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hms-no-fun · 2 years

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As a writer with an inclination to write their own Homestuck fanfiction, how did you figure out the world and larger events happening in the world of godfeels? (such as Epigone, or the EWL) Like how did it travel from Homestuck fanfiction into a complicated Homestuck based universe?

the single sentence explainer for how we got here is simple: i’m a dialectical materialist at heart. mild apologies right out the gate here, this answer is a real winding journey that (as per usual for these things when they become essays) might not even answer your question at all! also, i use June’s deadname a fair bit in this post just to avoid confusion as to when in her life i’m referring to, so if that’s the sort of thing that troubles you, be warned. anyway, let’s go ahead and dive in after the break:

the tonal/generic character of any fiction begins at its conception. imagine you invite a wide array of writers to reimagine or continue homestuck in any way they liked; what would a writer who loves homestuck produce, vs a writer who hates homestuck, vs a writer who thinks they can fix it, vs a writer who’s only interested in one character, vs a writer who’s only interested in themes, vs a writer who’s only interested in the lore? probably safe to say they’d all produce wildly different fics. so before we even get to the specific content of the work in question, we can already guess how the shape of a narrative might naturally flow out from the material conditions of its artist’s perspective.

this is (as you’ll certainly agree if you’ve read the chapter 8 epilogue) rather a theme in godfeels.

so, to the material conditions of my perspective: i wrote gf1 because i felt something deeply, compellingly tragic about a young definitely cisgender man with extreme depression and self-isolation issues possessing arguably the most existentially nightmarish superpower imaginable. everything godfeels is starts at this philosophical quagmire, which for me was always focalized around John and Jade, the two characters i related to the most. where John has this tremendous power and is terrified of using it, Jade has tremendous power but is actively prevented from using it in the ways she wants to. there’s an assertion by John in gf1 that the “cost” of his deal with Typheus was in fact Jade’s near-total isolation during the three year trip, which he tried to make up for but never could, and imo that’s where aaaaaaaaaaaaaall the shit 3.1 would become really has its roots. it suggests how a person with infinite power can be rendered powerless by circumstance and yet still bear the burden of their choices, and how systems compel lateral violence for the sake of their own perpetuation. that is to say, sburb (by way of Typheus) forced John to rob Jade of her agency in order to ensure the birth of a new universe, yet still he blames himself for what felt to him like a choice he made. is he wrong? i don’t know. it’s impossible to know, honestly, which is what makes it such a compelling philosophical question. you can’t put this thought to bed, because even as we all know that There Is No Ethical Consumption Under Capitalism, we also have to believe that there’s more that we could be doing, and if there’s more we could be doing then why aren’t we doing it? you chase yourself in circles trying to puzzle these things out, and the more you think about them the more they eat away at you.

it’s a pretty rote observation at this point that what makes superheroes interesting is their limitations, but i think we tend to simplify the worldbuilding possibilities of that observation down to “everyone with superpowers has to have a kryptonite.” that is to say, we’re taught that fictional strength is only as interesting as its equal & opposite weakness, as if physical power can only be compelling in fiction if it has a direct, linearly nullifying antithesis. this sucks because it just encourages everyone to write superheroes whose biggest problem is that some guy has a special gun, encourages stories exclusively focused on superheroes tracking down guys with special guns and putting them in forever jail so that the superheroes can do literally anything they want with no oversight, which is fine because naturally people in that position of power have to earn that power and would simply choose to not be evil. THIS IS EVERY MARVEL MOVIE AND I’M SICK OF IT. what interests me about homestuck as a universe is that these characters, by the end, largely have no outside limitations, no kryptonite, no guys with special guns. Dave doesn’t stop using time travel because it’s, like, bathing him in deadly radiation or whatever, he stops using time travel because it’s fucking scary and weird having to watch yourself die all the time! in homestuck, the limitations on our heroes are primarily internal, relating more to psychological and philosophical hangups than anything. the question in homestuck is rarely “if i became an all-powerful god, who would stop me?” but rather far more often “if i became an all-powerful god, would i still enjoy being alive?” selfhood is SUCH a fixation of homestuck, i think you could argue that every major plotbeat in the story is a result of someone desperately flailing for purchase beneath the crushing weight of their existential insignificance. what i found interesting about John after the homestuck credits was the thought of him having regrets about choices he made in the past, knowing he could go back and try to fix them, and (mostly) choosing not to. knowing at every turn that he could choose to live his life like a groundhog day scenario, effectively perfecting the personal lives of everyone in his orbit, and almost certainly face zero consequences for it.

the consequence that stops him is internal- the consequence of knowing that he would have given up all of his humanity for the sake of a reality he has decided to puppeteer, based on no authority other than a power he did nothing to earn and has no right to possess.

gf1 was not written with continuation in mind. gf2 was started without the intention of continuation- what i wanted initially was for each of the three parts to focus on these personal philosophical issues. how do you process your own anger and disappointment at being let down by people you trust when you can literally murder them and then unmurder them without consequence. just knowing that’s possible and not doing it would already fuck up your brain- imagine what’d happen if you actually did it! this, of course, kinda became the central question of gf2 once Dirk showed up and decided to make a mess of things. it was only in the latter stages of 2.2 that i started thinking about this cast in parallel with the epilogues, which eventually pays off in Jane’s reveal of Dirk’s unfinished ship and the Rosebot in his basement. I didn’t intend this at the time, but i should have known the instant i canonized godfeels as an offshoot of the epilogues timeline that the existential weight of that would drive me insane enough to eventually write three novels worth of prose in as many months.

but there’s one specific hypothetical thread with gf2 that always haunted me. see, my plan at the start was for June’s coming out to go poorly, which would lead her to decide that she was The Bad June and that the only way to give herself a happy life would be to retcon to her childhood and convince her preteen self that he was actually a she. but alongside this, i wanted June to take Jade with her- because again, June feels tremendous guilt over her sister’s narratively imposed loneliness and sees it as this thing she always wishes she could fix. so she would bring Jade back with her and say basically, you can go keep yourself company for a while, or find someone to be your friend. then we’d spend a lot of time rummaging over the melodrama of that, and end with June ultimately deciding not to forcefem her past self, while Jade does choose to retcon something in her own life, which would have a similar effect as the eventual Silverbark reveal in that she’d dramatically kick someone’s door down and announce herself as New And Improved Jade just in time to save the day in some sense.

obviously, elements of this made it into gf2. i’ve talked before about how the “should i retcon my gender” question ultimately turned out a lot less compelling than i expected it to be. it’s an interesting thought but when you dig down to it, especially with the mechanics of retcon as i understand them, you realize it’s kind of a pointless choice narratively because our June wouldn’t be able to experience the end result of that retcon anyway. the only reason she was able to return to the main narrative post-retcon in homestuck proper was because she replaced an apparently identical version of herself who was killed by Typheus to make room for her. what’s June gonna do, kill the version of herself who got to be a girl her whole life and take her place? i know my writing skews towards edgy sometimes but i’m not mark millar for christs sake, i do actually have standards

so, okay, let’s bring this damn thing to some kind of a point shall we?

i lay out all this shit at such length because, well, your question is a question i ask myself quite often! how the hell did we get here, anyway??? how do you get from “i have depression and i think i might be trans” to “all sentient life in the omniverse will be annihilated in a war between ideaspace and bodyspace started by Jade’s secret lost daughter”??????

but i think if you were to read gf1 and the ch8 epilogue back to back, you’d see that we really haven’t come very far at all. it STILL surprises me just how easily it all wound up slotting together- i didn’t even consult gf1 while writing the epilogue until the third draft! i think it worked out this way because the core motivation for writing this series has always been philosophical. VV’s metaphysical roadblocks to interacting with canon are just the literalized material implications of June’s existential dread at standing outside the omniverse and witnessing its paradoxical infinity. the earth being split in two and the collective cast subsequently scattered to the winds may in the moment feel like a wild leap from the relatively down-to-earth stakes of gf2-- well, no, see, i actually already disagree with this framing. i’ve joked for a long time that the progression from gf1 to gf3 is what happens when a slice of life story becomes a space opera, but that was before i really, truly understood what gf3 wanted to eventually become. now that 3.1 is conclusively finished, though, i see that the narrative trappings are merely the aesthetic window dressing of a story that really has not changed all that much from its starting point except in scope. if there has been any major thematic alteration, it’s simply in taking questions that were previously limited mostly to June’s perspective and applying them to the entire cast. so in that way, yes, the shape of the narrative has changed-- but has it? really?? because gf2 was supposed to be a story about self-actualization, but that got hijacked by a guy who wanted June to remain static and unchanged so he could use her as a weapon. gf3 was also supposed to be a story about self-actualization, and it also got hijacked by a guy who wanted June to remain static and unchanged so that it could use her as a weapon.

and gf1 was the story of someone who felt guilty for trying to compel someone else’s self-actualization instead of working on her own.

part of how we got here as well has to do with my own political evolution. i always wanted to see how June might try to build a better world, but every time she did, she got immediately sidetracked by some Plot Bullshit. it led to a lot of cool stuff, but it also frustrated me to no end! by the time we hit the moon war in 3.1, i was genuinely pulling out my own hair over the hole i’d dug myself into. i’d wanted the moon war to be kind of a parody of the boring “end of an avengers movie” style mob invasion, but instead i just sorta... wound up doing one? chapter 8, actually, was already a long-in-production logistical nightmare for me waaaaay before i’d had a single thought about ideaspace. maybe ch8 blew up the way it did in part because it allowed me to correct course and find something in the morass that genuinely compelled me. i was so stubbornly dedicated to the idea of keeping a lid on as much of Jade’s side of the story as possible, to relegate 3.1 exclusively to June’s psychodrama as the metatextual war of attrition that the audience must endure in order to get to what i thought of as The Good Stuff. but all that that really accomplished in the text, i think, was to ferry June around from existential quandary to existential quandary until the plot deigned to finally happen to her. don’t get me wrong here, i’m extremely proud of 3.1 and i don’t think it could have wound up being what it was if it hadn’t come about the way it did- once again, i’ll remind you i’m a materialist.

but that’s just it, you see? the story’s problem was my problem was our problem. June has these moments of wanting to listen to what The People have to say, of wanting to improve society somewhat, and i always INTENDED that to become one of the central pillars of this story. how can you interrogate power without spending time with those subject to that power? and on the flip side, in the gf3 prologue we see how Jade helped striking workers and fought space cops etc etc, and yet there’s a distinct unease in the accumulation of those stories, at least for me. why is this the route Jade takes? how did she get from that, and from her overall cutesy bubbly demeanor, to the cold hardened high-ranking member of what sure seems to be a cosmic private military corporation that we’ve come to know? there’s something Troubling there, just as there’s something Troubling in June’s consistent status as a plot object. they’ve almost swapped places in a way, don’t you think?

in examining these Troubles, i realized that the unifying factor was me trying to find ways for an individual to make the world a better place. having just lived through the good and the bad of CHAZ first hand (that’s the capitol hill autonomous zone btw, a political occupation that occurred here in seattle through june 2020), i knew very well that all the most impactful actions happen at the behest of organized comrades acting in solidarity with one another. this is a huge motivation behind godfeels becoming a full-cast production, because i don’t see the political dimension of this story as separate from any of its other dimensions. that is to say, just because this is a homestuck fanfic doesn’t mean i get to set my convictions aside and half-ass some uplifting gobbledygook that has no relationship with the world we live in today. i’m a materialist, damn it! the philosophy, the politics, the romance, the action, the dialogue, the formal experimentation, the character diversity, the ever-increasing scope, all of it flows out naturally from the selfsame kernel of thought which compelled its creation in the first place.

which, uh. well. here’s something andrew hussie said on formspring that i’ve found myself thinking about a lot:

“i think writing in voice is pretty simple. its mostly about consistency. choosing a set of parameters and committing to them absolutely. it can even be a shitty set of parameters and a crappy character. but if you keep hammering away at that voice, people will say, damn thats some pretty good characterization there! i mean... they might be WRONG. but theyll SAY it.

the advantage in being so obstinate with the profile you choose is then any deviation you make will be very noticeable. this is to your advantage, if you can control these deviations with purpose and precision. such deviations can serve as the pillars for character development. they cant happen without the consistency first. and ironically, without the consistency, they DO happen. for the wrong reasons. because you fucked up.

syntax is not a typical part of voice in most works but its one ive latched onto aggressively in HS and perhaps solidifies the illusion of strong voice. in fact ive become so conscious of syntax-voice, i noticed for some reason when answering these questions ive gravitated towards an ad hoc syntax, no caps, no apostrophes, otherwise punctuated. i am fearful of deviating from it. because it will mess with your heads if i do. and mine.

See, look. Instant syntax upgrade. It's hard to believe this is even the same person talking!

Inconsistency can be one of great calling cards of utter trash. Glorious inconsistency, artful inconsistency even, I think is something to behold. It's like a window into a defective mind. These are principles I employ in SBaHJ. They interest me for some reason. Will this sentence end with a period? No, looks like it won't. But this one will. Why was that particular word misspelled? Why not just misspell every word? That would make no statement. It would invite no speculation into a uniquely defective thought process.”

where godfeels is a homestuck fanfic, it’s in my wholesale adoption of andrew’s syntax and repetition/deviation. where godfeels is a “homestuck-based universe” as you put it, i think it’s in how i’ve taken these largely mechanical concepts and applied them to philosophy and metaphysics. which, christ, what a thing to say! clearly this answer has gone on too long because i’ve been whittling away at it for like a month now and feel no closer to unearthing the true answer.

i think it’s just a matter of knowing what your seed is. why are you writing this story? what’s compelling about it? what questions does it make you ask, what emotions does it make you feel? if you can, as an artist, have some sense of what drives you to create the very thing you’re creating, then you always have a compass handy when you need to decide what route to take. if you have that compass, you can blow up a slice of life story into a space opera and make it feel natural in your sleep. you have to be honest with yourself and egolessly introspect on your own proclivities. ask yourself what you believe as a person, and ask yourself if your story lives up to those beliefs. for me, at least, a story truly becomes itself when i can hold its soul in my mind and let it guide me. a story becomes itself when it knows that you know what it is, and you trust each other to do the work as it needs to be done. maybe that sounds daunting and alienating especially if you’re just interested in writing fluff fic or whatever, but i think the same thing applies. ideas exist in space, after all, and that includes silly ones! if you know that soul and respect it, i certainly find that it frees me up to bring all kinds of wild shit into the fold because it all exists along the same ideological axis for me, because i as a person am just like this about absolutely everything.

i don’t know why this turned into writing advice at the end. i hate giving writing advice. don’t listen to me, i’m literally a goat

#godfeels #homestuck #writing process #andrew hussie #philosophy #fanfiction #existential dread #june eg8ert #silverbark #jade harley #sarahposts

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nobodysuspectsthebutterfly · 3 years

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Hello! If you don't mind me asking, are you planning on watching House of the Dragon? I'm personally unsure about it. I was cautiously optimistic about it since D&D are not involved, but the recent casting news have been ugh disappointing imo. What do you think?

Hey anon! Sorry to say I kind of mind you asking because my inbox is still closed (to everyone except my secret Santas, which is why the ask page is accessible at all), but then I realized it’s possible if you’re on the mobile app only, you haven’t seen said note in my askbox, or my FAQ, or anything of the sort. And with older metas of mine being reblogged recently, it’s possible you may be confused. (I hope you’re on mobile only and not just ignoring my requests.) So I wanted to inform you of that... but also, y’know, I kind of wanted to make a post about the HotD cast anyway? And this ask is as good a prompt as any... so, you’re lucky, but please don’t push your luck. ;)

So, straight up: I currently have no plans to watch House of the Dragon. HBO is not getting any of my goddamn money, I don’t trust like that. And hunting down illegal livestreaming sites is a pain in the ass and I regret ever doing it for GoT, as well as regretting getting drunk every weekend enough to dampen my senses to ever tolerate that show. Yeah it’s different showrunners and writers, I know. It’s still (mostly) the same executives at HBO and even if the pervert producer is gone (or is he?), you know they still just want to sell sex and violence and dragons to an audience that thinks fantasy is for geeks.

