolerance & resilience

easily disturbed, irratable, angry

3. increase in "challenging" behaviors

e.g. self injurious behaviors

4. decrease in concentration & focus

5. decrease in engagement & enjoyment

// treatment //

for catatonia (autistic or not), typical treatment is lorazepam and/or ECT.

specific to catatonia in autism, Dhossche et al. (2006) separate it to mild/moderate/severe and give recommend treatment according to that (do not come here and argue about severity labels, because fuck! mild depression and severe depression of course have different suggested treatments and severity important to know. Remember we talk about autistic catatonia).

note: this is one paper! not the only way! yes have problems like most psych/autism papers, just here to give example (of range of symptoms and treatment route!). NOT MEDICAL ADVICE. (not even endorsement)

mild: slight impairment in social & job things without limit efficiency as a whole (essentially still able to function for most part but difficult).

moderate: more obvious struggles in all areas, but ambulatory and don't need acute medical services for feeding or vitals

severe: typically medical emergency, acute stupor, immobility for most of day, bedridden, need other people help feed. also malignant catatonia which can be life-threatening (fever, altered consciousness, stupor, and autonomic instability as evidenced by lability of blood pressure, tachycardia, vasoconstriction, and diaphoresis, whatever any of that means)

the "shaw-wing approach": very brief summary, keep person active and do thing they enjoy, use verbal & gentle physical prompts, have structure & routine.

lorazopem challenge: take 2-4 mg of lorazopem to see changes in next 2-5 minutes. if no change, another 1 mg and reassess

lorazopem trial up to 24 mg. (note difference between challenge & trial)

bilateral ECT, last resort.

mild: "shaw-wing approach" -> 2 week lorazopem trial if no imporvement in 1 month -> if effective, do both, if not, just shaw-wing approach

moderate: depends on prefernece, either shaw-wing alone or shaw-wing and 2 week lorazopem trial -> if not effective, do 2 week lorazopem trial if havent already -> if not, bilateral ECT

severe: lorazepam challenge test -> if not effective, bilateral ECT; -> if lorazopem challange positive, 1 week lorazopem trial -> continue if successful, bilateral ECT if not.

can sound extreme, but rememeber for many severe catatonia (autistic or not), it is medical emergency. can be life-threatening. there's no/not a lot of time.

it possible to make partial recovery, as in get better but not to before catatonia. but overall, many permanently lose previous level of functioning.

references

Dhossche, D. M., Shah, A., & Wing, L. (2006). Blueprints for the assessment, treatment, and future study of Catatonia in autism spectrum disorders. International Review of Neurobiology, 267–284. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0074-7742(05)72016-x

Ghaziuddin, M. (2021). Catatonia: A common cause of late regression in autism. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 12. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyt.2021.674009

Ghaziuddin, M., Quinlan, P., & Ghaziuddin, N. (2005). Catatonia in autism: A distinct subtype? Journal of Intellectual Disability Research, 49(1), 102–105. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-2788.2005.00666.x

Shah, A. (2019). Catatonia, shutdown and breakdown in autism: A psycho-ecological approach. Jessica Kingsley Publishers.

#autistic catatonia #actuallyautistic #actually autistic #autism #autistic #long post #catatonia #loaf screm

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moonlit-dreamers · 3 months

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hot take but i dont think sun is suicidal

i dont think hes the one with the worst mental health in this show either

besides eclipse (bc thats obvious), id say solar has the worst mental health

hes already killed 2 ppl (didnt want to kill either of them and one was on accident), is insecure about his own identity (asked computer if hes like the other eclipses, and i also bet montys... "teasing" didnt help), has no hobbies of his own, refuses to actually acknowledge his own issues, doesnt communicate to ppl and tries to "not be a bother" to others, never does anything for himself and only ever does when someone tells him to, and probably more.

but i'll analyze solar and his shit mental health later; i wanna ramble about sun

i dont think sun has ever been actively suicidal, mainly passive. in case ur wondering wut the difference is:

being passively suicidal is having thoughts and "wishes" but never actually planning to do anything. a lot of ppl will think "i wish i was dead" when in reality wut they need is a break and they have no real desire to die (this is a common thought process to have when ur burnt out or generally in a mental rut)

being actively suicidal is actually planning to do something and seeking out ways to harm urself with the intent of being severely injured or dying. this is an immediate emergency

sun never went out in search of ways to die. he never planned out ways he could kill himself. the time we heard him say "i wish i was dead" was right after he hallucinated bloodmoon and old moon taunting him. he was tired and he needed a fucking break, so he expressed that through saying "i wish i was dead". now u might be thinking "but birdcage, he did go out and do risky things knowing he might die" yes, that is true. but that does not mean that dying was his intention. he went out and did dangerous things bc he wanted to help, not die.

but if we return to the current moment; he is absolutely not suicidal. his mental health is deteriorating, yes. but from wut i can tell he hasnt shown any signs of suicidal ideation. for a while sun said he had pretty stable mental health. it was only until eclipse came back did his health really start to deteriorate again. then if u add on to how hes constantly being pushed to the side and ignored by his own family (im more than mildly frustrated by that) that is absolutely a disaster brewing under the surface. but does that mean hes currently, at the very least passively, suicidal? no. probably not. at least, from wut we can tell there isnt much to back up the idea that he is.

wut sun needs is to be acknowledged and let in on the happenings of the family instead of being ignored. he also needs to learn how to communicate better bc the severe lack of it is wuts going to cause the downfall of everyone in the show

#birdcage rambles #suicide #suicidal thoughts #i really felt like explaining the difference between passive and active suicidal thoughts is VERY important for this conversation #bc. from wut i could tell. sun was never actively suicidal #unless im missing something #it was always passive #sun and moon show #sams #tsams #the sun and moon show #sams sun #tsams sun #sun sams #sun tsams #sams solar #tsams solar #i think he still counts to be added in here since i talked about him briefly

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genericpuff · 8 months

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Turns out it's been a while since I've talked about Rachel's medical fetish art so it came as a shock to people when I mentioned it in the last post (I've got quite a few asks about it lmao) So I'm gonna enlighten y'all real quick on what I'm referring to, and yes, it's probably exactly what you're thinking of when you hear the word 'medical fetish'.

CONTENT WARNING: DISCUSSION OF MEDICAL FETISH ART AND DEPICTIONS OF NEEDLES!!!!

So the name "used_bandaid" is one Rachel started using back in the early to mid 2000's. She went by a LOT of different pennames back then, including but probably not limited to:

Pepper_maid

madame_issue

Usedbandaid/used_bandaid

Rach Alex

Rachel Royale

Raquel

Medical Tophat/Medical_Tophat

Frill_house

Gingerbreadcoffin (? this one's kinda weird because the link itself with this username just goes back to her used bandaid MySpace account , so idk if she ever actually used it or if it was even affiliated with her lol)

Now you're probably about to ask, "Puff, how do you know these are all her?" and that's because Rachel still had all of these accounts interlinked through her projects, primarily The Doctor Pepper Show. She seemed to change up usernames often just for the hell of it.

Anyways. I'm not gonna show much of it here because I do think it's better to leave certain things in the past, but there's a LOT of her old work that implies the stuff that's questionable/problematic in LO has always been a part of her identity as an artist (DDLG, hot pink self-insert MC, etc.)

One such example is "madame issue":

This is such a 3-in-1 smoking gun for everything we see in LO. The reference to bandaids (see: used bandaid, which was part of her URL slug for her old flickr where this drawing comes from), the hot pink color palette, and of course, the fact that this character is almost DEFINITELY a self-insert of Rachel, thanks to that shared name.

She's also stated in old commission/print posts that Madame Issue was the one print she wouldn't sell.

She doesn't explicitly say why but I think it's pretty safe to assume it's because Madame Issue is her.

We also have Eva, "the queen of medical fetish". And the tags are... pretty self-explanatory.

That said, that's as much as I'm gonna go into with her old art, because a lot of it does get quite personal with her and I don't really think it accomplishes much more to continue digging up old skeletons, at least not unless they can be seen as parallel to LO (which some of them are and I'll likely be sharing more of those ones in a later post).

That said, there ARE still pages that are accessible without the use of the Wayback Machine that advertise her as a medical fetish artist without the need for extensive digging. If you search up The Doctor Pepper Show on Google, you'll actually find a reddit thread asking what happened to Rachel's old work, and there are comments with loads of resources to access her pre-LO content. You'll also find the listing for The Doctor Pepper Show on The Webcomic List, which literally describes it as a medical fetish comic: "This is a comic set in a world where evil doctors rule, girls wear frilly underpants and people use their manners. *May I please blow your f**king head off?* This comic features Gothic dandys, EGL (Gothic lolitas) and medical fetish fashion. (Neo victorian setting)"

I'll let y'all do your own digging from here, there's a LOT to unpack honestly and while I can't keep you from doing your own research, practice due diligence with what you choose to share. Again, I don't think it's a crime in and of itself for Rachel to want to distance herself from her past as a medical fetish artist, so I think it's only really relevant to show the things that are clearly still influencing LO (like her love for the movie Lolita or the very clear sexualization of youthfulness). While we can try to leave the past where it is, she does still write LO with a lot of the most problematic features of her former identity, and it makes it all the more bizarre that if she is trying to distance herself from it all, then why would she stick with one of the pennames that's the most easily tied back to medical fetishism?

TL ; DR: Rachel started off online with medical fetish and gothic lolita art (at least as far back as we can trace it) and elements of that past are still present in LO today. Use that info responsibly lol

#lore olympus critical #lo critical #antiloreolympus #anti lore olympus #ama #ask me anything #anon ama #anon ask me anything

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theempresstrash · 2 years

Text

Welcome! :3

If you are here right now more than likely you are a Twitter crypto artist denizen who has heard me, @maxcapacity and probably many other shouting about Tumblr on Twitter. Why Tumblr? It is part nostalgia, part necromancy, part homage to the the Web3 greats who spent years here (some are still here), part rebellion, and part reminding artists to come together to help each other.