Also, considering that Fire & Blood’s story of Dance of the Dragons has very little actual narrative or dialogue, and the historical record is deliberately untrustworthy, that gives them pretty much full rein to do whatever they like with the story and characterization and words without even being slightly obliged to GRRM at all. Furthermore, since the story is wholly political with virtually none of the magical side of ASOIAF (excepting dragons), and honestly does not have much in the way of themes or depth that main ASOIAF or even D&E has, I think it will be very hard for an adaptation to show even those brief sparks of quality that used to make me wistful GoT couldn’t be that good all the time and eventually just made me frustrated and depressed. Note I do like the history and characters of the Dance despite myself, despite its many many many textual issues, but I don’t need to see an adaptation, I have a very visual imagination. I don’t watch a lot of television to begin with, I don’t see why I should start again with this.

However, I’m not going to avoid spoilers or discussion, and I’ll probably follow the show the tumblr way, through gifsets and video clips and people bitching on their blogs etc. If, somehow, by some miracle of good screenwriting and acting, the show manages to transcend its source material, I’m sure I will be informed. And then, if and only if then, I may try watching. (Without, of course, giving HBO any of my goddamn money.) We shall see.

(Though I certainly don’t know why anyone in Targ standom would ever watch a Dance adaptation considering almost every Targaryen and everyone else in the story is terrible except Helaena and the kids, and considering how the story ends, unless y’all are gluttons for punishment? (I do not comprehend hatewatching, sorry.) It’ll probably be fun at first to see the adventures of those “precious silver douchebags” (to borrow a friend’s tag), but eventually rocks fall, everyone dies, including the girlboss you know you’ll hope the story will be changed enough that she succeeds. Just letting you know now, she won’t.)

That said. I’ve been following the casting news and I think the hate/fear/wild screaming is entirely overblown. Yeah, I know, but wait, just listen. On Friday I officially welcomed @naomimakesart to the “favorite character is now played by an actor who looks nothing like most fanart and is mostly known for wildly different roles” club. I still remember that day in September 2009 when my brother texted me “yarp”... and that right there is the thing. Yeah. Rory McCann looks very little like most pre-GoT Sandor fanart... but many fans grew to love him anyway. (There are some who never did, of course. And yeah the character went off the rails by the end, but truly, who didn’t. Having seen his audition, having spoken to him and heard him wistfully talk about book scenes he loved, I’m convinced if Rory had only been given Sandor’s actual scenes and such, he would’ve killed it. Sigh. Deep, deep sigh.)

And Rory isn’t the only one. Neither of the actors for Jaime and Cersei were considered “beautiful” enough at first. I recall very clearly people bitching about Nikolaj Coster-Waldau (about his nose particularly?) because they had wanted Tarzan-era Travis Fimmel to be Jaime. (Seeing people bitch because current-Fimmel isn’t playing Daemon made me laugh out loud for both BEYONCE?! meme -type “why would you ever cast him omg he doesn’t fit my headcanon Daemon at all”, and amazing amounts of fandom flashbacks.) Lena Headey was “too square-jawed”, “too mean-looking” (since at the beginning you should never be able to guess she’s evil), “too dark-complected”, “too mannish”, not at all attractive enough. (Tricia Helfer was the most common “but I wanted” for Cersei, btw.) And of course “they don’t remotely look like twins, ugh!” Note, there’s receipts for all of this, none of it is made up. (Unfortunately.) Those two actors are just the ones whose casting wank I recall most clearly, particularly because oh how the turn tables.

Also. You know, there’s a post with Matt Smith and Mark Simonetti’s TWOIAF Daemon going around with shrieks of horror... and I’m finding it maddening in a “am I crazy? am I the crazy one???” way, because Matt looks like the painting. Their features are not that dissimilar.

Same deepset eyes. Same cheekbones of doom. Same thin lips. Same protruding chin. Same high forehead. Same invsible eyebrows ffs. Matt has a squarer jaw, and a longer more rectangular face, and a wider nose, but considering that Daemon’s features are not described in the text, and this is the only official ASOIAF artwork that shows Daemon’s face straight on, I can for sure see why he was probably shortlisted to begin with. And that’s not even getting into to his role in The Crown, which I’ve heard is very well played with politics and palace intrigue... and if you doubt Smith can play seductive/roguish and/or evil (depending on how you LARP as a Westeros historian), or look good with long hair... well. I do not want to watch the movie, but this trailer is disturbingly enlightening.

And as for Rhaenyra... y’all know this show is starting at the beginning of the story, right? When she’s a teenager? Not a voluptuous MILF? Yeah, Emma D’Arcy doesn’t look like a Magali Villeneueve painting (though who does, good lord), but you know who she does look remarkably like? Harry Lloyd.

Same jawline. Same nose. Same thin lips. Same sharp cheekbones. Notably, same kind of sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes as Matt Smith. HBO evidently has a concept of a “Targaryen look” that’s a little bit quirkier than supermodel-Greek statue-gods on earth, yeah, fine. But it’s consistent, and they look like family, and that-- that is good casting.

And yeah, in a few months to a year or so, you’ll see them in costume and wigs and makeup, you’ll see them in motion and speaking lines, and go Oh. That’s different. Never mind. And while people will make fanart of the show depictions of the characters and those will probalby get popular, they’ll also keep doing fanart of their pre-show headcanons, and those too will be popular. (God knows when I draw or visualize book!Sandor, Rory does not come to mind, lol.) Either way, there’s no reason to panic. We’ll live.

(Though will we live well? Got to wait on the writing and showrunning for that, alas.)

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maemi324 · 4 years

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Seasonal

Hey there friends! As I am posting this it is my Birthday! I’m a whole 25 years old. I.FEEL.ANCIENT. But I decided to post this blurb that came to me, talking about seasonal depression, which is hitting hard as it’s starting to get cooler and becoming fall. To be clear, this is just my experience with Seasonal depression, everyones is different. It’s something that affects me, and many others, in different seasons, so I hope this little blurb will give you some form of joy- regardless of whether or not you have the depressions. It was actually kind of hard to write, but I got through it! Warnings: Talk of seasonal depression, numbness the like. Only been seen by one other person, and only edited by me. So I probably missed some stuff. Let me know what you think!

The day was cool and dreary, overcast that hung in the air. Cloudy days themselves weren’t bad, but the cool breeze nipping at the previously warm air kept you inside, scrolling through your phone.

It was a myriad of posts, those glad for the cooler weather and excited for the spooky holiday on the rise. You huffed a small laugh as the skeleton song popped up onto your page for the umpteenth time in that hour alone.

Even still, it was hard to see a constant reminder of the bleak months ahead as you tried to push it from your mind. But there was no fooling your body, or your mind. Seasonal depression was starting to kick in, and kick hard. The fucker never played fair anyway.

You were so tired, arms heavy as lead as they shook, a feeble attempt at keeping your phone from falling out of your grasp. Your mind was filled with the overcast clouds, no room for anything but sleep. You went to bed tired, you woke up tired and had the hardest time staying awake.

You leaned back further into the couch you were sitting on, looking onto the wall that held the crystals you gave to Keigo. Even with the sun gone, there was still enough light to show a few gentle prisms.

Though the colors were pretty, it didn’t alleviate the frown on your face. You had read that getting up and doing things would help you wake up or at the very least stay awake. Active, but simple things, cleaning up your bedroom, brushing your teeth and getting ready for the day.

How could you when your arms refused to lift for most things, hands feeling too smooth to actually grip, not that you had any product on there to cause said sensation. Whenever you got up, your knees felt like they were jello, though you got from place to place. Was it just in your head? Of course it was, but getting out of your head was the hard part.

You turned to look over at the end table beside the couch, only then remembering to turn on the happy light you were advised to get. You weren’t entirely sure it actually helped, it didn’t mimic the sun's golden hue, despite how bright it was, it maybe made the room a bit warmer. But it was still such a cold light, much like hospital lights that made your eyes ache after a while.

You pass another video, someone putting up fake skeletons whilst what you assumed to be a friend ran about in cheer for the cooler weather once again. You refrained from making any snide remarks in your head, it wouldn’t be fair to ruin their happy time. After all, Your summer could be their fall.

Your eyes gazed onto the clock. It’s only nine am ??! It was hardly close to lunch time even.

Irritation flashed within you, stomach gurgling in agreement. You hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, though you knew you should have. Food currently had no taste, no matter the amount of spices you added. It didn’t matter what was made, it never filled you and your stomach raged on.

You shuffled further into the blankets you covered yourself with, your tank top and shorts hardly keeping you warm, but you refused to wear pants, they just got tangled in the blankets and felt so constricting. You glanced to the kitchen, a glare on your features as the usually wonderful treats in there mocked your current state of taste bud.

You focused back onto your phone, ignoring your stomach for yet another random haul a user got for Halloween. Your eyes slowly began to fall closed, the music in the video, despite its energy, lulling you into a sense of...calm.

Thunk!

Your heart hammers hard against your chest, eyes wildly glancing around for the noise source.

Instead of monsters clawing from the grey shadows of daylight, you were met with sweet honied eyes.

“Well hello to you too angel” His voice hid none of his amusement, his hand held out towards you. You looked down to his hand only to find your phone. You must have dropped it at some point.

You took the phone from him, setting it on the coffee table and wrapped your arms around his neck. “ Keigo…” you cooed sleepily, “ You’re home for Lunch a bit early.”

You pressed kisses to his cheek and neck, trying to ignore that empty feeling growing back to life.

“Early? Nah, right on time, it’s noon babe. You fell back asleep it looks like” He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you so you were standing with him. He looks you in the eyes, searching for something.

“Yeah, I guess I did” you murmur, eyes averting his gaze. He’d known you were having trouble staying awake, that the change of seasons really hit you hard. He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for as he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips and let go.

“Well, I guess that just makes it more of a surprise, speaking of surprises!” he turned to the coffee table, rummaging through some bags. With a chirp of victory, he hands you a take out box filled with your favorite, (F/food). “ I brought your favorite back home with me”

You couldn’t help but smile, though it didn’t feel forced, it didn’t feel like you were emoting quite right though your genuine happiness was there. He sat down on the couch with you, leaning into your side as he flipped on his phone for something.

A soft beat came first, followed by the gentle plucks of a guitar, sounds you usually associated with summer time music. You glanced over at him, brow raised in a silent question.

He was already opening his take out, a smirk on his face

“Sorry dove, it was just a bit too quiet” was all he said. “Hardly a quiet moment with you Keigo” you teased, “ But I can’t say I dislike your choice in mood” “My sense of mood is never wrong angel!”

You ate relatively quickly, wanting to spend more time with Keigo than focusing on the food, which did have just a bit more taste than anything else you had eaten.

He talked to you about his day so far, nothing too crazy that he couldn’t handle.

The relaxed tune you had been listening to turned into something a bit more fast paced.

It was a favorite between the two of you, the song you danced to at the bar, the night you had your first kiss on the beach. He stood up, offering his hands to you, “ Come on, it’s our song love bird!” It might have been corny to have a song but you couldn’t care less. Not with that smile that lit up a room, a laugh so sweet you could eat for dessert.

So you took his hands, his wings fluffed up in excitement. He took off his visor, and placed it on you, your vision becoming slightly yellow tinted.

Oh it made so much difference

Everything looked and felt a bit more...alive. There weren’t any dull sensations of haze and endless numbness. You grabbed his hands again as he pulled you in.

It was hardly a masterful thing to fawn and coo over, but it had you laughing as he spun you around, his feathers having moved the coffee table out of the way. As you would spin out, he’d do something entirely and fantastically goofy, waving his hands in the air then pulling you back in. All to make you giggle and laugh as he hugged your back to his chest, blowing raspberries on your neck.

“Keigo!” “Oh what? Did I spin you too slow, so demanding my dove” and he spun you out again with an extra kick of some sort of energy.

The song came to an end, and you were all red in the face, heart beating hard, but it was welcome.

“You utter goof” You giggled, pushing his visor off of your eyes, the change dented your happy mood, but only just slightly.

“Your goof” he pressed a wet kiss to your cheek. “So, I noticed you liked the visor? It is pretty stylish if I do say so myself”

You flopped back onto the couch, nodding, “ Yeah, they look real good on you. But it was nice, things just looked...better”

Did the color really change your outlook so much?

“Well, I was doing some late night browsing and found that sometimes glasses that are yellow tinted or block blue light can help with your seasonal grey time blues” a feather brought over a small bag, hiding between the food bags, and placed it in his hands.

“So I thought...these might help, whenever we can’t just dance the blues away” His cheeks turned a slight pink as his wings flapped awkwardly at your lack of response.

He’d gone out of his way to get you these special glasses, just so that you could feel better.

Your eyes watered slightly, getting back up from the couch and walking over to him. You placed both hands on his jaw and pulled him down for a tender kiss that he gladly reciprocated. “ You are entirely too sweet for your own good Keigo. I love you, thank you...thank you so much”

He unfolds the glasses, placing them gently on your face.

“I love you too song bird”

#my hero academia #my hero academia hawks #my hero academia takami Keigo #bnha hawks #bnha reader #bnha takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo #hawks x reader #reader insert #maemiwritesBNHA

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howtodisassembleyourdeviant · 4 years

Text

Belong

I kinda lost the plot with this one. I kept getting interrupted. I also did not intend for it to get this long. Idea stemmed from one of the prompts posted for Cute Girls and Hot Androids.

Warning: NSFW (I can’t help it. I love writing sin.)

He thought he was doing everything right. He scoured through hours of research, read books, watched movies, even gathered knowledge by observation. things seemed to be going so smoothly.

"Don't EVER do that again!"

Your words still rang in his mind, stuck on repeat. He just wanted to show his affections. After two months, he thought it would be perfectly normal, almost chaste with what he has noticed among other couples and media, to desire physical affection.

he just wanted a hug.

you were standing in front of the coffee machine in the break room, watching as it fills your coffee mug. You had been putting in a lot of hours lately, sent on call after call, only to come back to a large stack of paperwork. With his own duties, he could not offer assistance, though he tried to ensure you, at the very least, ate something, even if it wasn't particularly healthy. You were stressed and you were tired. Perhaps, that had been his mistake. He wanted to offer you comfort, and studies show hugs can lower stress levels.

He had come up behind you, offering a morning greeting and getting a mumbled 'morning' in return. Just as you were about to grab your mug, his hands slid against your sides. The strange sound you made, coupled with the way you tried to jump away, caused him to pull back. You swiftly turned, looking around the room wildly before turning on him. Your threatening words had caught him off guard, and he stood watching you storm away with wide eyes and a hand over your mouth. Your cheeks had been flushed a bright red. Were you embarrassed? Was being embraced embarrassing for you?

Or was it him?

The thought that you might be uncomfortable because he, an android, tried to touch you made his artificial heart stop, falling from its place in his chest and sinking into a dark abyss. Looking over his memories, he realized that you had not actively sought out his touch on previous dates. He had always initiated it, taking hold of your hand when walking or a quick embrace at the end of the evening. Even with those, you had been quick to pull back. Why would you agree to date him if you had an aversion to his touch? Were you simply being too polite?

Depression threatened to crush him under its oppressive weight, but he couldn't give in. He can't believe it. You cared for him, you said so yourself. There must be something that he's missing.

In your mad dash, you had left your coffee, still sitting under the coffee maker. He made it, just how you like it, taking it and wordlessly dropping it off on your desk. You quietly thanked him, cheeks still tinted red. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Connor tried hard to focus on his work, but he kept thinking back to you. He tried to figure out if he missed some human cue, something to explain your actions. Every time his mind played the audio of your voice, so enraged by his actions, he sank a little deeper into despair. He moped about the DPD, doing small favors in hopes you might smile at him. Give him some reassurance that he hadn't inadvertently destroyed his chance to be with you. It wasn't until the end of his shift that you messaged him.

"Would you like to come over to my place tonight?"

He agreed with no hesitation. He sat at his desk, ruminating on his thoughts for the next hour until you were done with your work, then he followed you out.

In your car, he wanted to strike up a conversation, anything to fill the silence hanging heavily over the two of you, but your answers were quick and precise, blocking his every attempt. Maybe you were thinking of the best way to break things off, not wanting to hurt his feelings. His chest ached, and all he wanted to do was crawl into a hole and stay there indefinitely.

At your apartment, you kept fiddling around, doing anything and everything to avoid the android standing at your door. He couldn't take it anymore. He just wants things to go back to the way they were.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Whatever I did to upset you, I didn't mean anything by it." You turned to him, seeing his pained expression. Your face scrunched up, as if you were fighting back tears.

"No, no, it wasn't you. You didn't do anything wrong," you sighed, sitting down on the couch, gesturing for him to join you. He complied. You didn't speak right away, trying to gather your thoughts. He waited patiently, hoping to get an explanation and not a dismissal.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you. I know you didn't mean anything by it. It's just-" you huffed out a breath, "-growing up, I didn't receive much attention from my parents. My father was AWOL and my mother worked all the time. When she was around, she viewed affection as weakness. I was brought up believing that."

Connor's eyes widened. To think that you had been denied such a basic human need for so long. He hasn't known emotions for long, but in the same aspect, he wasn't that old either. In that time, he probably had more physical reassurance than you had in your entire existence. It should be a sin. He realized you were not finished.

"In high school, a friend had tried to give me a hug, but when she touched my sides, I didn't anticipate it and I... squeaked. Our little group all heard it and assumed it was because I was ticklish. After that day, they would poke or squeeze my sides any chance they got and I guess some of the sounds I made were a little... provocative. I didn't want the attention, so I started distancing myself from them. Eventually, I just kept to myself.

"It took a long time to change my way of thinking, that showing affection was okay as long as it's wanted, but you are the first person to get this close. I guess when you touched my sides, old scars resurfaced." He fought against the urge to apologize, knowing you didn't blame him. How could he possibly know that? Still, for you to go so long without any physical affection, and then for your first experience to be so traumatic, he can understand why you were so quick to anger back at the station. You feared it happening again.

"My systems indicate that your symptoms are consistent with being "touch-starved". The best treatment is to be consensually touched on a regular basis, starting out slow and gradually working up to more sustained holds. If you wouldn't mind, I can offer my assistance."

You smiled softly at him, giving him a nod.

"Okay."

Slowly, he brought his hand to yours, feeling the slight flinch before you relaxed. His hand traveled up, resting on your forearm, stroking the soft skin with his thumb.

"Is this okay?" He wants you to be comfortable with everything he does. Your eyes were closed when you nodded.

The gentle touch felt like too much, yet not enough. You wanted him to touch you, to hold you. You wanted what others had all their lives, to be comforted by touch, rather than be scared by it. His hand didn't move, and you realized he wanted to move slow to avoid over-stimulating you. But, you wanted him to move faster. You craved the touch, needing so much after being supplied so little. You had never trusted anyone so much, but you knew Connor would never do anything to intentionally make you uncomfortable. You can only hope he would not mind if you smothered him under your needs.

Connor was happy that you trusted him so much, and he would not take advantage of it. He kept his touch chaste and ensured you were comfortable in your environment before he would do so. He felt a little guilty, but the small sounds that you made were heavenly. He broadened his explorations of your skin, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, whispering reassurances as you began to snuggle against him. It was a week later, sitting back on your couch, that you decided to speed things up a little.

"Could... Could you turn to rest against the arm of the couch, please?" You asked hesitantly. He looked confused, but complied, legs resting on the seat. You reached out, gradually pushing one of his knees to rest against the back of the couch while the other leg was nudged to the floor. You sat between them, nervously lying down against him, body tensing against the warmth before slowly relaxing into it. Connor was secretly relishing in the feeling of your weight on him, but he kept his hands to himself as you got comfortable. You laid on your side, one of your hands at his shoulder.

"Are you okay with this?" You asked.

"Yes, " he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your crown, "absolutely."

You pushed against him, listening to his mechanical heart, enjoying its steady beats. You had never felt such a level of comfort, as if this was where you were supposed to be. Unbeknownst to you, Connor felt the same.

He made a bold move, taking a hand and gently setting it on your waist. You jolted, squeezing his shoulder as you made that strange sound again, a mix between a squeak and a moan. Still, you didn't remove his hand, nor did you ask him to move it. You started to relax into it, loosening your grip, even allowing your fingers to begin roaming. He had to bite his lip when they slipped under the collar of his shirt. Your soft touch felt so nice.

Seeing his reaction, you immediately pulled back, but he caught your hand, kissing your palm, over and over. He could feel you shiver, watching as he licked up to the tip of your finger. He wasn't sure what made him do this, but he liked how you watched his every move, waiting for what might come next. However, he wanted you to decide the next step, so he released your hand. You put it back on his neck, pulling yourself up and turning to lie on your stomach. His hands returned to your sides, adding gentle pressure, making direct contact with your skin as your shirt rode up. Your eyes kept glancing down at his lips, creeping closer and closer. Anticipation built up to the point where he felt he might combust, artificial breathing picking up. When you finally made contact, it was his turn to make a strange noise, softly moaning against your lips.

When the two of you kissed before, it was always so brief, and he was always the one to initiate it, wanting to put his studies into action. The first time, it was like a jolt to his systems, and every kiss after made him desire more, but you always pulled back and smiled before finding an excuse to leave. It made him doubt his research. This, however, made him forget about it altogether, losing himself in the touch. The way you kept moving against him, and those needy sounds you were making, it was all so captivating. A touch of his tongue to your bottom lip was all it took for you to open for him, allowing him to explore your mouth, sliding against your tongue. You pulled back, gasping for breath. In his haze, he had forgotten about your very basic human need. His body begged for more, wanting to feel everything, a tingling beneath his skin. When you went to kiss him again, he turned his head.

"I'm concerned, " he whispered.

"For what?" Even your hushed voice was enough to send him into overdrive.

"If we continue, I may not be able to stop, " his dark eyes met yours, a fear residing within them. He doesn't want to do anything that could hurt you. He felt an ache, a need that wanted to be quenched. It wasn't something he didn't know about, but being what he is, he didn't expect it to be so strong. Malfunctioning programming and system errors were becoming common in deviancy, but rarely did a program activate on its own and refuse to deactivate.

Connor's hands had moved in the heat of the moment, one resting under your arm, the other on your hip, pressing you tightly against him. You could feel a hardness, pressing against your thigh. When your eyes widened in shock, Connor looked away. You cupped his cheek, turning him back to you. Your heated stare kept him locked in place. You leaned forward whispering into his ear.

"Then, don't stop."

His body shook, holding you tighter, the strong hold making you moan. The sound vibrated through his being, and before he realized it, he had you flipped, pinning you against the couch.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" You smiled. Everything Connor ever did was for you. In his arms, you are safe.

"Yes. I want you, Connor."

That was all it took to break down his restraint. He lifted you up, carrying you to your room and lying you down. His lips were on you again, kissing along your jaw, behind your ear and trailing down your neck. Your hand raked through his hair, his moans intermingling with yours. Your other hand tugged at his shirt. You wanted it off.

He got the signal, pulling himself away and making quick work of the buttons, tossing the shirt to the side. You drank in the sight, hands running along his synthetic muscles. When your hand made contact with the center of his sternum, he flinched. You knew what resided there, just under fabricated skin. He didn't flinch again when you returned your hand to that spot, gently stroking it before returning to your exploration.

While you were distracted, he slowly worked his hands under your shirt, starting with the hem at your hips before gliding them upward. He could feel you quiver at his actions. Just as he reached the bottom of your ribs, you took hold of his wrists. He quickly withdrew them, watching you sit up and take off your shirt, unsnapping your bra and taking it off before your nerves could set in. You had never been so exposed, though you suppose, neither has Connor. It felt amazing to be able to bare yourself, body and soul, to someone. To trust someone without any worries or doubts.

Connor wasn't sure where to start, it all looked so soft and inviting. Fingers danced along your skin, making you quake under his gentle touches. When his palm ghosted over one of your nipples, you released a moan. He focused on it, intoxicated by the sounds you made and the way you gazed at him, like there wasn't an outside world, just you and him in nirvana. He likes that thought.

Curiosity made him lean forward, taking one of your nips into his mouth, feeling it perk up as his tongue played with it.

"Connor!" You moaned, arching into him. A leg went over his hip, trying to pull him closer. Switching to your other breast, he brought himself to rest against you, groaning at the contact against his throbbing member. His need flared again, and a warning started to flash in his vision. He was overheating. It spurred him to move faster, a hand slipping to your jeans, skillfully unbuttoning them and pulling down the zipper. In no time at all, he pulled off your pants, your panties pulled down with them. He couldn't help but stare, your sex already so wet for him. Embarrassed, you tried to close your legs, but he took hold of your knees and pushed them back apart.

"So beautiful, " he murmured in awe. His curious fingers slipped between your folds, amazed by the way you threw your head back, moaning his name louder than before. It sounds so much better from your lips. His touch was everywhere at once, every caress causing you to make more of those beautiful sounds, your face contorting into what could only be described as pure bliss.

It wasn't long before he slipped a finger inside, feeling your tight walls. He can't help but wonder how he will fit. You squirmed under the strange feeling. He slowly worked it in and out, letting you get accustomed before he added another, tenderly working you open. Adding a third finger, he touched a spot inside that left you breathless. You held him still, wanting more.

"Please, Connor." He couldn't deny you, undoing his own pants and swiftly taking them off, followed by his boxer briefs. You couldn't help but steal a glance at his length. He was big, making your nerves falter. In the dim light, you noticed that the tip was blue in color, leaking a steady opaque fluid.

"I can hide it if you prefer, " he spoke above you and you realized you had been staring too long.

"Hide what?"

"The color. I just have to adjust the thickness of the skin." He can make it wider? You weren't sure you could fit him to begin with! "Your heart rate increased, so I assumed the odd color was distressing for you." You realized he was worried you didn't find him human enough.

"Connor, I don't care about that. I love you for you. Never feel that you have to disguise yourself for me."

"Love?"

Shit. It just slipped out. You knew you loved him, but that didn't mean you meant to say it! Too late to go back now.

"Yes, Connor. I love you. Is that okay?" Just as you finished speaking, he was on you again, body pressed tightly against yours as he kissed you passionately.

"Yes, " he moaned against your lips, "I've... I've never felt... Anything like this. I think... I think I love you too." His words were broken up between each kiss, unable to stop. You felt so light, needing him to hold you down, grasping onto him desperately. He had no issues with it, happy to hold you forever. Tears escaped your eyes with your elation. This man, this perfect mechanical man, loved you. Anything after this point is just icing on the cake.

Taking himself in hand, he stroked his length, groaning as he spread the lubricant, ensuring he was properly coated for your comfort, before lining it up with your entrance. You tensed at the contact, taking a breath to calm yourself. He pushed inside, just the tip, feeling you squeeze around the intrusion. It felt so good, unlike anything he has ever known before. He fought against himself to push deeper before you were ready. When he felt you relax again, he moved forward, sinking in slowly until his hips met yours.

"Fuck, " he ground out. "You're... So tight..." He rested between your breasts, kissing the skin to distract from the stimulation and the desire for more. He waited until you were ready, nodding your head. Testing the waters, he pulled out slightly, only an inch or two, before pressing back in. It felt incredible, and from the way you moaned into his ear, you enjoyed it as well. He started off slow and gentle, but he wasn't sure how long his careful control will last.

You couldn't contain the sounds that left you. Every time you called his name, he would speed up, setting a steady pace. Your fingers clawed at his back, leaving marks that will be gone before the morning. You wrapped your legs around his hips, allowing him deeper. The slight change of angle caused him to find your weak spot again, making you cry out. With the precise movements only an android is allowed, he hit that spot, over and over. You could feel a knot forming, getting tighter with each thrust. Connor started kissing your neck again, and you could feel him latch on to your sweet spot, marking your skin. He wanted everyone to know who he loves, who you love. His hand went to your clit, stroking it to match his pace.

"Connor!" You screamed, the tension snapping. Connor slowed down, drawing out your orgasm. You had never come so hard, squeezing him from within. He groaned at the feeling. When you came down, he picked up his pace, chasing his own end.

"Connor, ahh... You feel s-so good... I, hah, I love you... Come for me, Connor, come for me!" You moaned, hand pulling at his hair and tearing at his back, the sensations coming across as pleasurable. Your words were all he needed to send him to his own end, thrusting deep as he filled you with his synthetic seed, each spasm making you take more of him. Connor rested against you, feeling your fingers run through his hair. When he went to move so you wouldn't suffer under his weight any longer, you held him in place.

"I like how you feel. It's comforting." He looked up to you, seeing your content smile and sparkling eyes. At that moment, he realized he wanted to see that look every day, every moment of his existence.

"I love you, " he spoke, in amazement, and when he heard you murmur them back as you started to drift off, he knew that he would fight with everything he has to keep you in his arms, in this place you both belonged.

#Cute Girls and Hot Androids #Connor fanfiction #connor x reader #rk800 connor reader #rk800 #DBH #detroit become human #gaming

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tamiddyinyourcity · 4 years

Text

11:03pm.

I HAVE THESE LUUUUCID DREAMS WHEEEEERE I CANT MOOOOVE A THIIING.

Fuck, I forgot Juice Wrld died. Its actually really freaking goshdarned depressing.

Wednesday, May 20th of 2020.

How am I feeling?

I'm doing alright so far. Nothing too remarkable. Letting the days pass by with ease.

It could be going easier, but, at least its still going.

Random life updates:

The foot slave dude from Twitter suddenly had ghosted me. Whatever, man. He was a little odd.

Also, some young chick went "YOU GOT SIX DOLLARS FOR FEET PICS????" And not in the "HOW COOL" way, but in the "you could've charged ten per photo and scored 20". Fuck, ouch. I could've bought that game Cam recommended me or something.... I really do wanna play Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlands. Seems dope, you know?

Had taken an "ugly family selfie" with the other people in my house. My mom will inevitably shade me for my Playboi Carti Travis Scott Lookin Ass protective style braids in the photo, but it's still nice. Or, they still act like being around them is a huge burden. (But them acting like I'm stuck up and loathe them makes me more resistant or unsure of them, so it seems pretty damn useless.)

Hell, even back when I still somewhat gave a fuck about other members of this household, bitches were still.... fucking weird. Like, still shading me. Every time we hung out as a family, my mom went out of her way to be such an asshole to me. My sister found a way to be hostile. Older brother mocked me. Younger sibling was bland. I just.... geez, I am actually tearing up writing this. It would be nice, not being treated like shit by the other household members, you know?

I'm getting better at handling my natural hair. But still not 100% excelling at the whole "have your headscarf stay on the entire night" sorta thing.