Twitter heavily favors text base tweets - it's just a fact. Here is not the case. Many of us are also maybe a little jaded on what is happening overall and feel ignored as artists. Discord is full of scams, twitter group chats are cliquey, but here we are free to roam, explore each others works, and create a visual digital identity we want to present.

Come play with us and remember why we are all here! For the art, to make friends, express ourselves, have a good time and build a better future for artists. Yes we all want to sell work too ofc - we have physical bodies to take care of and bills to pay - but what if we share with each other our wins and how we got them, and our failures and what we learned from them as artists so when we go back to the rest of the internet hellscape we can find more success? At the very least, make some friends here or rekindle connects that may have been lost to not feel so alone. For some of you this is a trip down memory lane, for others you have never been here before. Old or new a like I encourage you to check out who I am following to get started finding each other.

This isn't rocket science - if you can understand blockchain web3 stuff, I have faith you can understand this old beast of a social network. Love you all ~~~ <3

P.S. I'm writing this for specific purposes of a pinned post. It feels so good to be able to write more than 150 characters. Also here are multi gifs side by side -- for the culture.

EDIT: Because I can edit and also adding this - for the culture 🫡🚫

~We are here to focus on the art and building up artists and to build an open, non hierarchal structure to provide mutual support for each other while showcasing the hard work and dope art crypto artists do to try to shape the landscape of web3 to be more artist friendly for ALL artists from diverse backgrounds. ~ Here are some guidelines to foster a healthy community growth:

~ NO SHILL POST/ART SHARE POSTS - why? we want the focus to go back on the artist and deep thoughts, not engagement farming. Shilling/art share is a viable way on twitter to get your art out there because of how the social media is structured. Here - content is the focus. You can discover new artists a multitude of ways including searching hashtags, looking through your fav artists feed of who they are sharing or following, and generally just wandering around.

~ INDEPENDENT ARTIST FOCUS - 10k pfp projects are a part of the nft ecosystem, and thrive on twitter, but here we want to again have the focus stay on independent artists. A basic issue with these projects is to access a lot of their communities they are token gated, and a lot of artists just can't afford them. Also many feel we are drowning in the noise of a lot of the politics and drama that goes on between projects, and need a place again to share ourselves with each other for feedback, support and overall good times.

~ REPORT AND BLOCK THE HATERS / KILL WITH KIDNESS- anywhere on the internet hate is prevalent for lots of different reasons related to our content and not. Bullies are cowards, and to bully someone for a technology they use is boring. Tumblr also does not tolerate hate and harassment in any form. Maybe someone is having a bad day and if able extend kindness. For extreme comments, report them. For continual harassers, block them. This is your space to curate how you wish. We deserve to be here as artists as anyone else, and hope to on top of supporting each other showcase our dope af work we are doing within the crypto art ecosystems to show we aren't all scammers, just artists trying to build a better future.

#crypto art tumblr takeover #empresswrites #nftumblr

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canpokemonwritebooks · 10 months

Note

Can Wo-Chien write books? (I'd think they can, though they might have some issues considering... snail.)

Can Wo-Chien write books?

Yes, with a 87 on the Pokémon writing scale.

(@james-silvercat also asked about Wo-Chien)

Is this Pokémon physically capable of writing?

Wo-Chien lacks limbs but it is grassy so it is presumably malleable in some way. In addition, one of the first moves it learns is Tickle. Whatever it uses to tickle can probably hold a pen. Vines perhaps? It does learn Power Whip. It is also notable that Wo-Chien was once a human who became a Pokémon by cladding themself in dead leaves. Something happened to make it change even further but there may very well just be a full guy under that snail shell.

9/10

Does this Pokémon know what a book is?

Probably not. Wo-Chien is one of the few Pokémon to be confirmed to have written before but it is said that before becoming a Pokémon, it wrote on wooden tablets. It spends its time isolated from other humans so it is unlikely it has ever seen a book. But, wooden tablets are similar to books in essence so Wo-Chien deserves points here.

8/10

Can this Pokémon read?

Yes. Wo-Chien knows how to write so it presumably knows how to read. It is made of dead leaves though so it may have lost some of its human memories when it became a Pokémon. Additionally, Wo-Chien is very old so it may have a hard time with modern language.

9/10

Would this Pokémon have access to the materials needed to write a book?

Maybe. Wo-Chien tends to stay away from people so it wouldn’t be able to get paper but it is very in tune with plants. It’s written on wooden tablets before and it can do it again.

7/10

Does this Pokémon have enough basic education to write well?

Yes. When it was human, Wo-Chien wrote about the evil deeds of a king. Wo-Chien has enough critical thinking skills to understand and analyze the world around it. A lot of humans can’t even do that, let alone write political commentary like Wo-Chien.

10/10

Would this Pokémon be good at writing?

Yes. Wo-Chien’s writing caught the attention of the king it was writing about. The writing was deemed worthy of punishment. This doesn’t necessarily mean it was good. Evil kings aren’t exactly known for ignoring things. But, it was still good enough that the king heard about it, which implies a lot of people were reading and sharing it. Even if it wasn’t very good, Wo-Chien still angered a king and that’s pretty cool.

10/10

Does this Pokémon have anything to write about?

Yes. Wo-Chien could write something historical about its time as a human, continue its commentary as a king, about how it became a Pokémon, or what it’s like being a legendary Pokémon. It also spent a lot of time in isolation and probably spent a lot of time thinking. It has the skill and knowhow to explore different genres and types of writing.

10/10

Would this Pokémon be able to get their writing into a book?

Probably. It probably wouldn’t be able to contact a publisher but it could create a physical book and additional copies if it wanted to distribute them.

7/10

Would this Pokémon want to write a book?

Probably but maybe not. Afterall, writing is what got Wo-Chien punished and led it to becoming a Pokémon. It may not be happy about that and carry residual trauma that would make it averse to writing. It is also a real possibility it still has a passion for writing and wants to continue.

7/10

Does this Pokémon have any other redeeming qualities?

Wo-Chien has the ability Tablets of Ruin which draws on the power of the tablets it continues to carry around. Writing is central to its identity and its existence as a legendary Pokémon. And, again, Wo-Chien was once human and it is unknown how much it has changed. It may have a lot of human traits under the leaves and shell.

10/10

Results

Yes, Wo-Chien can write books with a 87 on the Pokémon writing scale. It also gets two Dunsparce points: one because multiple people asked about Wo-Chien and another because I had a lot of fun writing this.

#Did not know Wo-Chien was just a dude who became a snail #wo-chien #pokemon #pokemon analysis #gen 9 pokemon #gen 9 #pokemon gen 9 #paldea #pokemon scarlet and violet #grass pokemon #dark pokemon #legendary pokemon

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fuck-you-upmusicbracket · 2 months

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Searching For Former Clarity (Against Me!)

And in the journal you kept by the side of your bed/You wrote nightly an aspiration of developing as an author/Confessing childhood secrets of dressing up in women's clothes/Compulsions you never knew the reasons to/Will everyone you ever meet or love/Be just a relationship based on a false presumption?/Despite everyone you ever meet or ever love/In the end, will you be all alone?

"Searching for a Former Clarity is about the process of dying. It's the closing track to the album, and it shares a theme with the opening track, but while Miami uses disease and dying as a way to talk about the city metaphorically, Searching for a Former Clarity is much more personal. It's also partly autobiographical. Laura Jane Grace wouldn't come out for another seven years, although if I'm remembering right she was convinced that this song would immediately out her to everyone. (I could be thinking of a different song from the same era. It's kind of a running theme in her music.) A while back I saw an old video of her performing this song, when it was still new and she still wasn't out. It felt wrong to see that version of her, honestly (I'm old enough that I should have been a fan in the 2000s but I'd never heard of Against Me until a couple years ago), but it also amazes me just how much *better* she looks now. She looked so much older then, and unbelievably more miserable, than she does now. I hate that she had to live like that for so long, but I think about that contrast every time I hear the song now. Honestly, with that in mind, I never want to hear anyone saying shit about how they are glad someone suffered so that they could Make Art(TM) about it. Fuck that. Don't get me wrong, I love this song and most of Against Me's discography, but I'd willingly give all of it up if it could somehow retroactively mean that Laura Jane Grace didn't have to have the shitty life experiences that led to it. Yes, a lot of art comes from suffering, but people shouldn't have to fucking suffer for art. I've had some experiences lately that forced me to think about my mortality a bit more seriously than usual. If I died today, there would be an extensive record of my gender, and my complex feelings about gender, on various mostly anonymous twitter and tumblr and reddit accounts. If I died today, nobody who knows me would know the name I chose for myself. Not that I'm a historical figure (I'd probably be entirely forgotten in a decade tbh) but speculation about my gender would be *at most* someone's conspiracy theory based on poorly-sourced and badly-interpreted speculation. I'd be buried as a man, I'd be remembered as a man, I'd be forgotten as a man. That was my choice. I have my reasons for making it. I don't know if it is right or wrong or even if the concepts of "right" and "wrong" are the right ones to use when thinking about it. I'm still going to have feelings about it every chance I get. Searching for a Former Clarity is a pretty good way to get them. Emma. That is the name that I chose."

Am I Awake (They Might Be Giants)

When I get through this part/Will the next one be the same/Will I be wondering/If I'm awake?/These are not the clothes I had on when I went to bed/And something else besides my hair is growing from my head/And when I close my eyes it looks the same as when I open them again/Am I awake?