I think my period is coming? I honestly couldn't tell if it was anxiety or just general despair causing my severe depression and physical fatigue these days. And upsetness. But, my uterus area is doing that hyperspecific cramp thing, i guess. Whoohoo, still not pregnant!

Trying to make friends! Am I succeeding? Not entirely, but that's not the point! Still trying! Still doing things anyway!

A girl I know told me that I inspire her with my writing and posts on another page..... Honestly? I love it so much. Shoutout to Zuri and Sam, yall are so sweeeeeet and kind lovely individuals and my day is brightened whenever yall talk to me.

Summer is CANCELLLLLLED AND I AM SAD ABOUT IT EVERY DAY. I was supposed to pull up flexing on these niggas like aerobics, but I guess I'll just have to save all the lacefronts I bought for something else then... A video maybe? Noice.

I miss grilled onions and barbecue sauce with ranch on a bacon cheeseburger with curly fries. Taro boba. Steak fries. All that good shit. The thing I miss most about going outside was the food. Since even alone, I could enjoy a mango juice on the patio of a diner and people watch with the sun out, or enjoy the outdoors. I don't think I'll care too much about human interactions, due to how poor it feels like its going while everyone is stuck indoors. But, hey, i miss shit.

Might go to the beach with my headphones when this is all over. Just feeling the sunset slowly, going from blazing to a nice, comforting slow burn level warmth of red and orange trailing down my skin. It feels better than sex, let me tell you that.

I'm officially 99.9% done with my bedroom! All I have to do is organize two small bins of items, and then wallah. Its so small that I can probably sleep for the first time in awhile without feeling wildly depressed about all the hoards of things I'll have to do.

Scored a podcast with a buddy this Friday! Boo yah, bitch. :)

11:43pm.

Feeling super exhausted. Long ass day, didn't eat enough. But feeling happy, and that's all that matters, really.

OH WAIT.

I FORGOT TO MENTION HOW MY COMMUNITY WASHER AND DRYER TOTALLY RUINED MY VERY FLUFFY VERY WHITE BEDROOMS WITH A THICK BLACK UNREMOVEABLE STAIN.

AND DIDN'T REMOTELY DRY MY CLOTHES DESPITE AN HOUR IN THE DRYER, RUMBLING.

Yikes.

Thats really shitty.

At least it's not my only blanket right now.

Gonna go to sleep.

Peace out.

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ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is · 5 years

Text

MBTI, Mental Health, and Uncertainty

This is a long post but I think it might be one of my most important ones, and I hope you can take the time to read it.

In light of a couple recent questions I want to address mental health in a different way than in the PSA post. I do still stand by that post! But it was intended to be more along the lines of providing succinct encouragement with clear steps, rather than a means of providing deeper context.

MBTI is an unreliable way (at best) to deal with mental health. It was not designed for it. It has a few aspects that are useful in a limited way, which is honestly how I feel about MBTI at large - it is one tool in a very large toolbox, and it’s not necessarily the best one at that, and plenty of people get along fine without using it at all. (in fact if you’re not up to reading the rest of this post consider this paragraph my main point and the rest all elaboration on that theme).

On a larger scale, a lot of Tumblr advice is a terrible way to deal with mental health. I recognize I’m offering advice here on Tumblr but in general my statement re: all things mental health is that stigma, accessibility, and poor clinicians are all serious barriers to good mental health information and treatment, but that doesn’t mean that the more accessible options of “randoms on the internet” or “psychological theories with a strong internet presence” are a viable substitute.

I think a personal example may be helpful here, so: I have some very severe food allergies. I’ve had them my whole life. And I do fully believe that they’ve shaped aspects of my personality. In some ways, they’ve made me more cautious and desiring of control over my environment. They’ve pushed me to explore things like cooking. They’ve required me to become someone who plans ahead, who advocates for herself, and who’s comfortable saying a firm “no” to intended hospitality. They’ve given me some areas of anxiety. They’ve made me a faster reader. They’ve arguably contributed to my sense of humor.

If I could push a button and get rid of my allergies, I would, without question, because they are often a source of stress and inconvenience. But they did contribute to me as a person, and had I grown up and developed without them, I would probably be different in some ways - and I have no idea how exactly I’d be different. Would I be as fast a reader or as detail-oriented if I didn’t have to read ingredients lists at a glance? Maybe - I was a bookish kid. Would I be as responsible and assertive? Possibly - I’m an oldest child, I was always on the stubborn and independent side. But really, who knows?

I went to a doctor when I was in grad school for a check-up and a top-up of my epi-pen prescription. I said I hadn’t had to use the epi-pen in years. He mentioned that he had a friend with the same allergy who had a reaction once every year or so because he was a little scattered and a huge socializer and people-pleaser, and so he often had reactions to baked goods around the holidays - baked goods that I would unequivocally politely turn down. Same condition. Wildly different responses.

Mental illnesses or conditions are highly analogous to this experience - if they’re debilitating and unpleasant, even if they’ve caused you to develop in positive ways, you’ll be glad for those benefits but you may wish you could flip a switch and get rid of them.

But other conditions might be so central to your identity that you genuinely would not be you without them, and the issues that arise are because your identity is not well-accommodated in your environment

And while I can speculate on which sorts of conditions fall into which bucket (most people with depression would put it in the first; autism, for many autistic people, is in the second; this is a huge topic I can’t do justice here but you can even see this categorization in my language). But in the end, it’s a case-by-case choice dependent on the person with that condition. For more on the nature of ‘abnormal’ conditions and self-conception I highly recommend the Oliver Sacks essay “Witty Ticcy Ray” specifically, and his essay collections The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat and An Anthropologist on Mars. But if you can’t get to those my point is that people’s relationships with things that affect their cognition are complex and deeply personal.

So coming back to MBTI. Is MBTI the reason why I am vigilant and others with allergies are less so? Well, we don’t entirely know where type comes from, but maybe. Maybe it’s my upbringing, maybe it’s my inherent self, maybe it’s something else. We don’t know. I don’t know.

With mental illnesses, there’s a second factor. Allergic reactions are physiological and predictable- doesn’t matter what kind of person you are, if you eat the thing you can’t eat, your body will initiate the immune response. But when your illness or condition also affects your cognition, MBTI isn’t just a reason for how you respond to the condition. Your type, or at least your personality that you attempt to categorize into a type, is both influenced by and feeds into the outward signs of said condition. The outward signs of mental illnesses are themselves diverse! The PHQ-9 survey, a very common depression screening tool, doesn’t require that you display every single possible symptom - just a certain amount of them together (and even then it’s just a starting point for an individual follow-up. So we don’t know what’s ‘you’ and what’s the condition and what’s the combination thereof and even if you and the effects of said condition can really be seen as separate entities.

What this means practically is that figuring out how personality type, in any system, impacts mental health is an astronomically hard task, because both type and mental illness are best described as collections of a sufficient number of coexisting patterns of thought and behavior, not an absolute yes/no. If you’re trying to figure out yourself, again, MBTI is one of many tools and should not be your only point of reference - it’s a good starting point but at some point you’re going to have to leave it and jump into the vast unknown of what the self truly is (I feel very cheesy typing this but funnily enough I think Jung would back me up here). But only you can really do that. I certainly can’t do it for you.

Something that I think a lot of people forget is the origin of MBTI. MBTI was developed using Jung’s idea of cognitive functions as a starting point, and the catalyst was Myers and Briggs (her mother) noticing that Myers’s husband (an ISTJ) was really different from them (both high Ne users) in terms of personality. They took a theory because it matched what they observed in real life. I am unsurprisingly in favor of this. You want to know how people act? Interact with them! You can sum up larger trends in a theory, but it will always be a simplification of the infinitely complex truth. You can’t know how MBTI will make any one person act with any certainty - you can only guess.

Similarly, things like loops and grips are a bit of a one-way street. MBTI theorists observed that certain patterns of stress behavior tended to crop up more frequently in individuals of the same type and came up with names for them and a theory to describe why they may occur. This does not mean that the same behaviors cannot exist in people of other types. This does not guarantee that a person of a certain type and under stress will fall into a loop, a grip, or really do any specific action at all. As I have said many times and will say again, mental illness and stress have real, measurable neurochemical effects and people will ‘self-medicate’ (eg: seeking endorphin-releasing activities when unhappy), and type doesn’t enter into it (which is also why I think the advice to look at your stress behavior is not particularly good).

Finally, even if you are in a loop or grip, if you’re having a difficult time, a decent therapist will probably give you advice that isn’t out of line with MBTI recommendations, because there’s more than one way to come to the same conclusion! A lot of advice is broadly applicable - start with small steps and be gentle with yourself, for example. Play to your strengths - and you don’t need to know MBTI to know what you’re good at. You need to have a general sense of who you are and MBTI is a way to categorize who you are, not a way to do that initial self-discovery.

In conclusion: I know I sound like a broken record, but if you’re interested in human behavior at large please, please treat MBTI as one of many aspects of it. If you have the opportunity to take a class or do some serious reading about neuroscience, cognitive science, psychology, sociology, or basic statistics I recommend it, and whether or not you can do those things, interact with people! Sitting behind a computer screen theorizing how an archetype that must necessarily describe literally hundreds of millions of people is not really a helpful exercise! “Go outside” isn’t a threat to be read in the tone of ‘get off my lawn’; it might be said in a mildly exasperated way but it is meant as an invitation to a vast resource that you are not using to its fullest.

#mbti #long post

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argylemnwrites · 5 years

Text

Last Call (It Couldn’t Wait Another Moment Outtake)

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Romance (Canon Divergent from Book 2, Chapter 15)

Word Count: ~1300

Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual innuendo)

Summary: Too often customers mistake a waiter or bartender’s friendliness as something more than an attempt to earn a good tip. Drake’s observation of this behavior in action prompts a heartfelt discussion with Riley.

Author’s Note: This is an outtake from Chapter 6 of It Couldn’t Wait Another Moment, set a few days after Riley is hired at the bar, while Drake is still looking for work. It was a lot more lighthearted when it was a part of Chapter 6, but as I worked to clean it up, it kind of took on a life of its own.

This series diverges from TRR canon, where instead of waiting to discuss his relationship with Riley until their last night in NYC, leaving her a note while Liam is proposing to her, Drake tackles this topic as soon as possible after Tariq makes his statement and Riley’s name is cleared. To catch up on this series, you can find the chapters of the main storyline in my masterlist (link is located in my bio).

Drake took another sip of his whiskey as he scrolled through job postings on his phone. Nothing new, or at least nothing new where he met at least half of the qualifications. Sighing, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and downed the rest of the contents of his glass.

Glancing around the bar, he noticed that it had emptied out significantly in the past half hour. It was now after 2:00, and this was the type of bar where people tended to start their weekend revelry before moving onto louder clubs, not end their nights. It was now just Drake and a pair of men sitting about halfway down the bar. The two men appeared to be around Drake’s age, one with light hair, the other with dark. They were wearing nice suits, apparently businessmen blowing off steam after a weekend client dinner. Businessmen who were clearly into Riley, which was probably why they had stuck around so long.

Drake had suspected that they were interested in more than their scotches for a while. He wasn’t sure how to handle this. Obviously, he didn’t want to be that boyfriend, the one who acted like a jealous dick. And Riley clearly had to be friendly with them. They were paying customers. And honestly, they were flirting with her, but nothing wildly inappropriate or anything. If pressed, they would just say they were being friendly. Still, Drake was on edge. Yesterday evening had been so nice. For the last few hours before bar close, Riley had been able to park herself across the bar from him. They had chatted and joked, played some hands of poker, taste-tested different drink concoctions. The only other patrons had been five women who appeared to be in their mid-50s and every time they had needed Riley for another bottle of wine, they had apologized for interrupting her and her “cute boyfriend.” Tonight’s stragglers were not going to be so accommodating.

Drake tried to distract himself by pulling out his phone again, skimming through some news stories, but his eyes kept drifting to the left, watching the two men. His suspicions were confirmed when the darker haired man clutched Riley’s hand when she moved to pour them another round. How dare he touch her! Drake felt himself rising off his stool, ready to stalk over there and let them know just what he thought, but in a flash Riley was over by him, refilling his whiskey and mouthing, “I got this.”

So Drake sat back down, taking a few breaths to calm himself. Riley could handle herself. The last thing she needed was him barging over and causing a scene. So he sat there, waiting for it to be bar close so they could get out of there and away from these assholes. Riley, for her part returned to the other men. She stayed chatting and laughing with them as the minutes ticked down until last call. Eventually, he saw Riley print off two receipts which she handed to the men before taking a tray of dirty glasses into the back. The two men dropped their voices, quickly discussing something. Drake couldn’t pick up what they were saying, but he could guess that it was some disgusting attempt at dibs. His fears were confirmed when they abruptly stopped talking when Riley stepped out of the back, at which point the lighter-haired one asked her, “So, your place or mine?” while his friend shot him an annoyed look.

Drake rolled his eyes. The sooner they got out of here the better. But Riley seemed to have another plan.

“How about this - I’ll go home with whoever here has the best line.”

Drake grinned. This should be entertaining.

“Wait, seriously?” asked the lighter-haired one.

“Yup, let’s see what you got.”

“Alright, well I’ve got a tip for you: Come home with me; it’s the best choice you could make,” said the light-haired one with a wink.

Riley nodded, somehow maintaining her poker face as she turned to his friend, “Derrick, you’re up.”

“I don’t know, with all those drinks you gave me, it would just be the responsible thing to make sure I got home safe.”

Riley grabbed their checks, running their cards through the register, obviously messing with them just a bit more. As she brought their credit cards back to them, the one apparently named Derrick asked, “Alright, Riley - who’s it gonna be?”

“Wait, he didn’t get a shot yet,” said Riley, tilting her head towards Drake.

He quickly reeled in his grin as the two men turned to look at him. After draining his glass of whiskey, Drake pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet. “This cover me?”

“Yeah. Sorry gentlemen, but he’s our winner tonight.”

“Seriously?” Both men stared at Drake, but it was Riley who answered.

“Yup. Get home safely!” her bright smile almost openly mocking the men. The light-haired man glared and opened his mouth as if to say something, but his friend kept looking at Drake. He must have seen something in Drake’s eyes, because he bid Riley goodnight and ushered his friend out the door.

“That was quite the bold play, Liu.” said Drake, as he and Riley walked towards the subway station, waving goodnight to the manager, Cam, who had been on that evening.

“They were arrogant pricks. Everyone knows you don’t hit on someone on the clock in a service industry. I thought this might teach them a lesson.”

“Something tells me that they didn’t walk away with your intended message.”

“Probably. Still, it was kind of fun. Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy it?”

Drake shook his head, but he couldn’t quite hide a grin. Of course, Riley noticed it right away.

“I knew you liked it!”

“Fine, it was amusing as hell. That doesn’t mean I like the thought of you putting yourself at risk. You don’t know entitled like I do.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve both had to deal with our share of entitled assholes. They weren’t going to actually do anything with you and Cam there.”

“I just don’t want to see you in another Tariq situation, Liu.”

At that, Riley grabbed his hand and tugged him to a stop. “Drake, I appreciate the thought, but I lived and worked in bars and restaurants in New York alone for seven years. Do you really think Tariq was the first man who viewed ‘No’ as a mild suggestion?”

Drake dropped his eyes to the ground, shaking his head regretfully. He wasn’t naive enough to think that Riley had only dealt with complete gentlemen before he knew her. The thought of her having to deal with such douchebags regularly was just depressing. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, Liu. I’m just sorry you have to deal with all that shit.” Drake turned his head up and looked her in the eyes, surprised to see a small smile across her face.

“Yeah, it sucks sometimes. Maybe that’s why I just wanted to mess with those two a little tonight, take the chance to have a little fun when men who knew I was counting on them for a tip decided it was a good idea to ask me to go home with them.”

Drake nodded, “I get it, Liu.”

“Besides, you know me well enough to know that I am not one to shy away from poking the bear.”

Drake thought back on all the shit she’d dealt to both Madeleine and Olivia throughout her time at court, “Yeah, yeah, I’m well aware.”

“Come on, it’s frickin’ late. Let’s go home, yeah?”

Drake felt like he should say more, but deep down he knew that his words wouldn’t erase years of actions from other men. All he could do now was be there for her when she needed him. “Sure, Liu. Let’s go home.”

Tags: @wickedgypsymoon @thesumofmychoices @cosigottahavefaith @thequeenofcronuts @thequeenchoices @katedrakeohd @carabeth @feartheendlesssummer

#drake walker #drake x mc #the royal romance #choices trr #trr #choices #choices stories you play #playchoices

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not-a-space-alien · 5 years

Text

hi everyone i am here to post the fic I wrote for the good omens holiday exchange :) hope you enjoy

Title: Under the Apple Tree

Word Count: 6,200

Rating: T

Warnings: Some blood/gore

Tags: Pre-arrangement, hurt/comfort

Author’s note: BIG thank you to my betas for helping to point me in the right direction. I sincerely hope you enjoy this.

On AO3

On Dreamwidth

Damn. One simple mission. That’s all it had been: go in, tempt a priest to adultery, and get out in time for drinks. Easy as can be. And it had turned into this.

“We know you’re still in there, hellspawn,” said the angel at the head of the group menacing him from outside. Over the sound of a sword scraping ominously against the side of the barn, the voice continued, “You can’t stay in there forever.”

Crowley hunkered down in the barn, trying to fade into the hay beneath him. A nearby goat nibbled at his hair.

A huge angel, wings spread wide, blocked the open stable door. The horses had run out at the first sign of trouble, and those front doors were the only exit besides the small second-story window behind Crowley. The occasional glimpses he caught of white feathers flashing across that porthole told him he would fare no better that way.

The angel who had been shouting at him crossed in front of the entrance again, sword slung casually over his shoulder. “Tell you what,” he boomed. “We’re in the mood for a chase. A bit of a hunt. How about we give you a head start? It’ll be more fun that way.”

Crowley looked at the goat that had been chewing on him, as if it might have advice to offer.

“A ten-second head start?”

“Bet he’ll stay away from that priest after this,” said a second angel, their voice low and amused. “He’s scared shitless.”

“You would be, too, if you’d run into us,” said another voice, nonetheless equally entertained.

There had to be at least six of them, judging by the voices. Wing-beats sounded behind Crowley again.

Somebody, what to do? They had him surrounded, so it seemed unlikely he’d get away if their “ten-second head start” turned out to be a trick to get him to come out. Not that there seemed much alternative.

“Ten seconds,” the leader repeated, stepping away from the barn. “Scout’s honour. Go ahead.”

Crowley manifested his wings, crawling forward to peer at the exit again. No angels were visible. Should I make a break for it?

“One…”

Crowley whipped his head back and forth between the two exits, trying to judge which would offer him a better start to his escape.

“Two...”

Shoving the goat aside, Crowley sprung up onto the second story and launched himself out the window, snapping his wings open and rocketing away as fast as he could.

“Look at him go!” someone jeered.

“Three…”

“Don’t go till ten,” chastised another angel.

Crowley didn’t look back to see whether or not they were following. He pumped his wings frantically, trying to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.

He was out of earshot after five, but oh did he count six through ten in his head. Only then did he risk a look back, to see the flock of angels take to the air right on cue. Seven pairs of ethereal wings flashed in the sky behind him, accompanied by the gleam of blades.

The city beneath him was a blur of thatched roofs and grey stones as he fled, hell-bent on escaping what was sure to be a painful discorporation. He rather liked this body. He liked Earth much better than Hell despite the presence of roving gangs of angels, and he would rather stay here. It was always an ordeal to get a new body.

He hated it, but that was the state of affairs, and running was the smartest thing to do failing any option that resulted in angels deciding they didn’t have to be out for his blood on sight.

Crowley dove beneath the rooftops, hoping that getting out of the angels’ line of sight would give him more leeway. He shrouded himself with a miracle to avert notice from humans below; it divided his attention and slowed him down a little, but it was a calculated risk.

Crowley’s wingtips brushed the thatching on either side, nimble and quick, threading the needle through obstacles as he darted down alleyways and under the eaves of buildings. He pressed himself into the underside of a gutter as a figure in white robes darted overhead.

Crowley crawled up onto the roof and took stock of where the angels were. They appeared to have fanned out, their pace slowed to a predatory search a few blocks down.

He leapt quietly back into the air, weaving between streets and keeping his head down. With a little luck, he might actually get out of here in one piece.

He’d probably leave the continent after that. Nothing like a little distance to make everything all right.

The way ahead looked clear. Crowley picked up his pace, torn between trying to stay as quiet as possible and flapping wildly to get away quickly. He settled on a brisk glide, weaving between buildings, sticking close and occasionally brushing against the façades.

After vaulting over another alleyway he realised, horrified, where he was. The brickwork of a church’s bell tower loomed in his peripheral vision.

He’d found out that being inside a church was a disagreeable experience as once he’d tried to confirm that, yes, his suspicions were correct about holy ground burning him. He had yet to discover what effects holy water would have on demons, and he had no desire to test that out. The evidence he’d accumulated so far had led him to believe things of God—churches, blessed objects and the like—usually did a number of unpleasant things to him.

He’d never seen a church bell in action on a demon, but he guessed he was about to find out. One of the pursuing angels had crouched in the tower with a devious smile on her face, and Crowley was almost close enough to reach out and touch the bell.

The bell rang. Crowley clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. The great bronze bell was so close he could feel its reverberation down to his bones, the air vibrating with holy energy. His palms went slick with what must have been blood.

Crowley tried to stay in the air. He really tried, but the bell swung back around for a second booming, thunderous gong, and the sound grated against the very fibre of Crowley’s being, his demonic core that reacted explosively to anything of God.

Crowley tumbled head over heels, wings flailing, and cracked his head on the brickwork lining the alley into which he’d fallen. The roaring in his ears was deafening; he couldn’t hear the bell’s third peal, but he sure fucking felt it.

He slammed into the ground, still clutching his ears. The roar died down into a subdued, high-pitched ringing as the bell mercifully fell still, but the ache and tightness it had smashed into his chest was still there, making it hard to breathe. Crowley staggered to his feet, one hand on the wall, the other clapped onto the side of his head, blood leaking through his fingers. He hobbled forward, still intent on escape.

He distantly heard the angels laughing and jeering over the persistent dull roar, and tried to tear his dazed gaze from the ground. He only succeeded in tripping.

He caught himself, kneeling on the ground, and a pair of sandaled feet came into view. Fearfully, he let his eyes drift up.

The angel who’d rung the bell looked mighty proud of herself. “A valiant effort,” she said, unsheathing her sword. “But I think you’ve exhausted your entertainment value as prey.”

Aziraphale should have known better than to trust that infuriating demon.

He and Crowley had been fairly cordial with each other since their first meeting. Aziraphale always felt vaguely guilty about that, but he’d never seen the harm in it. A human generation or two and a bit of civilisation later, they had ended up drinking in the same bar on the same evening as one of the crossings of their paths.

They had pushed their tables together and discovered they could manage to have quite a good time in each other’s company. Which seemed unfitting for an angel and a demon, but there it was.

Crowley had contacted him after that to suggest that they meet again, this time on purpose. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the harm in accepting, in that same way he always refused to see the harm in things he wanted to do. From the sound of the letter, it seemed that Crowley wanted to talk about something.

Well, it must not have been anything very important, because Aziraphale had been waiting for three hours past their meeting time. About two hours in, he’d given up on self-restraint and started ordering small, guilty, “I’m-still-waiting-for-you-but-I-also-want-to-drink” drinks, which had gradually turned into “I-got-stood-up-didn’t-I” denial drinks. He finally gave in and grudgingly admitted Crowley was not coming, decided he’d waited long enough, and ordered a final pint before leaving.

Had Crowley’s invitation been a ruse? That demon was certainly crafty, but Aziraphale hadn’t thought he would abuse what trust had developed between them for the sake of distracting Aziraphale for a few hours…would he?

The thought depressed Aziraphale to an alarming degree. He pushed down the realisation that he was lonely, squashing it under another impressive helping of denial. Gabriel was in town, after all; there were more angels here than ever thanks to Gabriel’s armed escort mucking about.

They didn’t really get him, though.

Aziraphale had the nagging suspicion that something had prevented Crowley from making their rendezvous. Still, he couldn’t drag his mind out of the rut that he was an idiot for trusting anyone, that his demonic nemesis* had duped him, and he really ought to get on with being alone for the rest of his life.

[*Aziraphale refused to use the word companion just yet, but he was working up to it.]

Aziraphale ambled out of the bar, head buzzing slightly and hands in his pockets. Now what?

He’d heard a church bell tolling not that long ago and had wondered what it’d been for. Three chimes wasn’t the norm for Compline, and it wasn’t any saint’s day or other liturgical festival he could think of. He might as well investigate. And while he was there, he could visit with the priest there who always had some delicious fig cakes lying about… Heaven knew he didn’t have anything better to do.

Aziraphale thought about flying to save time, but that would require a level of purposeful movement for which he could not muster up the motivation. Aimless walking seemed more befitting his restlessness and ill temper.

Besides, it was a nice night for a walk. Street-lamps hadn’t been invented yet, so his lonely journey was guided by the cold, beautiful light of the stars as they started to twinkle on one by one.

Aziraphale meandered down the street, his breath making small clouds before him, taking note when he passed a lit doorway through which he could see patrons of a bar or families content at dinner, laughing in the warmth and having a good time. He swiftly averted his eyes from such displays of happiness.

It was fully dark by the time he arrived at the church. It hardly seemed likely he would find anyone at this hour to ask why the bell had sounded, but he’d been looking for the flimsiest excuse to go for a walk so it hardly mattered. He rubbed his hands together and gazed up at the tower, the bell’s brass bulk looming like a gargoyle in the darkness.

Aziraphale caught the coppery scent of blood and prickled with alarm. He glanced down and saw a glistening trail, which shone a washed-out, glossy black in the dimness of the alley. He squatted to examine it and noted it looked relatively fresh.

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

He jogged towards the church, peering around to try to find the source of the blood. “Where are you?”

Aziraphale’s neck prickled again as he sensed an otherworldly aura nearby. Demonic, from the feel of it.

Had that demon done something dreadful? Aziraphale’s blood boiled to imagine that Crowley would have the gall to dupe him so he could go off to do….this.

Aziraphale materialised a dagger. “What have you done?” he whispered. “Show yourself.”

He knew how to use edged weapons, of course, but he strongly preferred keeping them out of his work. Nevertheless, keeping a dagger on hand was prudent. He was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.

He stepped forwards gingerly to avoid staining his sandals with the blood splattered all over the ground. A ghastly wheeze to one side drew his attention, and Aziraphale saw who’d made it:

Crowley was crumpled on the ground, bracing himself against the wall, his head hanging. It was immediately obvious to Aziraphale the blood was his, not that of a victim. He looked like he’d gotten the business end of a sword between the ribs. The presence of some stray nicks here and there on his arms and face told Aziraphale he had at least put up a fight.

At first, Aziraphale thought he’d stumbled upon Crowley’s corpse, but the laboured breaths powering the wheezing told him otherwise. He suddenly understood the off-hand comment Crowley had once made about angels smiting harder than strictly necessary. He’d always thought it was an exaggeration to garner pity.

Aziraphale did feel sorry for him now, which he didn’t want to admit. Surely if Gabriel’s cohort had been after an execution, a quick throat-slitting would have been sufficient. But they had left him to die slowly, and by a church of all places. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what effect being so close to holy ground would have on an injured demon, but judging by the trail of blood, Crowley had made some attempt to drag himself away from it before giving up and falling into his current position.

Aziraphale was torn on what to do. The angelic, and probably merciful, thing to do would be to put Crowley out of his misery. It wouldn’t be so bad; Hell would just give him another body. Wouldn’t that be preferable to bleeding out here in the street? Those of angelic stock were made of sterner stuff than humans, so he wouldn’t die right away.

But he definitely was going to die. It looked like Crowley had made an attempt to heal himself, but in his weakened state had clearly not been able to draw up enough power to do the job. Healing was a skillset not many angels actually had in their repertoire, and doing it on yourself was especially difficult.

That left only the option to kill him quickly, right?

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Crowley didn’t respond; his eyes were squeezed shut.

“Well, this is quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, lowering the knife.

Crowley started and looked up at Aziraphale foggily. “Huh?”

“Ah, I said, quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Crowley reached up and stuck his pinky finger into his ear, twisting it. It was at this point Aziraphale noted the dried blood caked on the side of his face, trailing down from his ear. “Ssssorry, hard to hear you over the ringing.”

Aziraphale looked doubtfully up at the bell tower, then back down at him. Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out as he took his next laboured breath. “Sssuppose you’re here to finish me off?”

Aziraphale again raised his knife. Crowley spewed some blood with a raspy cough. He probably has a punctured lung, Aziraphale thought. “Go on, then,” Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale didn’t respond, so Crowley closed his eyes again and titled his head back, baring his throat for the death blow. Aziraphale grimaced, weighing the dagger in his hand. Merciful or not, he hated the idea of using it on someone who had never done him any harm.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s face tightened in despair when no blow came, and he realised Crowley shared the thought of a quick death being the best option. The demon’s eyes fluttered open again, resting on Aziraphale.

“Gabriel’s guard detail did this to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“If you’re not going to help me, then get out of here,” Crowley snapped, chest heaving in palpable discomfort. He writhed for a moment, then finished, “I’m very busy dying.”

Aziraphale squatted down next to Crowley. The shift in position resulted in a sense of intimacy that Aziraphale instantly regretted. “What was it you wanted to talk about over drinks?”

Crowley let out a strangled laugh. He’d recently been given a very stern and painful reminder of what his relationship with angels was supposed to be like, and he’d discarded the plan he’d been about to present to Aziraphale. “Forget about it.”

Trapped by his mounting guilt and indecision, Aziraphale didn’t budge.

“Hey,” said Crowley, his voice thick. “Why does it have to be like this, you know? I mean, why like this? You always seemed a decent enough guy…”

Aziraphale waited for some confirmation that Crowley was mocking him, but none came.

Aziraphale looked at the knife in his hand again. Crowley succumbed to another wet coughing fit.

Aziraphale really didn’t want to kill him. The idea was tremendously distasteful. Had he come to…like this demon? Maybe he could sort those feelings out later.

But was the alternative to just leave him…? “I ought to at least move you somewhere more comfortable,” said Aziraphale. It was only charitable. He could make up some lie if another angel caught him moving Crowley around. He hauled Crowley up. “No,” Crowley groaned. “Come on…”

Aziraphale slung Crowley’s arm over his shoulder, putting his other arm around Crowley’s midsection to steady him. He was so sluggish that Aziraphale practically had to drag him.

“Where are we going?” Crowley asked miserably. “Just let me die already.”

“I’m just moving you away from the church,” said Aziraphale.

Aziraphale checked the sky to make sure it was free of any watchful eyes. He hauled Crowley into the street, using a small miracle to deter human passersby from noticing them.

Aziraphale soon found himself with another quandary, however: where to put the demon down. Surely now they were far enough away from the church that Crowley wouldn’t be affected by the holy ground, but if he just left him out here in the open, he might again catch the attention of Gabriel’s escort, and human passersby couldn’t help him.