"Man I don't know what exactly about this song gets me so hard but it just makes me wanna get up and stim and think about my blorbos and their trauma. it also just speaks to me as a person with memory and identity issues, it really outlines the dissociation and confusion i feel when i don't remember something and/or can't grasp what i'm feeling. it also has a sort of inception vibe to it? or maybe groundhog day? The strange vocal samples and frantic drums and fast bpm with the really slow vocals on top is just soooo good. really really good song"

#fuck you up bracket #tournament #polls #against me!#they might be giants

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veg-hotwings · 2 years

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Hawks, Shigaraki and their abuse

I was thinking about Hawks (what a surprise!) and how much people tend to mischaracterise him and minimise the abuse he went through at the HPSC since he was fucking six years old.

He was literally groomed to be a weapon, grew up alone with no friends, forced to use his quirk in an unnatural way (you can't tell me this picture is not disturbing, that this is not abuse), ripped of his own name and identity, guilt tripped into being ashamed because his father was a villain so much he apologised for it like it was his fault, and probably do some pretty dark shit too.

Plenty of people argue that Twice was his first kill, but I doubt it. He desperetely tried to save Jin because he thought he was good and he admired him for it, implying that Hawks doesn't think the same of himself. After all Lady Nagant was his mentor, and she was a sniper. It's said multiple times in the manga he was raised, among other things, to be her successor, so he should have been able to take down high profile villains etc. Let's not forget that he freaking aimed for All for One's head as soon as he flew on the battlefield. He wasn't trying to block him, he was trying to kill him. Killing is engraved in him.

He says "If corrupting myself is enough to put everyone else at ease, then I will gladly take on this job" while mockingly bowing to the HPSC President, like he is resigned to this life, to his role.

At the same time, he fails to recognise he was abused, because he just doesn't know any other way to live. He hasn't known anything else apart from the HPSC and violent parents back in Fukuoka.

He didn't even dream of becoming a hero (he didn't know they were real in the first place!), the HPSC just took advantage (again, isn't this abuse?!) of him saving some people from a car crash to mould him in the perfect asset, the golden hero to embody everything Stein and Dabi hate: something fake, a facade.

A proof of this is his actual wish: doing some good while enjoying life around the 20-30th placing in the hero ranks.

The HPSC played so much with his mind he thinks he wasn't alone in this when he was, when his "not being alone" was just holding a fucking stuffed toy of another abuser. Isn't this just fucked up?

Psychological abuse IS abuse as much as physical abuse is.

All of this IS abuse, I won't accept other opinions on this matter.

Now, to Shigaraki.

I realized he and Hawks have a lot in common.

Plenty of people loathe Shigaraki. That's ok, he's a villain and of course did some pretty bad shit.

At the same time, they seem to forget that hasn't even been Tomura himself for plenty of chapters now. That's not him, it's All for One.

This doesn't justify his previous actions, but it's still an important thing to bare in mind (here for a deeper analysis).

Most of all, I think I've never read anywhere that he was abused in the same way Hawks was. And of course, since people fail to see Hawks' abuse (and he's a hero), understanding the same happened to a villain is just too hard.

(It applies to Dabi too, 'cause yes, there are still people thinking he just threw a tantrum because "DaDdY diDn'T GiVe Me AtTeNtiOn!!11!1!". That's concerning, honestly, but I'm not going to talk about him now).

Tenko grew up in a household that hated heroes because his father believed Nana abandoned him. He already had health issues, which piled up with the frustration and fear he felt towards his father, who couldn't accept his dream of becoming a hero, of his grandparents ignoring the fact he was beaten for this, and his mother and older sister who failed to protect him.

When he unleashed his quirk for the first time he was terrified and calm at the same time, but it was such a traumatic experience his mind just closed up on itself and made him forget about it (a typical trauma response).

Then, while roaming alone, ignored by everybody while pleading for anybody to help him, he was found by fucking All for One because life is just that fair, who exploited his fear and anger to mould him in the perfect weapon to use against All Might and the hero society.

Do you see the resemblace? He was ripped from his name and groomed by AfO after escaping somehow a violent household the same way Hawks was ripped from his name and groomed by the HPSC after escaping a violent household, just with a different objctive.

Cherry on top, when he finally got the power to destroy everything he loathed, to give his companions what they wanted too, AfO took over his mind. I'll say it again: isn't it just fucked up?!

Tomura is unable to free himself from his grip yet the same way the HPSC teachings are so engraved in Hawks he believed killing can be accepted if it's for a superior cause, that he believes he is responsible for his father's crimes.

I really really hope Horikoshi will grace these two with some justice.

I hope that Hawks will finally realise what his life really was and get some peace and rest, and that Tomura will free himself from AfO's grip and reunite with his friends before or after the end.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

#thank you for coming to my ted talk #character analysis #ranting #tenko shimura #tomura shigaraki #all for one #league of villains #dabi #touya todoroki #hawks #pro hero hawks #winged hero #keigo takami #hpsc #fuck the commission #fuck afo too

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dailycass-cain · 10 months

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Batman: Wayne Family Adventures gave us a NEW Cass-centric arc. It FINALLY released in its entirety this past Wednesday so yeah, at long last I'm gonna dig in and my thoughts on it!

Season 2 of WFA has given us a lot of Cass in appearances (sixteen of the so far forty-eight episodes released) though unlike Season 1 Episodes 90-91 is our first official Cass-centric dramatic story this season.

And it is a double salvo of treats.

First off we get a team-up of Cass with Damian. Something we've barely gotten in the comics. Literally, Gates of Gotham is STILL the only time these two have teamed up.

That was in 2011. We're in 2023. HOW IS THIS STILL THE ONLY CANNON TEAM-UP we've had between them?!

Yes, they've interacted more since 2020 (three times compared to just twice prior to that, and I'm being kind with one of those interactions). So yeah this episode is already doing things the mainline hasn't broken ground on.

But as always WFA gives us the dynamic barely teased in the main line (but is laser-focused here), the big sister Cass worried for Damian on their mission who breezes how easily it'll be given its Mad Hatter they're dealing with.

Just like recently in Batgirls #16, there is an underestimation of the Hatter that in this adventure costs Cass as she's brainwashed to be his weapon. Hatter's dialogue in part 1 is our first real insight to criminals in Gotham know about Cass.

This is something NEVER brought up in the mainline comics nowadays (probably due to DC's fear of acknowledging either origin of Cass). So we're in this "Schrödinger's bat" situation where both are her origin, but are not shown.

Here, it's quite clear probably which origin is canon to WFA (more on that soon) as Cass is used by Hatter to kill Damian. For all Damian's own fighting skills well, this is the first comic mention of him acknowledging her and actually caring about her.

Like literally, this episode fully continues off the last Cass-centric episodes we got all the way back in Season 1 with Episodes 32-33 “All Seeing” where we saw things thru Cass's eyes. Here we see again how the family views her via Damian.

But not only that, this is Cass's greatest fear come to life (per "All Seeing" her being used as this weapon and not a person). Again writer CRC Payne just DELIVERS with the emotion by having the emotionally reserved Damian pour out trying to reach Cass.

I have to give major props as well to artist Geoniya Acuna too. The emotion is drawn in both characters' faces. The change in Cass's eyes when she's switched into "weapon mode".

All of it is just *chef's kiss*.

That jaw-dropping ending is a good lead into part 2 where we see the war in Cass's mind trying to take back control.

And here we get the series showing us her origin for the first time. And oh my. I so wasn't expecting to see this bastard again:

Due to DC not acknowledging which origin of Cass's is the defacto one has left David Cain in a curious state. Because if they go into the old one he's like above.

If they acknowledge the newer one, he's basically Donnie Yen as Storm Shadow.

So it just shocks me to see WFA go for their take on the original origin. It's simplified and that's the point Payne having Cain talk to Cass this episode.

I don't see it as Cain actually talking to her, more a mixture of Hatter's mind stuff and Cass's own insecurities taking shape. Until she remembers a CERTAIN someone who she met when she was lost.

Again, the episode takes HEAVILY into Cass’s old Pre-New 52 origin acknowledging Babs took her in (and the crowd who ache for this version of a mature Barbara go wild). I know you stood up and cheered when WFA went there.

Because of that, Cass starts to break free of the mind control. Remembering more the bonds she forged. Remembering the identity she took and if anything this is where the one slight I have for this issue.

The episode gives us the first ever clear look of the top section of Cass's Batgirl outfit. I had to pause reading it, and was like "Gimme this WFA. I want to see this suit in action. You don't tease me like this."

This is the only negative I ever give WFA when it comes to Cass/Tim due to their troubled histories in mainline DC Comics. WFA is like, an all-you-can-eat buffet acknowledging it all.

By showing it, you do the Orphan identity a disservice. Literally, we're 99 episodes in, and the only time they've acknowledged "why" Cass adopted this identity was as a joke.

I get "why" it was added to the series. It was the identity Cass had at the time. But the creators of WFA have done their own "rebranding" of the identity. Giving Cass a scarf or cape to the costume. A different mask than the one she wears in the comics.

I get it. It's because for script purposes it allows the creators to have her outside the mask and be more expressive.

It's just that...

You tease us fans by showing this suit. You dangle that Batgirl crumb over us. You're just gonna make us want more of this WFA Batgirl costume now (after dancing around it last season).

Now I want it.

I want to see this costume in action. I know Acuna can handle it. Give them the chance someone! Give us the Batgirls episode this series NEEDS!!! You just don't tease us Cass/Steph's costumes and expect us not to want MOAR!

Cause we do.

Back to the story, these moments break free from Hatter's grasp and we get that righteous beatdown he's so deserved for daring to do that to Cass (along with a cute sisterly moment of Cass picking Damian up).

Like, again the series does what the main line hasn’t. Given us this moment of the two (given their similar backgrounds) being there for one another when moments like these happen.

Even more, a cute exchange after all said hijinks.

These two episodes again were a nice sequel to the last Cass-centric arc paying off seeds that began there and we get some rich moments here.

The only thing is the Batgirl-in-the-closet problem which continues to hamper the series.

But I digress that's my own minor nitpick. I can fully admit and cast aside my own "fandom" to say WFA is doing the duty it can showcasing ALL the Bats why they have such loyal fans.

This was another amazing chapter that WFA just seems to pull for their female cast and I'm glad there's this balance between overtly cute, but also educating the casual fan to those not given the light previously shined on them.

That said, I think it's time for another Harper Row arc. She's overdue for one being introduced this season. Just give us that perfect bookend for the character with another stellar arc.

The creative team knocked another home run with this Cass arc. Kind of leaves me just wanting more.

Am I greedy?

Yes.

But it shows how good this creative team is feeding that fan side to me with these characters. Make that crave occur. So yeah kudos to them. 👍

This was an amazing arc giving us things I wish the actual mainline DC Comics would give us. Something I feel is an untapped field just aching to be dug into and mined.

#cassandra cain #batman: wayne family adventures #my thoughts

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ghastlywretch · 1 year

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re-reading ACOK Theon I and like…this guy is just so lost. Like, how did I not know from the jump that his entire arc would be about his identity and how he doesn’t truly know who he is, where he belongs, and what place to call home. You read it for the first time and you think, “oh, he wants power, he wants control. He wants to be king of the Iron Islands.” and like…yeah? On the surface, yes, that’s what’s motivating him, but even in this very first chapter the shiny exterior of this motivation has so many cracks and when you look through those cracks it’s just…a boy who has been lost his entire life, who doesn’t know what to do with himself, or who he is. This entire chapter is just building Theon up to break him down, which is basically what Theon’s arc in ACOK is, as a whole. When he comes to Pyke, everyone and everything is just laying into him, no punches pulled, whether it’s Aeron or Balon, everyone does their best to ensure Theon feels absolutely unwelcome by the end of the chapter.

His motivation to begin with is very flimsy but in an intentional way that opens up so many avenues for the exploration of his character. He starts the chapter personally ambitious, and then as it goes on you realize that his ambition stems from a need to prove a point, both to the northerners who see him as an outsider, and the Ironborn who see him as a traitor.

He says in the opening paragraph that he’s returning home, and yet, he kind of…hates home? He describes it as bleak, damp, dark and mundane.

And this makes you think he hates the Islands and the Ironborn, and you go with that, until he starts waxing poetic about the Old Way, and about how fearsome and mighty the Ironborn of old used to be.

He thinks about how Balon had told him that a hard place breeds hard men, so his romanticization of the Old Way comes from Balon, who is really intense about fulfilling that Ironborn masculine ideal (and I’m not even going to get into the whole thing with gender and daddy issues in just this chapter alone rn oh my GOD) and Making The Iron Islands Great Again, so much so that he starts a campaign to become king to restore the glory of the Islands.

And this is so indicative of not only Theon’s cognitive dissonance vis a vis his native land, but also of how much Theon’s views, especially about the Islands, are shaped by his father. (again, not getting into this here, maybe another time, because there's SO much there)

Theon, according to Maester Luwin, was never a good student, so it’s safe to assume whatever information he has regarding the Islands is from Balon’s correspondence, and that shapes his view of both the place and the people, of their lost glory and the need to restore it.

He probably thinks about the wondrous past of the Ironborn so much because the thought of his people being impressive warriors and reavers probably comforted him as a young boy in Winterfell surrounded by the legacy of the Starks. He probably latched onto that idea because it was something to be proud of, after his house lost to Ned and Robert.

So, in terms of his dilemma with identity, Theon feels a huge disconnect from the Ironborn by virtue of having spent a decade away from them, and his most important years of development, at that. He can connect more to the legends of his people than he can to the actual people, and he doesn’t feel like a Stark, either, because he has been keenly aware of his status as hostage all these years, regardless of Ned trying to “play the father from time to time”, just because of the entire conceit of him being in Winterfell in the first place (which is, you know, as a hostage, because his father was defeated in a war that wreaked havoc upon his people and his own family)

To makes matters of identity, self and belonging worse, he meets Aeron, who is nothing like the man he knew, which makes him feel uneasy and out of place. This feeling of unease is made even worse when he reaches Pyke and hardly recognizes anyone there, all the servants he had remembered having died. But back to Aeron, who is not only different, but religious now, reminding Theon of his lack of faith in his ancestral god.

This is a great passage, because not only are you getting Aeron accusing Theon of becoming a Stark by saying he prays to the old gods and not the Drowned God of his people, but also another mention of Ned that elaborates on Theon’s complex relationship with him, and on a more general level, the Starks.

And what’s interesting here is that Theon is indifferent about the gods. He doesn’t care much either way, and then he plays up his abhorrence of the old gods because of their connection to ned just to get in Aeron's good books. Even when he takes part in the ritual of the Drowned God with Aeron, he doesn't really care, and does it more as a way to gain Aeron's goodwill than anything else.0

Then, we get:

This really hits the nail on the head as far as his sense of alienness is concerned, as Aeron basically tells him that not only is he not considered trustworthy by himself and Balon, but his status as heir to Pyke is also under threat.

Aeron literally calls him a Stark, to really drive the point that they don’t think of him as one of their own home. Balon does the same in their meeting.

It’s so sad having to watch Theon attempt to assure his own father, again and again, that he is, in fact, not a traitor, that he is Ironborn. His blood. His heir. And then Balon hints at what Aeron had mentioned earlier, that Theon might not be Balon’s heir, so deep is the distrust of him in his own home.

I love this quote because again, Balon is asserting that Theon is out of his depth, and in alien territory, but also because he says that he will pay the iron price for his crown, reminding Theon of his gold chain bought with the gold price. He also mentions Urron Redhand, the same person Theon had mentioned whilst boasting oh his homeland, and it feels like a slap on his face, almost as if Balon is telling him that the Ironborn legends are not his to boast of, because he is not one of them.

I love how his interactions with Aeron and especially Balon are so chock-full of posturing on his end, trying to prove himself to his own family, and how the intimidating image he had built of himself in the intial part of the chapter is completely shattered. Chef’s kiss. lovely. I love a pathetic loser failprodigalson.

#this is a very basic theon stuff but i was just obsessed w how much there is of this specific throughline in his v first chapter #probably going to write that thing about gender and daddy issues as it related to theon #that's where it gets deliciously tragic 🔥#he's so roman roy coded ughhhhhhh #theon greyjoy #asoiaf meta #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf reread #acok #ignore the 'a' in the first tag ugh

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this-acuteneurosis · 1 year

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political structure again. so all them talks about republic numbers needed and stuff, sexy brain move. but now we need a nominal OPPOSITE side. THE SEPERATISTS. like obviously numbers are far smaller, Dooku is head of government and military and he is far more structured, and the separatists military council being mostly the big CEO business men that are tied in WITH the Droid Army construction? Army/ Navy wise seem easy, From Dooku to Grievious to down the list, but EXECUTIVE branch QUESTION?!?

Oh geeze, you guys really like calling me out on these details, don't you.

So, couple of things. While yes as a general rule I go to the movies first for material, for the organization of the Confederacy I did borrow from TCW series. AotC only shows Dooku organizing what is functionally the army for his dissenters, but the scene is incredibly vague, something something treaty, something something droid army, something something destroy Jedi. It wasn't until I saw TCW that the idea of a Confederacy congress was presented to me (was it in a book somewhere, I have no idea, don't care). And they way it was presented in the show, they suggested something very interesting. The Trade Federation was not part of the Confederacy congress, and Mina Bonteri urges Padmé to see the value of this alternative government because it is not giving seats to guilds/business federations. Dooku appears to be the head/chancellor/spokesman for this congress, which he uses to manipulate the reps and get things that Palps wants done taken care of.

This isn't addressed in the limited episodes I watched (at least not deeply), but it looks like Dooku is pretty much solely in charge of negotiating the military force for the Confederacy.

So, my thoughts for DLB.

The Confederacy is super new and super unorganized. It's maybe half the size, in terms of "senators" as the Republic, and most of them are there because of economic/trade issues, maybe some enforcement concerns related to these (such as piracy or having to deal with Hutt stuff). They're not there to start a war. But Dooku is letting them know, all the time, the Republic wants to take you back by force.

This is a new government. It doesn't really have money, it has the outlines of a constitution, borrowed and bastardized from the Republic, it could swell in size at any time, or it could collapse in a heap.

Dooku goes to the people at the table in AotC. He promises payment (or contract, because these systems probably wanted out of their old deals, but now they want out of the Republic too and the devil you know...), more and more money coming in as more systems join the Confederacy. But he's renting this army on credit. The guilds that are at the table don't care who wins the war. Republic wins, they still get paid. Confederacy wins, they still get paid. And while the war is going on, they're probably getting paid A Lot More. It's a risk, since some of them have seats in the Republic Senate, but if they play fast and loose with the rules, lean into their business identities instead of being formal states of government, they're confident they can play both sides. And Dooku promises them that if the get involved one thing for sure will happen. Bye bye Jedi. They're on the good side of the new Sith Lords. No more sneaky enforcement group that's been leashed to the Republic. The guilds are loaning the Confederacy an army, the Republic's army is going to die young, the guilds will own all of the enforcement power in the galaxy at the end of the war, no matter who wins.

The congress of the Confederacy does not see this contract. Dooku brings them a bill, and a different contract. Tells them they need the droids to stop the Republic from retaliating.

This congress is young. It's already in economic distress. It's smaller than the Republic and needs to work because if not the reps that are in it are gonna be culled by their systems for leaving the Republic and making things worse.

They want to trust Dooku. The Count of Serenno is urbane, wise, polite, and empathetic. Of course you loved the good things in the Republic. Of course you feel betrayed. I too was betrayed by the Order I trusted.

So trust me. I will not betray you.