Crowley’s head lolled onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he coughed a vivid stain onto Aziraphale’s tunic.

After taking a series of increasingly uncertain turns, Aziraphale eventually dragged Crowley all the way out of town. He didn’t stop until they came to a grassy hill leading up to a rocky outcropping not far from the ocean. There was a small grove of trees cresting it, including what appeared to be an apple tree.

It seemed appropriate. No one would find him here, away from the city and the holy symbols that had hurt him in the first place. And it was surrounded by pleasant trees and the salt-stung air.

There were worse places to die. Aziraphale still couldn’t shake a lingering sense of guilt, as though he should be responsible for the demon’s survival somehow.

He spotted a drop-off under the trees that was slightly sheltered, tree roots sticking out from the dirt. Aziraphale lay Crowley out under it and was shocked to see he was crying. He had thought demons couldn’t, or simply didn’t.

“I don’t want to die, angel,” Crowley managed.

Now he’s just trying to earn pity, Aziraphale thought. Of course none of them wanted to die, but it happened sometimes. You dealt with it. You got another body and came back.

Aziraphale got to his feet and turned to leave.

“Are you ever afraid to go back?” Crowley said weakly to Aziraphale’s back. “To Heaven, I mean. When you die.”

Aziraphale started to walk, ashamed. He couldn’t face Crowley or his question, not like this.

Consumed with guilt, Aziraphale returned within the hour.

He’d left Crowley on the cold ground. It was chilly, and the point had been to make him more comfortable, not leave him to freeze. That made him no better than Gabriel’s guards.

It was hard to see Crowley in the dark—he blended in so well—but Aziraphale found him eventually. He was exactly where Aziraphale had left him, but he’d curled up and tucked himself against the wall.

“Are you cold?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, his nose buried in the dirt, adamantly said nothing.

Aziraphale built a fire, waiting for Crowley to turn around in his own time. He struck rocks to try and make a spark, but ended up cheating with a miracle out of sheer frustration. He figured it was all right since he had gathered the kindling and done everything else by hand.

Crowley turned over when he felt the heat on his back, and then wordlessly scooted closer.

“Sorry, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “I forgot how cold it can get out here.”

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale only realised he’d used the affectionate term after it’d slipped out of his mouth, and he wondered where it could’ve come from. He struggled to think of some way to retract it, second-guessing himself.

Crowley ignored him. Maybe he hadn’t even heard it. He was staring into the fire.

Aziraphale hugged his knees to his chest, feeling chilled himself. Now would be the time to leave, but he hovered for reasons he refused to articulate.

He looked over at Crowley, the flames dancing in his bestial eyes. “Did you…” Aziraphale paused, realisation dawning on him. “Earlier, did you ask me if I—are you afraid of going back to Hell?”

Crowley’s laboured breathing was audible even over the crackling of the fire. He sat still for a few moments before nodding almost imperceptibly.

Crowley’s dread at the thought of being discorporated suddenly made sense to Aziraphale. He’d just assumed Crowley was throwing a fit at having to go through the physical pain of dying.

“Why would you be afraid of that?” said Aziraphale. “You’re a demon.”

Crowley didn’t respond.

“Are you having trouble hearing me again?”

Once again, Crowley remained silent.

Aziraphale reached over to shake him and make sure he was still alive, and Crowley let out a pained hiss.

“Watch it,” he snapped, and spat blood. Talking seemed to be extremely difficult for him. Aziraphale thought his lungs had probably filled with blood.

The angel retracted his hand. “Apologies.”

Crowley rolled over, gasping like a fish out of water.

“I could heal you, you know,” said Aziraphale, shocked by how easily the suggestion presented itself. It seemed so perfectly natural that it took him a moment to remember they were supposed to be enemies and therefore not help each other.

“But you’re not going to,” Crowley grunted, baring his teeth in a strained sneer.

He thinks I’m mocking him, Aziraphale realised. Or gloating. “No, I mean…I used to be a cherub. Healing is one of their skillsets. I still have it, although I haven’t used it in a while…”

Crowley pulled an angry face, coiling more tightly about himself. “Oh, piss off.”

Aziraphale was aware of how ludicrous the suggestion was. He wasn’t supposed to heal demons. He wasn’t even sure if an angel’s healing powers would work on a demon, or if it would burn like holy water…or church bells.

On top of that, healing required bridging the auras of the healer and the patient in such a way that the injured angel was extremely vulnerable, baring their innermost and most sensitive spiritual energy. Usually it wasn’t a problem, because of course an angel would trust another angel trying to heal them, but a demon…

Aziraphale could do permanent damage to Crowley if he wasn’t careful. Or if he were inclined to do so, which he wasn’t, but Crowley would probably take some convincing on that front. He had no reason to trust any angel, even one he had tried to meet for drinks, after being reminded so violently that angels, generally, have it out for him. The idea that a demon might trust an angel enough to expose himself in such a way was almost as absurd as…

…As the idea that angel would want to heal a demon in the first place.

Aziraphale mentally distanced himself from the situation and questioned his own motives. His Make Crowley more comfortable while he dies had slowly morphed into Make Crowley more comfortable, which was gradually becoming a question of why he had to die at all.

I mean, he’s just going to get a new body and come up again, thought Aziraphale. It’s not like killing our kind really does anything. So neither does saving a life, really. What’s the harm?

Our kind. Well, that was an uncomfortable insight, wasn’t it? Aziraphale pushed the pesky thought aside. He wrung his hands. “I mean it. I can heal you, if you like.”

Crowley rolled over and squinted at Aziraphale. “You must think I’m stupid,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“So you’ll trust me with your death, but not with your life?”

Crowley put his head back down and muttered.

Cautiously, Aziraphale reached out with his aura, extending it to where Crowley’s began. Crowley visibly stiffened, and Aziraphale felt iron-clad walls slam shut around the demon’s aura, defences at the absolute maximum.

Aziraphale withdrew immediately. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, that Crowley had closed himself off after what he’d just gone through. They had always been fairly cordial with each other, and Aziraphale had hoped perhaps they could keep it up.

But just because Aziraphale had strange and illogical feelings of fondness for his adversary didn’t mean they would be reciprocated. He’d been foolish to think otherwise.

“All right,” muttered Aziraphale, heaving himself up and dusting his tunic off. “Have it your way, then.”

Aziraphale came back again. This time, he brought two tankards of beer.

Crowley barely noticed his presence. His body felt like it was on fire,**and his lungs were filling with fluid faster than he could cough it out.

[**He knew what this felt like from experience.]

Why that pesky angel hadn’t just killed him was a mystery. He either had some severely misguided heavenly compassion, or he was toying with Crowley in a way neither of them had ever done to each other before. Revenge for being stood up? How petty.

Still, part of Crowley clung to every scrap of pain, knowing it was what was keeping him from Hell. As soon as it stopped, as soon as he died, he would end up back there.

Crowley’s eyes flew open as he felt a hand gently tilting his chin up. Aziraphale’s concerned face was a foot away from his own.

“You’re dying now, aren’t you?” the angel said.

Crowley’s eyes drifted down to the two pints the angel had brought. Optimistic of Aziraphale to think Crowley would be able to drink his, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. Misguided compassion it was, then.

Crowley coughed again, struggling to talk past the blood in his throat, wondering how many sentences he had left to get out. He looked up at the moonlit sky, stars visible through the branches of the apple tree above them. It was so utterly quiet and utterly beautiful…Crowley was glad he was here and not burning in an alley near a church. “Not a bad…spot…you picked out for it…angel,” he said, chest heaving. “Thanks…”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s soft, plump fingers brush his cheek. He didn’t have the energy left to express his surprise at being shown such tenderness.

“I think I can heal you,” Aziraphale said. “Won’t you at least let me try?”

Crowley shuddered and pulled up what remained of his energy to fortify his aura’s defence.

He trembled as he felt Aziraphale’s aura brushing against his own once more. The only time he’d felt anything like this was when he’d been smitten by other angels, but that was markedly less pleasant. Still, he redoubled his efforts to keep Aziraphale at bay; the sensory memory of being so close to angelic power overwhelmed him with panic. The exertion racked him with wretched, moist coughs.

Their connection vibrated with a gentle thought from Aziraphale. Please let me heal you. You’re scared of Hell. You needn’t face it.

Crowley screwed his face in concentration. He was so, so tempted by those words, but the sneering and laughing faces of the angels playing deadly games with their swords was still so close in his mind. He kept the wall up to preserve his privacy even as his body began to fail, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. He felt his heart slowing.

Aziraphale lowered his own defences, baring himself, and a cascade of emotions burst through their shared mental channel, giving Crowley a look at Aziraphale’s thoughts. Pity, and the helplessness of someone who can prevent needless suffering but was not being allowed to for reasons he considered foolish.

Crowley pushed back on the channel with his own thoughts: a collage of images, all the horrible things an angel could do if permitted access to Crowley’s deepest, most vulnerable areas. Aziraphale could sever him from his connection to his body and leave him trapped in a dead corporation; he could pull him out and put him in a bottle and block him from seeking reincorporation in Hell; he could tear him apart from the inside out so this slow dying was happening simultaneously in two planes; he could destroy whatever parts of Crowley he wanted; he could sever his wings. He could violate him in any number of ways that Crowley threw back in his face with a defiant addendum: Is this foolish?

Aziraphale withdrew slightly, not wanting to make Crowley feel like he was being forced into anything. Crowley closed his eyes, wheezing.

And yet, Aziraphale’s ethereal essence echoed in his mind, you’re thinking about it, because you hate Hell. Why?

Crowley bitterly shoved through their mental connection a torrent of images of what Hell was like: suffering and fire and torture and all manner of horrible things everyone expected him to like. Other demons withholding his new corporation from him until he did something unsavoury for them. Other demons sensing his desperation to get out no matter how he tried to hide it, of seeing who he really was and not approving, of being known and hated and taunted with the possibility that he might not get a new body at all and would be reassigned to do paperwork in the Eighth Circle. Demons with real authority over him threatening that if he didn’t do the vile things they thought he should be doing up on Earth, they would keep him trapped. Never allowed back up to Earth to see the green grass and the beautiful black starry sky under the apple tree and taste alcohol with that insufferable, beautiful angel—

Aziraphale recoiled in surprise, but did not let go.

Crowley paled, absolutely mortified, positive Aziraphale would blast him to dust on the spot after letting that slip. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation, but all he felt was Aziraphale’s hand gently running through his hair. He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s kind face had broken into a smile. “You asked Why does it have to be this way? It doesn’t. But it’ll never change unless someone takes the first step.” Aziraphale held out his hand. “You said I seem like a decent guy. Won’t you let me try to help you?”

Wracked with shudders, thinking he might be making either a decision he would greatly regret (or a decision for which he’d be grateful for years to come), Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and let his aural defences slide down. He nodded gravely.

“All right,” said Aziraphale, kneeling and getting into position to work. He placed a warm hand on Crowley’s chest. “Now, I’m not one-hundred percent certain this will work. I’ve never healed a demon before. But I’ll try my best. Let me know if something doesn’t feel right.”

A wave of apprehension rolled over Crowley. It took all his willpower not to recoil as Aziraphale reached out, brushing Crowley’s aura and stroking the raw wounds in his true form.

“Ready?” said Aziraphale, and a tendril of ethereal essence snaked its way into him and rested around his demonic core, which trembled at the touch. “One, two…”

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened as he felt something like divine fire licking through him, almost overwhelming him. Aziraphale seemed to notice his distress and eased up a little, pouring warm and gentle liquid light on the wounds.

Crowley let out a shaky breath, overtaken with relief.

“Is that better?” said Aziraphale, concern apparent on his face.

Crowley raised a hand to wipe sweat away from his face, letting out a nervous chuckle as the pressure in his chest finally lifted and the blood drained from his lungs under Aziraphale’s deft motions. “Yeah. Oh…”

Crowley let out a moan. Aziraphale’s hands worked over his chest in light circles, causing his flesh to writhe and draw itself back together.

Crowley’s head was a little clearer now, so he tried to think of a snarky one-liner to recover some sense of pride, but nothing came to him. He was just so damn caught up in how good the miracle-working he was getting felt. It was like Aziraphale was massaging his very soul.

In sharp contrast to the defensiveness he’d felt earlier, he was actually quite disappointed to feel Aziraphale’s healing aura withdraw. He opened his eyes and looked the angel up and down. “Why’d you stop?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, fidgeting with a branch on the ground. “That’s enough to keep you alive. You won’t die now. So I’ve kept you from Hell.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He heaved himself upright and leaned against the rock wall behind him, a root from the apple tree sticking out of the dirt wall behind him poking his back slightly. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale smiled lightly.

Crowley was disappointed to still feel a slight pain when he inhaled. “You could…”

Aziraphale looked up sharply. “What?”

“You could…I don't know, you could finish if you wanted to.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, and his aura snaked back out.

Crowley welcomed him with no hesitation this time. He bathed in the angelic aura like a snake basking in the sunlight. The now less-than-mortal wounds left in his corporation quickly knit themselves together.

Aziraphale withdrew gradually this time, and the two of them felt like they were glowing, having broken a boundary no angel or demon had ever dared approach before.

“Thank you,” said Crowley. He reached down and touched his chest, which was now whole again.

“Don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley let his fingers wander over to the angel’s hand, trying to decide whether or not he should hold it.

“No, really, don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale. “I could get in big trouble, especially if Gabriel’s guard had orders to kill you. Er…”

Crowley nodded grimly, yanked back into the seriousness of the situation by the tone in the angel’s voice. He nudged one of the tankards of beer. “So…that for me?”

Aziraphale slid it over to him. “Yes… I thought, well…You wanted to get drinks earlier and failed to make that appointment. I thought we could make-up the date here, under this tree.”

Crowley took a swig of beer. It was the good stuff. “Thanks.”

“You can buy next time. Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together.

“So,” said Aziraphale, staring at the foam in his tankard. “There was something you had wanted to talk about. Perhaps now you’ll feel comfortable sharing it?”

Crowley gazed into his beer. “Oh, yes. Well, you know, I’ve been thinking… This wouldn’t have happened if I’d known Gabriel was in town. I was only here for one mission, and this whole situation could have been avoided if someone else had been in town to carry it out for me.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“You had a mission to do three towns over, didn’t you? Yet they made you run all the way over here to meet Gabriel, which hardly gives you enough time to meet your deadline. Yet I was in that same town, bored out of my skull. Seems like if we just…talked it over a bit, we could pick up each other’s slack. We’d get a lot more done in a much more efficient way, and we could stay out of the way of other angels and demons.”

Aziraphale looked down into his cup, thinking of an unpleasant run-in he’d had with a demon not as approachable as Crowley on his last mission. “That sounds…reasonable. You’re proposing an Arrangement of some sort?”

“That,” said Crowley, raising his glass, “is precisely what I am proposing. A formal business relationship between you and me. One based on mutual respect and trust.”

Aziraphale looked into his honey-golden eyes, as full of hope and positivity as the smile reaching them, and once again clinked their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic #gohe

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endlessgreysky · 5 years

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August 10, 2.04 am

Fun thing about ptsd is that my brain protects itself from things, until it doesn’t. A lot has happened recently and I went numb for actual weeks, and I just had a tiny moment where I felt a tiny emotion and suddenly every emotion just rushed into the crack so quickly I had a panic attack.