(Spoiler: he's super lying)

Anyway, yeah, uh, roughly half as many (or less) political reps in the Separatists congress, but I don't think that matters much from a military perspective. Dooku and the guilds are controlling the army. There is no formal executive/legislative/judicial divide at this point. New government is too baby, still organizing. And Dooku's not going to allow any ideas/changes to the status quo that make it harder for him to carry out Sideous' will.

#Don't Look Back #politics #canon what canon #Yan Dooku

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anteroom-of-death · 3 months

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Mistaken Identity

Synopsis: Malcolm is back in government. It's time for a budget. UNIT disapproves of their funding being cut. Whatever will happen?

a/n: two fics??? In the same year??? wow, prolific!!! And yes, this is leading to another fic, hopefully. In my mind several. I am pushing an agenda here, you'll see. Don't read if you dislike heavy language. It's a UNIT x The Thick of It crossover baby.

The meeting room echoed discordant with the sound of a water bottle being opened up. Conversation was at a near stand-still. The last time some one said something it was it was a string of epithets and a metaphor that fell apart rather quickly.

The Scot bore an aggrieved look into the head of UNIT. (another fine example of alphabet soup that needed pruned of government…) A heritage position, he noted. He remembered the last head. This was his daughter. A fussy little thing trying to be formidable. A hollow echo in regards to her father. At least he could give what was dished to him back. Or at least fucking take it with a grain of humor and salt.

Budgets were extra hard these days since some limp-dicked moron convinced the people that they needed to leave the EU.

Who knew putting the kibosh on the unrestricted travel and cheap trade of people, goods and services would backfire so spectacularly!

Malcolm was brought back in a snap election after the last man, who lasted slightly longer than a head of lettuce or that socially pure-secretly deviant blonde bitch. An old spin-doctor for a new Britain. Hopefully a better one. There were talks about whimpering to Brussels for a reunion ,or at least a better flow of things.

The pruning had begun.

And these absolute weapons were exceedingly aggressive. To show up, out of order. No forms for a proper meeting filed. Just showing up, guns nearly blazing, demanding a meeting with the cabinet.

Apparently he resembled some probably sterile expert they had on dial. At least seeing this cunt writhe at the differences between him and some bloke nicknamed “The Doctor” gave him a bit of fun. Or rather similarities.

Or lack thereof…

“I don’t mean that we don’t…care about the NHS or the fact that 62% of the country relies on food banks…it’s just a more pressing issue. We are attacked more than you’ll ever know by forces you can’t…we can’t even fathom.” She tried explaining diplomatically. Her little mate with an oversized rainbow scarf and horn-rimmed glasses swallowed, her chin dissolving into the mass of knitting.

“Oh, you don’t not care.” He snarled back pointing at her and switching his view point to the Prime Minister. “Oh that’s bloody so kind of her! Marie cunting Antoinette over here doesn’t not care. Alert the Sun and the Mirror! Let’s all eat cake made from fucking wishes and dreams! Tell the damn Guardian, print ‘Your children will die of hunger or scabies! But you’ll fucking be protected from forces you can’t fucking fathom!’”

“There’s really no need for that language.” Someone echoed with many in agreement.

“There’s no damn need for a fucking tax package the entire GDP of the Czech Republic.” Malcolm roared.

“Yes, we have to deal with-“ the current Prime Minister checked notes in an envelope, “Crumbling cement in schools and the maintenance of, “ He checked the notes again, “Lunar defense systems?” He grimaced. Unable to fathom why he went into politics at this point. The old guard, in the form of the Screaming Scot and the Head of some kind of Alien fighting organization both looking at him as if they knew exactly the time and place his body would be found if he didn’t appease either one. He really didn’t know what he was thinking when he was just a wee back-bencher almost several decades prior…

“Both seem vital in the process of protecting both King and country!” He tried a smattering of diplomacy.

Malcolm looked like he was going to launch himself at the PM. He automatically went to protect his teeth with his lips.

What came out of Malcolm’s mouth was almost a call for regicide threats and, for him, a thinly veiled death by spittle.

The meeting didn’t go as planned and neither side was happy.

UNIT declared, “We’ll be back when you lot see sense!”

And Malcolm trudged off to have a cup of coffee and wish he still smoked like he did in the 90s…

What kind of power did they get off having? He bemused as he remembered the first time this organization became relevant. (Despite bring in existence since the 60s.) It was after Jones and before that one that went mad after a week in power and killed the US president before getting shot by his own wife moments later. Malcolm thought that it was probably well-deserved. She looked like she was on the end of a battering or three at his hand.

Then things became less crazy. Then crazy again.

UNIT sopped up money and demanded more like a good piece of bread on a plate after a saucy meal.

This was the new Labour. Filled with Millennial and Gen z hopefuls that still had an ounce of morals and a smattering of hope for the future. All very tech dependent. He’d have a coronary coming out the shitter and seeing some puddle of them filming the next big viral dance video or hitting their vapes indoors.

Jokes on them, however. Their nicotine abuse would have them looking older than him within the decade.

A few days passed.

Malcolm went outside for a walk instead of launching basically his new Ollie Reeder out a window. These days, such activities would actually involve jail time. They’d go crying to the cops, the press and to mummy and there’d be actual repercussions for his actions…

His face crumpled into his hands as he leaned onto a bench.

Suddenly, like a bat out of fucking Hell, an armed battalion descended. Out of the mists and shouting, Kate Stewart emerged.

“Doctor, Zygons have returned! They’re in the sewers!” She shouted, helping a solider load him into a Range Rover.

He hadn’t the time to speak up or protest, the extreme speed and painful maneuvering they did in the process had winded him completely. He wasn’t a young man anymore. Such vast swathes of action upon his body weren’t so easy to recover from.

An iPad got shoved into his hand with screen glimmering. It was the entire sewage map for the south of England, some remarks showing something he had no fucking clue of.

“You’ve got the wrong fucking person, Twatty Katie.” Malcolm exclaimed, once he finally caught his breath.

Kate, slightly smugly sympathized: “Oh, do you have amnesia? This happened all the time in that one body of yours. Don’t worry.” She leaned over him and clicked a file. Basically a welcome back to being package. With this so-called Doctor’s faces glaring up at him and he whirled back to the so-called 12th face of his. The resemblance was frightening. Minus the poufy hair, which Malcolm wondered if he was a pouf, and the ageing rock star aesthetics, it was a perfect match.

Even down to the stress veins popped out.

He turned the iPad to her and put this man’s face next to his. “This ain’t fucking me, love. I’m not this fucking dude.” He thought maybe calling her love would get him one point. A little sweetness to dull the vinegar…

“Don’t play this game again! Time is of the essence! Call Clara! We can’t reach her!”

“Who the fuck is Clara?” He screamed, trying to slam his body into a door that would not unlock.

The Range Rover sped dangerously through the center of a roundabout. The entourage of Military vehicles followed in pursuit.

Malcolm slammed his palm into his forehead. The budget wasn’t stretched thin enough already!

The “love” didn’t work…

So he went back to his normal tactics of getting what he needed.

“Hey! Over-fucking-paid terrorists! You’re going to let me out before I take this ones fucking scarf and strangle you all so fuckin hard that you both see shitting stars before you go.” He pointed at Kate Stewart, jamming his finger into the space between them.

The words coursed out from Malcolm’s mouth the purest venom from a snake backed into a small space. Harassed, in a bad mood, plucked from his environment with no power except spray venomous spittle from his bared teeth and strike physically. Although the difference between a snake in a small space is that the humans that at least the snake had the power to permanently disfigure or kill it’s captors. Malcolm had no such luck. These people could wipe out his entire bloodline with a well-aimed barrage if he tried much of nothing…

After wearing himself our with his words, Malcolm resigned to fume silently.

Eventually the motorcade went into some underground bunker. He begrudgingly allowed himself to be dragged out and into it.

The taxpayer would flip their fucking lids if they got wind of that. He was gagged by the impressive size that seemed to defy all logics of physics and Euclidean mathematics. It was bigger on the inside!

He was led into a meeting room, cold water as well as cappuccino heaped with enough sugar to overwhelm an entire preschool’s population was waiting for him.

A team of scientists and soldiers seemed expectant. Like he was to give orders. Usually he loved giving orders. But this was the rare case he didn’t.

What little he gleaned from the iPad was that he resembled the most recent face of some shape-shifting Alien. Said alien had been working with them since the 70s. What was the immigration procedures for extraterrestrials, he felt himself wondering.

Of course the Tories previously to his regime would fucking allow a alien to live in the country and get such reverence. But not the untold number of decent fuckers fleeing absolute shit shows. He had a right mind to ring every prime minister and drive them to an assisted suicide.

“I’m Malcolm, not this fucking poof!” He grabbed at the iPad from Kate and tried to point at it. As if that would drive his point in a tad bit.

“Has he placed himself in a chameleon arch? Martha Jones mentioned these…” one scientist speculated.

“Jesus Christ…” Malcolm muttered rubbing his eyes and scratched his bridge of his nose. This was the point of no return for his already fragile sanity. He groaned.

He yet again resigned himself to one more, this time under his breath, string of expletives.

“What can I do to get me to leave this fucking doomsday bunker quickly?” He asked frankly.

“We have to train our eyes at these ships.” The screen flashed on, showing some massive blobs just past orbit of the Earth.

“They resemble our latest intel on Zygon space craft. Lower profile. They may be coming back on second thought from our last encounter…”

Malcolm groaned deeper.

“…and we may have to escalate and start an interplanetary war this time. Especially if the one leader still can shape shift into your associate, Clara and several of our employ. They could triangulate much of our defense systems using what’s blank in their retrieval of memory.” Some twee bitch in a cardigan and hipster glasses lectured.

“Yeah, just don’t do that.” He responded.

A flash of this associate, Clara, came onto the screen. He remarked that she was a hot piece of ass. He could see why this Doctor kept around. Smart and attractive. All big brown eyes and soft-looking skin…

They probably weren’t able to be reached for this fucking clusterfuck because he was shaft deep in her in some exotic, possibly off-Earth location. So he had to do. Fucking lovely.

Interplanetary war sounded expensive and deadly. Especially with shape shifters. Were all aliens shape-shifting? Were humans the only honest species that stuck to their same face that they were born with? (Minus plastic surgery.) (But even then…)

“Just fucking monitor them. Don’t pull the trigger until you see the whites of their eyes.” He waved his hands and dismissed.

“And what if they’ve already started invasion?”

“Put the fucking kettle on and entertain them until they get annoyed and fuck off on their own. I have faith in your abilities there!” He swathed, pointing absolute daggers at Kate.

Kate did some sort of hand signal.

“And do you think monitoring them is important? Important enough for finding loopholes for funding?” Ah, it was a trap.

“Well fucking played, Stewart!” He tossed the now-cold coffee at her and slammed down the cup, shattering it. He skittered the chair he was sat on backwards. It hit the wall with a huge crash-bang.

“We had no other choice, but to show you how important our work was!” She tried to reason.

“You cunt faced cow! Take me back now or I’ll make sure UNIT never fucking sees a pound of funding no matter what happens. I’ll sure as shit make legislation that fucking forbids you from so much as getting a penny!” He roared.

“So we have a deal?”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“We’ll release you if you give us funding…”

“Fucking fine, fuck, I’ll tell them to not cut the damn funding! We’ll gouge the normal armed forces. But if the rate of homelessness rises even a quarter of percent, I’ll order a goddamn drone strike on your fucking family’s estate. You hear that? Loud and fucking succinctly clear? You cockswabber?” He slammed his hands down in resignation.

Sometimes politics is about difficult choices and compromise, even if it means harming your constituents.

It went against Malcolm’s ethos, but at least he’d be free from this hell!

“We have your word, Tucker?” Kate edged closer, cautiously.

“Fucking, fine, yes, you do.” He slumped onto the ground, kicking a piece of shattered porcelain cup. The words came slow and sputtering.

“Good.”

Here’s led, crestfallen and slaw-jawed back to the motorcade and escorted back to 10 Downing. He went to the loo and looked at his reflection before splashing cold water in his face. He felt like he looked fifteen times older and ten times more grey than he did this morning. He pinched the edge of his nose and worked on his breathing.

He steeled himself before bursting into the Prime Minister’s office.

“So that damn budget proposal…” He drawled, a bit of the cup still lodged between his nail, dragging in the pain of that which was announcing, “…I have a cheeky fucking rework…”

#personal #i wrote this #Malcolm tucker #kate stewart #unit fic #doctor who #the thick of it #some allusion to whouffaldi #mistaken identity #political commentary #send help #peter capaldi #jemma redgrave #this fic is negative about unit #acab includes unit #Malcolm the hero of the normal person

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bentosandbox · 2 years

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some thoughts about Stultifera Navis’s armature 3 ft. Spalter op rec

Part 1 here / Part 2 here

Part 3 of my stupidity and also probably the post most people will be interested in because I accidentally translated the entirety of Spalter’s op rec before I wrote this so I will stick it somewhere...I tried to cover the skaspec dynamic as it went through the event but this is definitely not an exhaustive rundown of their interactions

Spoilers for Stultifera Navis as usual and the op rec

ok first things first There’s a parasite in my brain being like "you know your post sounded kinda ableist lol, you know it yourself that even getting through the day is already hard enough sometimes and you still want to ‘better myself’ lmao" yes yes calm down other me and anyone else I will explain

Basically I think there was a ‘mindless consooming is not good’ message but more importantly,

Recognising issues that aren’t outwardly destructive or seem minor at first glance are still issues worth trying to figure out/improve on: ie. I wish I could have read this story a good 10+ years ago instead of just being like “Well I don’t feel like jumping down a window so I’m fine! I’m fine! (is actually fucking depressed)” and only realise from some random tweet on the bird app that actually, not wanting to live can also be considered being suicidal. Wowza ok back on topic

1 Be cringe and be free

At the beginning of SN Skadi is fretting over Specter’s phasing between her different selves and asking if Gladiia really had to bring her along with them on their journey.

Sometimes when we’re dealing with someone that needs help, when we help them, we forget that they’re still their own person. And then Gladiia says this banger of a line:

BUH BUH BASED?? That’s right this was a swordfish appreciation post after all haha gotcha!! But really though, as Specter gets more and more of her memories back Gladiia is like “nice” but also says they’ll wait for her old self to come back,

And that she’s the same as them, she’s no less normal as they are.

It's not like she's completely 'fine' either; she still struggles with it as they head towards the Ship of Fools ™

o..i love abyssal hunters…. let’s get back on topic

On the boat she finally returns to her ‘old’ self, but says that she doesn’t really mind her nun-sona:

It’s not a real or fake thing, they’re both valid identities to her, she just likes one more.

And even thanks one of the deep-sea cultists for how she ended up like she is now

And outright says that being un-normal is okay!

2 Take it easy

As someone who feels compelled to always spend their time wisely and productively, stories with a ‘its ok to do useless things they're part of life’ message always hit me hard so let's dive(hehe) into Specter’s Operator Record:

In SN Specter says that Gladiia taught her how to dance from when she was small, and the op rec opens with her induction into the Abyssal Hunters

And teaches her how to dance.

It then cuts to Gran Faro after the events of SN where now Specter is teaching Skadi how to dance and then also asks her to teach herself how to sing.

They practice for a moment before Gladiia shows up and tells Skadi that Kalt’sit wants some more tests done, so she leaves for that and our swordfish and shark go for a walk.

While admiring a rocky outcropping with Gladiia, who just sees the rock as “abstract”, Specter offers an alternative; it is beautiful, because its a “coincidence created by time and nature,” as opposed to how statues in Aegir are made; rigid, troublesome, takes a lot of time and resources.

As if they momentarily switch positions of teacher and student, Specter offers Gladiia to try a kind of scale fin snack. Gladiia deems it unnecessary, which Specter agrees to, but offers again anyway.

It may not provide any practical use, but is useful in other ways.

She talks about the beauty of everyday occurrences in nature:

And then invites Gladiia for a dance with them using each other’s names instead of their titles or nicknames:

The temporary erasing of the responsibility of being Abyssal Hunters, the suspension of superior-subordinate hierarchy, a moment shared between just two regular “daughters of the ocean” !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes we forget that we can enjoy the most trivial things. Sometimes that smallest useless thing can be what keeps you from falling into the abyss. I know this too personally cough

Gladiia goes back to work and Specter spots Irene heading towards the lighthouse, and follows our little birdie–

Sike surprise rant time. Nevermind the fact during the whole story till the end Specter mostly sees Irene like a little pet bird to play around with, people can ship whatever you want(ther was a really great scene towards the end of the main story too actually), but I’m so fucking tired of EN-only children and their selective reading completely missing the point that Irene basically just went back to her father figure++'s grave(Remember the cool head Inquisitor from UT? He ded) to try and connect to him again because she felt lost and Specter was like cheering her up and these people are just being like GIRLS BE FRUITY!!

Don’t get me wrong either they look cute together but that is probably the worst fucking possible moment to do this. Imagine going to someone's grave and his daughter is standing with someone pretty next to the grave mourning/talking and your reaction is haha don’t they look so gay together!

Before anyone pulls a “It’s not our fault we can’t read CN to read the entire SN to find out he died there!” They literally mention it explicitly in the op rec so you didn’t even have to read the entirety of SN in the first place:

Specter plays with her for a bit trying to cheer her up, but also imparts a very important lesson:

Perhaps I am over reacting because this part hit me the hardest out of all the entire event 😄 I kept wondering if it was wise to keep this whole thing but you know what. it’s my own blog and how can I write about being cringe and free and then do the exact opposite

Before they part, Specter reintroduces herself as the 2 different identities she has now, but it’s not the shark and the nun:

Specter and the Aegirian; her duty and destiny intertwined into one that she cannot and will not escape from, but also herself.

Conclusion: I was trying to install a dark theme on my google sheets I use for translation and this came up and i thought it was very apt so here it is

In Specter1′s second op rec(en loc called it “I, Namely I” but idk I think “I am Me” is more succinct and to the point...) she sings a song (and sings it again in SN)

When she prayed♪The stars ceased to shimmer♪

And when she wept♪The night let out a smile♪

And as she lamented♪The anguish sprawled upon her madness♪

At the end of this op rec she sings it again but puts her own spin on it

When I pray ♪The stars ascend into the night♪

When I dance♪The two moons shed their black veils♪

When I smile♪The sea will witness my joy♪

Man I love stories about coping and dealing with trauma and taking agency;

Nihilism vs Existentialism;

Nothing in life matters! (derogratory) vs Nothing in life matters! (affectionate)

If you like stories like that a very recent and very accessible exploration of this is the kino of the year; Everything Everywhere All At Once yes the whole point of this was to make people go watch it (iirc digital release is next month or so so it should be even more accessible)

My friends also know this too well but I cannot stop recommending Heike Monogatari, directed by Yamada Naoko of Liz and the Blue Bird fame, its only 11 episodes too, it was so good it made me trawl through the entire (modern translation) of the original war epic

Bonus AKA don’t take this seriously unless you want to I guess I cannot stop you

Skaspec is the jesus/judas of Arknights because my friend said so and I believe it (does not provide any evidence) Ok but it’s so funny that Skadi just kuudere’d Specter and comrade zoned her in the op rec lol..you do all that and you’re like “that was just my duty” ok orca

To be honest though I love how Skadi technically has the most ‘monster’ within her(she has the blood of the thing she killed back then within her) but she’s undeniably the most ‘human’ of the trio and to Specter; She misses the old Laurentina so much and wants her back so bad but she also comes to respect that Specter is also part of Laurentina, is also Laurentina herself.

Last but not least

#arknights #stultifera navis #spoilers #bentotexto #skaspec #i told myself no more big text posts but man..gladiia's dream.....