Lost one of my friends. Out of everyone I’m friends with she’s the one I’d expect it from, she’s the one who’s problematic enough on her own that I honestly didn’t feel anything but rage at what happened. Then I felt nothing, and I felt a little weird and bad for it but it was more important how my friends were feeling anyway. The drama is between my best friend and her, so I’m just here being pissed because my best friend is my person and I’m wildly overprotective of her. But my other friend is like the ex-friend’s person, so it’s awkward bc she’s going to keep being friends with all of us and she just wants us to work it out. She talked to me about it yesterday and I’ve just been thinking about it ever since. The first thing I did when the drama happened was remove her from social media everywhere so she can’t contact me without it being a “request” so that I can choose whether or not I engage. Thinking back I’m just beating myself up because I’m so used to dealing with drama that I never stopped to think if that was the best idea in this situation. And it’s not like I’m super excited or ready or willing to let her even a tiny bit back into my life, but in all honesty everything I feel towards her regards what happens with my best friend, so if they work things out I’ll still have removed her everywhere. I guess I got so used to losing friends and everything being impermanent that it took me this long to realize the friends I’m losing now are the ones I’d started to consider family.

I’m pissed at her, a part of me hates her, a part of me never wants to even look at her face again, but it hurts. It’s just this nagging ache that I felt when I realized that she was my family for awhile and I just shattered a part of my family since she’ll always be around as long as my other friend is. And that ache is what let in all of my other feelings as something besides my numb depressed state.

My mom had someone she loved die today and threw herself into a dinner with my dads shitty fucking family right after. They condescended her because that’s what they do, they condescended me because they think she doesn’t know how to raise me, and honestly I just hate being around them and it was in the house I grew up in and it was just really uncomfortable. Not to mention that my dad exists to make me miserable. But my mom thought things were going really well and she was actually feeling great when we went home, only to find that my cousin posted the picture she took while my mom watched her take it, and tagged everyone in it except my mom. And it made my mom upset and excluded and all of those feelings which made me really upset bc no one gets to ever fucking make my mother feel that way. She deserves better. Quite honestly, I deserve better, but I don’t care enough about myself for that.

My two best friends in the entire world deserve better too. The one I talked about earlier has a lot of dumb family drama and it’s been a hell of a lot worse lately, and there’s nothing real I can do to help her besides talk about how nice it’ll be when we have an apartment together. It’s not very reassuring since I don’t even have a job yet. And her birthday is coming soon and her family is just remaining shitty as if she’s not about to turn eighteen which should be huge and exciting. And my other best friend goes through a lot and I just can only help her so much through text but she lives in another country so there’s literally nothing more I can do to help her. It’s the worst feeling in the world, to want to fix something or help someone and literally being unable to do it.

I’m really lonely. I still haven’t told my mom about my ptsd and I’ve kind of been closed off because I don’t want to tell her anymore. My best friend lives in another country, my other has a job, and my only other real friend now is moving into a dorm soon. Those are my people and they’re amazing people and I love them with everything in me but it’s just like, there’s something missing. I guess I was really in love with this guy that broke my heart and it’s not even him anymore, it’s just that I miss that feeling. I’m tired of being alone. And almost all of my trauma is from my ex, so being in a healthy relationship is literally the only thing that works best to heal and shit bc it replaces the bad memories with good ones. My therapist says if I do that enough it should blot them out a lot, and it’s worked so fucking well with my friends that I’m just dying for it to happen romantically. I’ve been having more flashbacks and nightmares again bc my ex is back in town and it’s just looming over my head. And just bc all of my mental health is getting worse. And I have a lot of methods to cope now that are helping, but there was something about my recent ex that just helped. Like, I had a flashback once and he wrapped his arm around me and that was all it took to calm me down. It was just the feeling of being with someone in that way that was safe and comfortable and it was something I’d never felt before and idk if I’m a junkie for it or if I miss it or what but I don’t know how to really get better without that happening. And it’s going to take so much time for that to actually be able to happen again and it’s just killing me ig. I’ve also jumped into this self destructive state where I’ve convinced myself that I want or even need to see my ex again for like closure or some bullshit, as if I don’t know the fucking panic I would go through even if we stayed forty feet away from each other the entire time.

My life has gotten so quiet and depressed recently that I’ve stopped listening to music most of the time, which is like ridiculously sad. And concerning. Music is literally the thing in this world that means the most to me that I care the most about and I just don’t fucking care about it right now. I don’t feel like I have the mental energy. I have no idea why or what’s wrong with me but you know what? It’s terrifying me.

I’ve been drowning all of my problems in fanfiction like nobody’s business. It’s wildly problematic bc I’m burying my feelings, I’m not doing anything bc on the days I don’t read all day I’m sleeping all day bc I read all night. I haven’t written anything for my novel in a month now and I’m very aware of it but I couldn’t be bothered to work on it, which is bad bc I’m about two weeks away from missing my second goal for it and I’ll beat myself up a lot once I start having feelings again. (Funnily enough I’m going numb again now that I’m getting all of my emotions out here.) I’ve deadass cancelled plans with myself and other people to read the fanfiction. And like it’s great fucking fanfiction but it’s getting far passed even the term unhealthy. In fact, I literally started crying during my panic attack earlier because I’d convinced myself Wade Wilson was so real that when reality hit I couldn’t handle it. It’s like I was using Wade comforting Peter (Parker, its Spideypool) as my own emotional comfort in that kind of relationship way I’ve been missing. And even knowing he’s not real I’ve been taking a lot of comfort knowing he would beat the shit out of my ex if he ever met him. But yeah I’ve been channeling myself through their relationship and living through it and it’s been one of my most incredible acts of escapism yet, and then I realized I don’t actually have someone to hold me when I break and reality crashed onto me so much fucking harder. And I think it’s also that I know Wade’s character enough to trust him and so I’ve become a fictional characters emotional leech and I let it get so intense unintentionally that I literally couldn’t handle the reality that didn’t have him in it. This kind of makes me sound crazy lmao. Funnily enough, I used to have breakdowns like this a lot whenever I got way too into my escapism. But usually it was just a lot of sadness - the only other time I had one at this level was when I started to realize that my entire fantasy universe wasn’t going to come to life when I grew up. Basically, I had a very intense childhood but like fuck i was lonely back then and I guess I must be that lonely now. At least this time I’m creating fake significant others instead of having only imaginary friends.

My therapist and I haven’t been able to meet much over the summer and it’s been enough for me to pull back and make my issues seem better than they are, which is probably a lot of the reason I’m suddenly a fucking mess. Luckily for me, she’s gone this week so I won’t get to see her 🙃. But anyway, I think I got everything out and I definitely feel like this helped. I needed to vent in a way I haven’t done in a while. I’ve also been being misgendered a LOT on my recent trips and it’s all by family which affects me worse bc they know my identity and don’t work to correct themselves. So that’s not helping. And it might be almost 3 am now but I’m definitely diving straight back into fanfiction for awhile longer before going to bed. I can admit I’ve taken it way over the top but escapism is my bitch for a reason and I’m not giving up on it now. I think I am gonna try to make some sort of note for my therapist so that I don’t keep talking about my issues like they’re better than they are. I always do it but with her it’s a problem lmao. Oh, I’m also avoiding sleep tonight bc I don’t want nightmares. So there’s that gem. I turn 18 in 15 days and I’ve stopped making plans bc I literally don’t care anymore. Taking stock on the things I’ve stopped caring about, I’m literally a huge fucking mess and I didn’t even realize. Oh! And I’ve also started having a lot of self esteem issues bc it’s hot outside and my stretch marks on my thighs show with my shorts on. That hasn’t been a problem for me in years.

Anyway, I think I’m finally done now. I seriously doubt anyone read all the way through this long ass vent, but on the off chance that you did, thank you for your time. I really appreciate it. I hope you’re having a better time than I am, you deserve all of the good things and I hope you’re getting all of them and more. Please have a good morning, day, or night. Stay hydrated and do something nice for yourself bc you deserve it! All my love 💕

Chris xx

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antiquechampagne · 5 years

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Beastly Kingdom - Chapter 4 - Eulogy

Nate passed the hours entertaining himself by exploring Nuka-Town USA. Just about everyone either avoided him or glowered as he passed. When he wandered into a nearly completely restored and functional arcade, he balked. Fritsch, the man operating the place, seemed friendly enough. Nate found he wasted an hour or two rambling around in a wave of nostalgia, despite himself.

After turning in a handful of tickets for a frog magnet, Nate walked into the busy market. He found the enclosed trading area depressing, filled with traders strapped with bomb collars forced to hawk their wares in rags. Few would talk with him, other than to show him their stalls, their eyes averted to the ground. He figured the raiders with rifles on the catwalks above them helped to seal their lips. He approached the slave that had been ministering to the dying raider when she caught his eye, nodding slightly to him. When he walked to her station, her voice was hushed low.

“Name’s Mackenzie. I’m the closest thing to a doctor we have around here. You’re that Minuteman General guy, aren’t you? ” A raider dressed in a paisley suit covered in armor walked by. Her knuckles went white as she gripped her clipboard, her eyes staring hard at the paper in front of her. “You need any supplies?”

“Not yet. But hey, can you tell me anything about that Damion guy and how he got that deathclaw back here in one piece? If you can…”

Mackenzie grimaced. “Ain’t no such thing as patient/doctor privilege around here, plus the guy’s dust anyway. Not sure what there is to tell. Damion and his crew have been on that beast’s tail for a while. Took ’em some time to figure out where they were nesting. Killed a few of the babies who they spooked. Took out, like, half his team that way.” She rubbed her forearm absently. “They had no way of getting into the nest without being slaughtered, but couldn’t lure her out. The Overboss wanted her bad, though.”

“Why?”

The doctor shrugged. “Who the fuck knows. Not like anyone could tame one of those monsters. Lizzy - she’s the Operators’ top chem chef - she’s been trying to come up with some kind of cocktail to pacify folks, en masse. Guess she figured if it works on a deathclaw, it should work on a settlement full of people, right?” She huffed. “Well, it didn’t work, not all the way. Damion got himself gutted in the process. They drug him all the way back here, with an unconscious deathclaw in tow.”

She hid her mouth with her clipboard, lowering her eyes and volume of her voice. “Hope the damn thing guts her, too.”

She was taking quite the risk. Nate followed her lead.

“Well, now that you mention that, I think I might have pulled something in my shoulder when I was fighting my way in here. Could you take a look at it?”

Mackenzie nodded. “That’ll be 15 caps.” She guided him to a chair. After removing his left pauldron, she started to feel around and maneuver the joint, affording her the chance to whisper into Nate’s ear.

“Not happy with upper management around here?” Nate prompted.

“A lot of us are sick of the accessories.” She adjusted her collar. “With the population growing, those on the lower rungs have been bearing the brunt of the pains.” She stretched his arm over his head while pushing his shoulder down. “Your sudden appearance has been giving a few of us hope there might be a bit of a shakeup soon.”

They both paused at the sound of boots scraping across the catwalk above their heads. Nate even gave out an “Ooof” for good measure as Mackenzie torqued his joint.

Once the raider had moved away, Nate continued. “Shakeup? Yes. Soon? Don’t know.”

Mackenzie nodded. Returning to normal volume, she issued him a clean bill of health and a recommendation to put a hot compress on his shoulder should act up again.

After being verbally accosted by a walking cartoon soda bottle, Nate retired to a corner in the courtyard outside the Cola-Cars area, watching the growing mountain of wood being gathered for the pyre. The crowd started to gather as the sun neared the horizon, a mix of every different kind of raider Nate had seen around Nuka-World, though the majority appeared to be from the Pack. It appeared as if some had already started the party, with drunken antics causing bursts of laughter or cursing.

Nate was starting to get an idea the social strata of raider society. Slaves were decisively on the bottom, followed by raider grunts. Above them were something akin to officers or managers, those who kept the lower ranks in line. Over them were the heads of the individual gangs. On top of it all, with undisputed power over the whole chain, was the matriarch: Liz. Somehow, they had developed their own brutal customs and code of ethics, more elaborate than he saw in the misfit operations normally roaming in the Commonwealth. Nuka-World raiders had more of a society in place than Nate had realized. It was almost like a huge dysfunctional family.

The courtyard hushed as the Overboss entered, followed by her entourage. The burly leader of the Pack carried a shrouded body on a crude stretcher with the help of Gage. The two of them easily hoisted their cargo on top of the pile, stretcher and all.

Liz took her place at the top of the stairs leading to the Cola-Cars Arena, making the area into an impromptu stage. Behind her stood a line of men and women. Nate guessed they were the various heads of the raider factions, plus a few hangers-on. He recognized Daisy, Gage and the Pack leader, Mason, but the rest were unknown to him.

With a single slash of her hand, Liz silenced the crowd. Every eye, no matter how bloodshot, was glued to her. She took a swig from a bottle before starting.

“I bet there are some of you out there wondering why you are standing here. Why are you waiting for party to start? Why should we be giving two shits about this corpse instead of tossing it in the pile outside the walls like the rest of those other dead fuck-ups?”

Several murmurs echoed through the throng of raiders.

“’Cause Damion bagged BIG MAMA!” She pointed to the body. “That’s why! The biggest, nastiest Quantum-claw in all of Nuka-World! None of you shits managed to pull it off, and he died doing it for us! If any of you want the royal treatment when you kick it, you fuckers had better start aiming higher!” She held the bottle up in front of her, the rag stuffed in the neck waving gently in the wind. “But for tonight, I want every last one of you to get fucking wasted! Bang the drums and howl till your lungs bleed! I want every slack-jawed farmer in the whole Commonwealth to think we are marching to their front door!”

With that, she lit the rag. With a deafening wail, the Overboss lobbed the Molotov cocktail at the pyre. It ignited with a fiery splash.

Out of the corners of the courtyard, booming drums beat the crowd into a frenzy, echoing the Boss’s howl. The raucous bacchanal continued as crates of booze and drugs appeared. Grilled carcasses were dragged through the crowd on modified funnel cake carts as the pyre slowly ate away at the corpse atop it.

Nate grabbed a chunk of unidentifiable meat, before trying to maneuver himself through the crowd towards the steps where the Overboss reclined on a toppled concrete post, an inhaler in hand. He could see her pointing and talking to the people around her. A group of metal masked raiders seemed to materialize before him, blocking his path. By the time he made his way around them, she had slipped away.

“Don’t worry, General!” Dixie said cheerfully, seeing him searching the crowd. She pushed a metal box into his palm. “The Boss wanted to make sure you had a good time, too. Enjoy, hun!” Looking down, Nate couldn’t help but notice that the tin didn’t have a label.

“Mandatory, right?”

Dixie nodded. Nate could barely see her eerie smile under her mask. “Aren’t you precious?! Of course it is!”

___

Liz sat in near darkness, watching the beast through the narrow slits of the bars as it paced. With hardly any lights on, the blue glow emanating from beneath its skin danced across her face. Liz actually preferred the low light, her bloodshot eyes more suited to darkness than the blaring bright sun.

Maybe in another 50 years, I’ll be forced to wear glasses! She thought. But I’ve made it more than two centuries without them. Take that, AARP!

She silently followed the Quantum-claw’s agitated frame, waiting for the deep inhalation of breath into its cavernous lungs. A moment before it released a thunderous bellow, she covered her ears, standing unmoving as the door buffered the blast of sound. The beast rushed the door, slamming its massive weight against the steel, its dagger-like claws raking the surface, searching for some purchase to rip the barrier to shreds. Occasionally, it would inch towards the bars, sniffing the air carefully before retreating back into the shadows.

In one hand, she held a bloody bowl. The other held onto a talisman tied around her neck. It had been over a year since she had last worn it, but she had made the decision it would never leave her neck again. Cautiously stepping forward, she started to make a throaty hum, low and guttural. She doubted a normal human could make such a noise. Pulling a bisected hand from the bowl, she tossed it through a gap in the bars. A large glowing blue eye peered at her, hesitating, before the creature threw itself at the door again, howling wildly.