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shartt-let · 4 months

Text

Chapter 1 - Welcome to The Company

Anan never expected to find herself here, lodged between smudged glass panels, staring down an old phone mounted on the wall. She thought she would escape the cycle, the cycle of human fodder sent into “The Company”, never to be seen again, and yet, when times got hard, most people made the same decision she did. She guessed that some people had more noble reasons, family to keep alive, kids to feed, parents to protect. Anan wasn’t lucky enough, or perhaps she was incredibly lucky, to have anyone but herself. With a sigh, she picked up the phone. It felt greasy in her hands and was heavier than she expected, it must have been old technology, maybe even pre-conflict.

“State identification code,” a robotic voice said into her ear.

“1903572”

“Please confirm identity, are you Anan Colley?” the voice changed pitch on her name.

“Yes,” a wave of fear ran through her when the voice didn’t respond.

“Identity confirmed, please insert employment card.”

Anan scanned the phone box for a card port, she inserted her card, giving a silent prayer that her money was well spent. The man back on Pliea assured her the card would work, It fucking better, she thought to herself.

“Please complete form.”

A form shot out from the slot under the phone, Anan glanced at it. The questions weren’t unusual as far as employment forms went, she had done dozens already, but for some reason, this one felt different. She picked up the pen that was chained to the wall next to her. After a few minutes she returned the form into the slot and picked the phone back up to her ear.

“Please wait, system processing.”

Anan looked around her, at the line of people waiting for their turn on this same phone. There had to be at least 50, and that was just the ones who made it through the door. As desperate as “The Company” seemed, they weren’t afraid to turn away those that didn’t seem to fit their ideal of the perfect employee. Anyone not tall enough, too frail, too old, or too young was turned away. Anan made eye contact with a young woman, probably not much older than herself, the woman had been crying, her eyes were red and puffy, but she stood tall. Anan looked away quickly, down at her worn sneakers, they better issue boots with the uniforms, she thought, these won’t last another month.

The voice on the phone startled her out of her thoughts, “Employment confirmed, welcome to The Company. Please continue to the transportation shuttle,” the voice cut off and Anan hung the phone back up on the receiver. She stood up and walked down the hallway to a set of doors labeled “Shuttle” and walked through.

The sunlight on Gordion never seemed to make it through the dense smog that covered the sky, in the two weeks she had been there, Anan hadn’t seen a single bit of sun. Not that there was much more back home, what with the pollution, but at least they had a few hours a day. She couldn’t imagine life on Gordion, but she supposed that she would have to.

A man in a grey work suit walked towards her, “You there, new hire?” he asked.

“Yes,” she tried to make her voice steady.

“Good, you’re just in time, follow me, the transport shuttle is leaving soon.” Anan had to run to keep pace with him. He led her to the ramp of a ship, it was smaller than the one that brought her to Gordion, but it was still bigger than she was used to.

She walked quickly up the ramp and was greeted by a frail, elderly woman holding a pile of folders. Her face seemed to shrink smaller once she saw Anan at the mouth of the ship, “You’re just in time. Take one of these and have a seat, we’re leaving now.” She forced a folder into Anan’s hand and walked through the door and into the cockpit.

Anan took a seat and opened the folder. It had a thin booklet with the word Training Manual printed in large red letters on the cover. Anan skimmed through it, but quickly realized that it was a complete waste of paper. Everything listed in it she already knew: stay alive, collect scrap for The Company, always make quota. She rolled her eyes and closed the folder; it clearly wouldn’t do her any good.

Anan lifted her head up to look at the others headed to their new assignments. It was a complete mix of people, just like in the recruitment office. Emotions ranged from terrified to depressed to bored. She couldn’t blame them, she herself didn’t know how to feel. Joy for finally getting out of her shithole town, fear for the work ahead of her. She furrowed her brow; emotion wouldn’t help her where she was going. She needed to be alert and prepared. She decided instead to focus on making a good impression to her new crewmates and hoped they wouldn’t be completely useless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anan snapped awake when the ship finally landed, she hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she supposed all the stress of the day finally got to her. She stretched her arms above her head once she stood up and walked out onto the tarmac of the landing strip. The air reeked of ship fuel, and she found it hard to breathe. Set up in front of the ship was a small booth. A line had already formed in the few moments she had taken to leave the ship, Anan didn’t know why. But she could tell it was important, so she walked to the back of the line and tried to occupy her racing mind as she waited for her turn.

Once at the booth the same frail lady stared at her. “Arm,” she said, coldly.

Anan just stared at the lady, unsure of what she wanted.

“Give me your arm, girl,” the woman repeated, harsher this time.

“-Oh, sorry. Here,” Anan rolled the sleeve of her jacket up and offered her forearm to the woman. She pulled out a small device, almost like a gun. As Anan was trying to figure out what it was, the lady held the end of the device to her arm and pulled the trigger. A sharp pain shot through Anan’s arm, she yelped, “Ow, what the hell is this?”

“Your identification chip. Scan it at the terminal up ahead and report to your ship.” The woman was already reloading the gun, “Next!” She called into the crowd.

Anan rubbed the red skin on her arm, a small dot of blood was appearing, and she wiped it away with her finger. At the terminal she held her forearm out to the small scanner. On the screen in front of her, she saw her own tired face reflected. When the hell did they take that photo, she wondered. She thought back to this morning at the center. They must have taken it at the phone booth, she concluded. Underneath her name and identification number, a ship number was listed: 588-L2.

After a few minutes of searching, she found the bay the ship was parked in. It was much smaller than the transport she had just taken. The metal plating was rusting along the seams and the deck had clearly seen better days. She shuttered internally at the thought of what laid inside, who she would be living with for the foreseeable future. Pushing the thoughts out of her mind, she climbed the latter on the side, and walked along the deck to the door. Here, she paused, unsure on the protocol. Was knocking the correct thing to do? Was there a button to press?

Her thoughts were interrupted when the doors slid open, seemingly on their own. She jumped back in shock and was immediately assaulted by the wafting stench of bleach. Better than BO, or something worse. Standing just inside the door was a young man, big round eyes staring at Anan expectantly.

“A girl? Pax, you didn’t say it would be a girl!” The man called to someone back in the ship. His smile widened as he held his hand out to her, “Nice to finally meet you, Anan, right? We just got your data sent to us from HQ, I’m Kristopher.” His smile didn’t faulter once. Hesitantly, Anan raised her hand to meet his. He grasped it firmly and gave it a good shake. “Oh, come on in, I’ll give you the tour!”

Anan smiled shyly and walked through. She realized immediately how useless a tour really was. In one look she saw the entire ship, and there wasn’t much to show. Ratty bunks, an old computer and navigation console, a rusting shower and toilet. Not exactly luxury.

But even so, Kristopher was able to explain everything with an animated fervor that Anan couldn’t have replicated even if she tried. She kept a polite smile as Kristopher went to every corner of the ship. He finally stopped talking when they came to an old man sitting on a chair. His large chest and stomach contrasted strangely to his thin legs. Anan realized she was staring for too long when he let out a loud “huff”.

Kristopher paused for a moment, “Right, this is Arturo. He’s our camera man, really, he must be the best in The Company.”

The man, Arturo, huffed again, but finally spoke this time, “Didn’t realize they were hiring females, numbers must be low.” He gave Anan one last glance before turning around and typing something into the computer.

Anan bristled, she wanted so badly to say something to him, but bit her tongue. Kristopher gave her a sympathetic smile and led her to the other man, this one standing at the console. He hadn’t turned around once since she had arrived.

“And this, Anan, is our fearless leader, Paxton.” Kristopher smile dulled slightly once Paxton turned around.

Paxton’s eyes were dark, as if they were all pupil. She took half a step back, “Good to be working for you, sir.” She said, unsure of how to really address him.

“Yeah, well, Kristopher’s a fucking liar. I’m not a goddamn leader, I’m just a regular employee, don’t call me sir.”

“R-right, well, that’s Paxton,” Kristopher directed his attention back to Anan once Paxton turned back to the console, “Any questions?”

“Uh, no, I guess not? Or well, yeah, what about a suit?”

Kristopher’s smile returned, “Oh right, you can use Karl’s old one, it might be a bit big on you, but it’ll work.”

Great, Anan thought, just what I need, more clothes that don’t fit. Still, she took the suit and slipped it on over her clothes. Surprisingly, it wasn’t horribly big, just a little loose around the groin and shoulders. She could even wear her jacket under it. The shoes on the other hand were a different story. She had to pull out the extra pair of socks from her bag and stuff them in the toes to make them fit, but at least they weren’t falling apart, unlike her sneakers.

Kristopher told her that they would take off to a nearby moon soon, so Anan decided to unpack her meager belongings into her bunk. She climbed the ladder to the top bed and squeezed herself in. It wasn’t very comfortable, but at least it was her own and didn’t reek of someone else, it just smelled vaguely of the same bleach. What the hell happened to this Karl dude?

As she made her bunk comfortable, she heard Arturo and Paxton muttering to one another, she heard something about a moon, assurance? Anan had never heard of it, but it must be one of the ones orbiting Pliea. The ship took off and as the silence of space took over, Anan allowed herself a few moments of rest.

When she climbed back down onto the ship floor, Kristopher again pulled her aside, “Look, I know that the training manual is complete shit, so why don’t I give you a quick run down of what you need to know before we get out there?” Anan nodded and Kristopher continued, “Right, well, basically everything exists to kill you, nowhere is safe, and never go anywhere alone. Most of what we encounter down there can’t be… delt with, so I hope, for your sake, that you’re a fast runner. You are, aren’t you?”

Anan blinked, “Uh, yeah, I guess? What kind of things will I be running from?”

“Nothing good,” Kristopher’s reply didn’t satisfy Anan, but she didn’t push it. The look in his eyes reminded her of a terrified animal. “Anyways, never grab more than you think you can handle, you are worth more than any scrap we find out there,” Anan figured he didn’t mean this as a compliment, “Also, what I said about never going anywhere alone, there may be times where you have to, in that case, always have a flashlight, otherwise you’re as good as dead.” Anan stared at him, trying to absorb everything she was just told. “Anyways, I think that’s about it, were about to land on assurance. It’s pretty safe, as far as these moons go, you feel ready?” she nodded, “good, let’s go.”

Anan grabbed her helmet from the table and held it under her arm, “So, do we all go in?”

“No,” Anan was surprised to hear Arturo’s voice again. She turned to find him staring at her, “I’ll keep an eye on you all here from the cams, works better for us all, especially with these,” he motioned to his legs.

Anan held her eye contact with him until she felt the ship stop moving. She turned towards the doors as they opened and slipped her helmet over her head when she heard the others do the same.

Kristopher looked back at her, “Hey, just stay with me, and we’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Anan dropped from the ships deck a cloud of dust puffed up from under her feet. The reddish-brown dirt made the entire landscape seem barren, which she assumed it was. There wasn’t a drop of water in sight. Large rock formations surrounded the ship and groups of birds flew overhead. Anan jogged to catch up to Kristopher and Paxton who were already several yards ahead of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what looked to be a floating ball. She stopped and pointed it out to the two, “Hey, guys, what’s that?”

“Oh, stay away,” Kristopher responded quickly, “Those are bees, we see them sometimes around here, just don’t go near them and they won’t bug you.”

The three of them continued their hike through the arid rocks. “The base is a little way up this hill, its not much farther now. You alright Anan?” Kristopher called from ahead of her. She held up her hand in a thumbs-up to him, smiling inside of her helmet.

Once at the top of the hill, Anan saw a ladder mounted to the side of a wall, at the top was a huge entrance, bigger than anything she had ever seen. The curved top reminded her vaguely of the store houses back on Pliea where they kept raw iron when she was young, before the conflict. But the scale of this building was unlike anything she had seen. She saw Paxton standing at the base of the wall, looking back at her. She caught his eye for just a moment before he turned and started up the ladder.

“Its huge, right?” Kristopher was now the one staring and she turned to face him fully, “I remember seeing one like this for the first time, its hard to understand at first.” Anan nodded, not saying anything. He was right, she thought. The fact that humans could build such towering structures on such a desolate planet. She thought back to the lessons she had about the times before the conflict in school. How much of System 0482, her system, was colonized by the Lexion alliance for its raw resources. When the alliance had first discovered iron beneath the surface of the various moons, it was only a matter of time before they had been bled dry. Now, after the conflicts and various failed revolts, all that was left of the years of mining were the scraps of equipment and processed metal. “Hey, you ok?” Kristopher’s bright voice pulled Anan out of her thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry, lost in thought I guess.” Anan began climbing the ladder. She heard Kristopher behind her. Once at the top she found Paxton waiting at the entrance door. He was busying himself with the various objects attached to his belt. Anan could pick out a radio and a flashlight just like the one she had on her own belt.

“Ok,” Paxton finally spoke once Kristopher was off the ladder, “we have a pretty low quota to hit, probably because of you,” he motioned to Anan, “But I still say we split up. Kristopher, you take her, and I’ll go on my own. Kris, you have a radio, so do I and Arturo, so if you need anything, let us know. Otherwise, good luck and uh,” he looked directly at Anan this time, “Don’t die, it’ll be a pain to get another replacement so soon.” With that, Paxton turned and entered the facility, leaving Anan and Kristopher standing, staring at the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N

I really hope that you guys enjoyed!! Please let me know what you think in the comments. I LOVE this game so much and have put wayyyy too much time into developing lore to not post this somewhere. Huge shoutout to my lovely roommate for beta reading this to me, I love you so much.

To all those interested, I will also be posting this on AO3 under the username @/Shartlet.

#lethal company #lethal company fanfiction #fanfiction #horror

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like-rain-or-confetti · 1 year

Note

Vanity Headcanon in response to the previous headcanon: Vanity does such sadistic things, like writing angst, not creating a masterlist, etc. bc of her trauma. Specifically, her doing it is an example of her self-sabotaging tendencies where she holds people to this unattainable standard (finding her fics which is nearly impossible with lacking tags a d tumblr beung tumblr for instance) and then becoming distraught and overwhelmed because of the surplus of her work and simultaneously relieved because of old works she might not be as proud of having a slimmer chance of being found. And then she teases ppl for it, happy that they desire her work and secretly relishing over the slight power she has over them, giving way to issues with control.

Girl, this was one to UNPACK 😂😂 Buckle up bois, we getting into my psyche 😂. Can't wait until I regret being so honest 😂

I reckon I do self sabotage a lot of things. Not so sure if i do with fics 😂 but fuck it, let's get into my mindset on fics 😂

I have a specific adoration for bittersweet angst. Like to be sad something is over with or a reminiscing a memory. If it's a break-up and there's nothing bittersweet about it. Nothing but hurt and I tend not to read it because for me it can fall into being told things are shit but not really going into it. I feel things rather deeply I'd say in life and naturally that comes out in fics. If I have to write something sad like death, I want to express the full thing, the pain, the hurt, the loss and grief and why those feelings are there. Kind of romanticising the everyday moments hoping that one day I can look back on my life and romanticise all the things I have done and who with. Rather than focus on the end goal of feeling successful by how much money I have, what my career was, how many kids I had and where they went to college. All things that was instilled in me at a young age, I want to be able to think. "In this picture, I might not remember how old I was but it made me really happy. In that moment, I was happy where I was and felt loved. I spent time with this person and that was enough." I want to focus more on memories and the connections I make rather than assets. I think that rubs off in my writing and because I'm a sentimental sappy lil shit, it usually comes out in angst.

Should probably throw in that I have mental illnesses and so sometimes it's hard to write about happy fluffy shit that doesn't make me think about what I'm missing, ehat i should be and blah de blah. 👀😂

But yes, my fics are very reflective because I do a lot of reflecting myself with some shitty things that have happened in my life and my pure dissatisfaction of how those experiences have shaped me and my struggles today so you might be onto something with the trauma part 😂

So scrolling back to a blog ago I decided after many many many many years of imagining stories in my head to cope with my struggles that I would put them on the Internet like other people did. I was terrified and made sure my identity was kept hidden. No one would ever find out who I was and those who did know me would never know this is what I do. I didn't even expect to do it very long but this...omg this is the highlight. I didn't think they'd get much attention. When I first did this, I was posting 11 stories a day.

Fast forward to the first time I'm asked about a masterlist...

I'm between 2-4 thousand fics in with no knowledge on how to make them. Vanity isnt tech savvy and half the time technology won't cooperate with Vanity. I'm well into a year or two of doing this.

Now I might be an arsehole for this thinking but that was a big old fuck thaaaaat. I'm working at the time, I have college and a job to hold down after that. It was a big ol' NOPE. Not possible. Plus, it's fine, people will grow bored of me and I'll fade away OR again, I won't be doing this for very long anyway.

I was wrong.

So what did I do? Made a tag system. You want this prat? Search the name, you'll find said prat here with the rest of him.

Then I was made aware that tumblr decided if you so much name drop a prat then said fics WILL BE INCLUDED. This was a problem BUT IM IN TOO DEEP AND NOW OVER 4000 FICS IN.

I'm also becoming aware that people aren't forgetting me. Infact I have more followers than I've ever had in my life and its approaching 1.7k. I have a rather nasty panic attack because it felt like all eyes were on me and i wanted to run like fuck...roughly ten mins into said panic attack, I deleted that blog.

ROLL IN THIS BLOG. Guess what, Vanity still can't make a bloody masterlist. People are screaming at me because they thought the lost me for good and I'm coming to terms with an alarming amount of people actually caring about my fics. But people weren't supposed to! This was just a random person trying to have a fun tome with her imagination that could only dream of people liking her stuff...AND IT WAS HAPPENING!?

But then a new challenger! Ya gal realises that she's written all these fics...and doesn't want them to be noticed but then why have I put them on the Internet for people to see!? Wtf!? Yet I keep going. "Please, don't see this. Please. Come on. Don't notice this." *presses post* "I'm actually shit at writing but it's fun, as long as people don't notice-* *reaches over 100+ notes*

Then the master lists come up AGAIN. She still doesn't understand how to do them and now I'm at 8000. Someone OFFERS to make one and I refuse because that's torture for me to even think of never mind let someone else do that. Live your life babe, I am not worthy of that valuable time.

Now I face intense imposter syndrome that I can't rationalise with. Feel giddy when I get feedback and grow confident to push my boundaries, get insecure and hide back into my hidey hole. Not to mention the constant feeling of letting people down when I don't consistently post and better yet, anything I do write is utter garbage and my supporters deserve better.

So kind of, more of me not knowing how to handle this stuff nor myself so I take it a day at a time and hiss at the thought of a masterlist. It hurts to think about. Like say I go through all the bother of making a bible of masterlists that'll require masterlists for the masterlists and then I have to UPDATE IT ALL THE TIME?

Nah, I have over 60 WIPs jumping around in my brain, I don't have the mental capacity. 😂 I mean I went into this thinking I'd grow out of it. IM STILL HERE AFTER ALL THESE YEARS THINKING "OH WHAT IF I BECAME AN AUTHOR?" Only to be realise I might have exhausted myself with the fanfic writing and even more so the strong feeling no one would want that. None of the characters I write about are mine and that's who the people are here for. Not to mention I DONT HAVE THE CONFIDENCE 😭 AS USUAL.

Ugh, I feel sick just thinking about all of this.😂

I don't think I just do. Writing is the do. Masterlists is the thinking.

props to those who read ALL OF THIS. You troopers, smooches ❤️

#my blog is scattered just like my brain #oops my mental health is showing.

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