Liz heard footsteps behind her.

“You okay, Boss?” Mason asked between outbursts.

Liz pulled Mason into another room, away from the wailing. “The party not up to your standards?” he asked.

She put the bowl down on a table, whipping her hand on a nearby rag – she’s probably been down here for probably an hour or two, now that she thought about it.

“The party is fine, but there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ve got shit to do… but there are a few spots along the floor where she can get the tip of her claws. She’s going to keep clawing those. In a few days she’ll be remodeling the room for you if you’re not careful. Fix it.”

Mason nodded.

She idly massaged her knuckles. “The General causing any problems?”

“Nah. He fell asleep with the mutie hound after popping a couple of those candies Dixie passed him. The guy’s a lightweight.”

Liz snorted. Dixie had passed him an old box of prewar breath mints. It was amazing what you could make people believe with just a little suggestion. “I’ve heard he pals around with a mutant sometimes. Figures he would cuddle up with one here too.” She started to head out the door. “Tell Gage and Dixie I’m heading to Kiddie Kingdom. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

Mason nodded. “Sure thing, Boss. Don’t party too hard over there.”

Liz smiled. “A gal’s gotta go a little feral sometimes, Mason… or else life just isn’t as much fun!”

#beastly kingdom #fallout #fallout 4 #fanfic #fan fic #nuka world #funeral #deathclaw #Big Mama

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velvet-tread · 6 years

Text

A theory, or wild speculation, or whatever; anyway there’s some Bellarke

Here follows a collection of thoughts that don’t quite add up to a thesis yet

Season 5 had one of the best runs of episodes I’ve seen on this show ever - strong themes, great setups, impactful character beats. 9 straight episodes of near-perfection.

But imo it fell short in the last couple of episodes. How short depends on your perspective, but my feelings about it range from mildly disappointed to Jane Austen mourning weeds and little weepy handkerchiefs. Either way - the collapse into fudgy incoherence and loose ends actually undid all of the great work the show did in the first 9 episodes. WHICH IS FUCKING INFURIATING.

The show painstakingly put together so much excellent character and relationship set ups which either never materialised or didn’t pay off or just fizzled out. And now I’m left wondering what it all meant, which not only frustrates me on a viewer level but also makes me feel like an idiot for wildly overestimating what the show was doing with the material.

*looks at the X Files forever*

Just to pick a few things out at random.

a) Bellarke were put in conflict, but there was no emotional pay-off, the framing was all over the place and the resolution basically a post-script.

b) We spent the series agonising about the wisdom of going to war on a fragile planet, but the actual harbinger of Apocalypse 3.0 (I can’t believe I have to write that) was someone only tangentially related to that storyline, whom every single named character bar Kabby was trying to stop. So was everyone wrong? Or just ineffectual? The latter is far less interesting and more depressing tbh.

c) The worms

d) Memori

e) I could go on

I repeat, I would not be so pernickety if the run up to the s5 finale hadn’t been so good, and the set up so promising. The idea of a reboot was genius. The Bellarke separation was genius. Blodreina = genius. Mama Bear Clarke = genius. Eligius = genius. Spacekru = genius.

But ultimately? Can ANYONE tell me what s5 meant? What difference did any of those things make in the end? What conflict was resolved satisfactorily? I’d argue that the Blodreina/Blake siblings arc worked the best (although *howl* Bellamy was never given any in-universe context for Blodreina) but generally I’m left with the feeling that very few of these stories or conflicts had any meaning whatsoever, and especially not Bellarke.

So I have a theory and I stand to be corrected as ever because I am very much processing.

I think there’s a strong possibility Jason and/or the 100 writers room began rewriting the back end of season 5 as they were filming the early season 5 material.

Given Jason’s comments immediately after the finale, I’m inclined to believe that the rewrites, if I’m right, were mostly around Bellarke and the Flame. Specifically, I think that at some point when they were filming mid-season, Jason changed his mind about how Bellarke-y he wanted the season to be, if at all. And on top of that, I think as he was pitching season 6 around that time, he realised that he wanted to go full-hog with the Flame in season 6.

Those two things might be connected. Perhaps Jason realised the full extent to which he coud “bring Lexa back” without actually bringing back ADC, around the Flame. Perhaps he wants to recreate the show’s Clexa glory days. And perhaps romantic Bellarke isn’t compatible with that vision. Dumb, in my view, but hey.

Perhaps, he just realised that he can’t doesn’t want to write romantic Bellarke.

If that’s the case, then well, *shrugs*. Less satisfying for me, but I don’t own this shit. I do, however, own the prerogative to speculate wildly on how and why they squandered all that promise in the last couple of eps.

Certainly, a mid-season back end emergency rewrite would explain a few things:

1.The loose threads and wonky framing

For example, Clarke’s fury at Bellamy for putting the Flame into Madi’s head was just...dropped? Why? When it was SUCH A BIG DEAL in 509? What were we supposed to the think about that? What was she? And Bellamy, who didn’t appear to even remember who Clarke was until he saw her at the ship, being angry at her? Really? Where? Since when? And importantly - why?

I’m a writer and it’s my experience that the best planning you do for a piece is when you approach it at the start. You brainstorm. You get your thoughts together. You address each problem and question and mould it into a whole so it all makes sense.

But when you finish the thing and you look at it and you think - the thesis is wrong! I need to restructure the entire thing! That’s when mistakes get made. Especially if, for example, you’re up against a deadline or in this case a filming schedule, the threads that you would usually pick up at the planning stage or in the editing stage get missed. And because they are part of the final editing process, there’s nobody around to pick them up and properly address them.

Result? Fudge.

2. The curious ambivalence about Becho.

Look I ADORE Becho. They are soft, and loving and real af. I fully believe that was always intended to be the case.

I think Becho was set up as a benchmark, for Bellamy in particular, a symbol of his peace and prosperity in space,. And, of course, I think it was also set up as a point of conflict for Octavia and Clarke. In the case of the latter, it was definitely a silent love triangle. How do you explain the love triangle framing on two separate occasions? How else do you explain the two separate interviews Jason gave about love triangles?

But here’s what Becho was not set up as: a relationship that was supposed to develop on-screen and take the audience with it. Becho had no arc this season. It wasn’t “a story” per se, however much Tasya and Bob’s chemistry electrified me. It was the backbone to *other* stories.

So, why, then, were Becho given every single Bellarke beat, especially towards the end? A background of forgiveness? Check. A steadying influence on each other. Check. The person they’re fighting for? Check. Plotting together? Check? Battle couple? Check.

Contrast with Bellarke. Forgiveness? That’s something for Bellamy and Madi to discuss without Clarke! Battle plans? Clarke will do that with Echo instead (oh my GODDD my ot3 came to life there *clutches hands and wishes upon a star*). A steadying influence on each other? Maybe! Until they forget each other’s names when they’re not in a scene together! People they’re fighting for? Definitely not each other.

Meanwhile bts, the messages were VERY confusing. So the show was giving us a Becho that, while very real, was not the core of the story. Which was probably why, in early season 5, some deep Becho nods (the extra forehead touch, the “I love her”) found their way on to the editing room floor. All legit. But then, the script-to-screens then BROUGHT THOSE THINGS BACK to the viewer’s attention? Why? Why give us those things even though they were cut? Was it because maybe, the show had changed direction after the fact?

And don’t get me wrong. I loved every second of the show’s affirmation of Becho. I still adore them. But how does it fit into the jigsaw of the show as it stands? It doesn’t really. In fact, if you just swap Echo for Clarke in Bellamy’s storyline this season, you would have a hard time telling me that this isn’t exactly what romantic Bellarke would look like - the only difference is that in terms of screentime, Becho’s antagonism has had far more time, and Bellarke’s forgiveness/working together has had more time. IN-UNIVERSE, IT’S THE OTHER WAY AROUND. It’s why shipping Becho comes so easily for me. And if the show wanted to frame that as Clarke’s personal tragedy, I would get it and probably relish it. But the trouble is, I’m having a hard time understanding what the show *is* saying about Becho and Bellarke, because it seems to be constantly changing its mind.

WHICH. BY THE WAY. MADE THAT ENTIRE WAKE-UP MARPER VLOG SEQUENCE A MASSIVE DAMP BELLARKE SQUIB.

SORRY.

3. The Flame suddenly jumping to prominence as a tool rather than as a symbol late in the season.

The show went from framing the Flame as a threat to this kid, who had hidden from it her whole life, for whom it meant literal nightmares of people burning at the stake, something for Clarke to rightly protect her from, to something that turned her into a mouthpiece for Lexa, to Clarke’s hostility to it being framed as “wrong”. There was an abrupt change of tone imo, to Clarke’s fears being justified to Clarke’s fears making her, and I quote Jason from an interview that nearly made me choke on my cereal, a “helicopter” mum.

Excuse me while I punch the nearest object to smithereens.

The Flame “gave” Madi battle ideas (which were different from Octavia’s how, exactly?) by Gaia’s bedside, with just a MANTRA? That whole scene felt cobbled together at the last minute. Like a film student’s badly edited homework.

It’s giving Clarke life lessons, ffs!

*clenches fist*

The whole thing feels like a season 5 retcon, hastily put together to justify Madi still having the thing in her head for season 6, when it can do it’s victory lap for real.

4. The scenes that were dropped

a) Bob and Eliza both referenced a big Bellarke scene that got cut. My guess? Not a romantic scene but some kind of Hakeldama that allowed them to hash out their various beefs with each other and probably involved some shit talking about the Flame.

b) And like, if that scene had some tenderness in it? Too Bellarke maybe? No, Bellarke BAD BAD BAD *stern looks*

c) also, wasn’t Echo supposed to have a sad scene of sitting in the snow and remembering Azgeda? That was supposed to be at the snowy back end of the season, but Echo had no sads really. Only fierce spacekru love and some cuddles and some good sexy time. Was there an Echo sad that got cut? What was it related to?

5. The writers room walkout

Yeah. I don’t know what that means, but it sure means something.

Just fyi...for some context. I love Becho and they currently own my heart but until recently Bellarke was very much my otp. Probably, deep down, it still is.

But I’m getting tired of running this race. I have no problem with the show doing a slow burn. I have no problem with platonic Bellarke. But I need consistency and, importantly, I need the show to remember that Bellarke are the backbone of this show. Their relationship - however you frame it - is the heart and without it the show is nothing but a collection of Elon Musk conspiracy theories on reddit.

JUST LETTING THEM HAVE A CONVERSATION =/= BELLARKE ROMANCE.

If you want them platonic, fine, you win. But gutting their relationship from the inside out to try to ward off the sniff of shipping is just counterproductive. It’s the lack of real, meaningful connection that really turned me off Bellarke this season, not the lack of kiss or lack of romantic framing. Early in the season? Yes, the set up was all there and it looked GREAT. But their conflict never got off the ground and we never got a cathartic resolution to show us the characters really, truly mean something to each other.

Ultimately the show forgot that they were friends who love each other, and I just *clenches fist* can’t ship that. Maybe that’s what the show wanted. But the flipside is that at this point I’m not really invested in their relationship in any context, which is why the end shot left me cold. I hope Bellarke hasn’t died in my heart forever but...idk it doesn’t look good.

#bellarke #rip my beautiful earth babies #you'll have a special place for me forever #but i can't run this obstable course anymore #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #tagging becho #too #also don't send me hate #i'll block you

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soopranatural · 6 years

Text

Who I was looking for -Part 18

Summary: Even after you started wearing cuffs, the words are engraved in your mind as well as your wrist. You know you're not destined for love as soon as you learn how to read. How could you? When the words "Sorry, you're not who I was looking for" are written in black ink on your skin.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: angst, pining, insecurity, etc

Words: 1779

A/N: I seriously meant to post this yesterday but I slept all day oops

Marsterlist

Mobile Masterlist

Part 17 Series Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

"Alright Tin-Man, what is it?"

They're in the hallway now, mainly so they can escape the renewed noise of the common room. As soon as Bucky had spoken, a hush fell over the room. It was weird for him to speak to Stark, and Bucky was known for being aggressively independent, never asking for anything even if he needed it. He was glad they had moved to the hallway, he was a little embarrassed, but he still wanted to ask.

He turned to look behind him, the door to the common room was ajar, and he could see Steve and Natasha lurking on the other side, he huffed and turned back to Stark.

"I need a jet" he spoke with no preamble, better to get it over with.

Tony raised an eyebrow, surveying him slowly as if searching for bad intentions. There was a glint in his eyes that looked teasing, but that might have been his imagination. Or maybe that was just a Tony Stark thing, a permanent teasing look.

"What for?" That was almost definitely fake innocence Bucky heard in his voice. Bucky grit his teeth, he hated when Stark acted like he knew something that he didn't, but he really needed this.

"I want to..." he sighed, ran a hand through his hair,

started over "Y/N has to leave for her hometown in a hurry. I'd like to take her, it's kind of an emergency." Bucky doesn't remember ever speaking this many words in a row to Tony Stark.

Tony's smirk widens and Bucky suppresses a growl.

"You have to forgive me if I don't trust you with a jet, old man. But-"

"I'll pilot the jet" The two men turn to look at Natasha, who is standing behind the open door and next to an open-mouthed Steve. She shrugs before speaking again, her voice nonchalant. "I was looking for an excuse to go outside anyway. Besides, everyone keeps telling me about the girl James is crushing on, I'd like to meet her."

"I'm not crushing on her" Bucky murmurs, but he's secretly doing somersaults on the inside. His chest is tight with excitement, and he can't help the small smile that blooms on his face.

"Well look at that" Tony exclaims. He looks at Natasha, then at Bucky. "Fine then, but bring it back in one piece" he aims this last part at Natasha, who only smirks and motions for Bucky to go with her.

Steve shakes his head with a smile and goes back into the common room.

"So" Natasha's tone is deceivingly nonchalant "Y/N"

Bucky hums noncommittally, helping her adjust the controls on the jet before takeoff. She flops onto the pilot's seat like it's a living room couch.

"Yeah, spill. I've been trying to set someone up for ages, but Rogers won't cooperate" she grins. "Tell me everything"

"There's nothing to tell Nat, she works in the tower" she perks up at that, ooh-ing at him, he ignores her "She's nice." He finishes, wanting her to stop looking at him like that.

"Oh, c’mon James, she has to be something more than nice if I'm flying this jet"

He gives in, knowing there wasn't a point in trying to keep something from her "She's kind, and hilarious, and frankly adorable. She sees me as Bucky, y'know? Not a monster, or a teammate, or a soldier, or even an avenger. I guess I kinda miss people looking at me like a person" he huffs, looking away when he sees Natasha glancing at him with those dewy eyes she looks at him with sometimes, when he's being particularly depressing.

She hums, then turns on the engine.

Nat makes fun of him when he realizes they took off without knowing where you lived. Luckily, they were already close by and arrive in a matter of minutes.

He looks for you as they land, and he finally sees you, bursting from the side of the building, your face frozen in a shocked expression. He knew you hadn't believed him.

"She is pretty" Natasha comments, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips as she opens the door for him.

You give a loud, incredulous laugh when you see him, your wide eyes glimmering with childish astonishment. Bucky's heart expands, pumping wildly in his chest at the sound of your laughter, it's the first time he's smiled this big in a long, long while.

He basks in your gleeful expression, and feels weirdly proud of putting that look on your face. When he takes your bag you seem to not notice, and remain standing outside, gawking at the sleek aircraft.

"What a cutie" Natasha smiles, and Bucky's glad to get the approval of one of his best friends, he beams at her and she gives a surprised laugh. "Oh boy, you really are a goner aren't you?"

He ignores her, and places your duffel inside a compartment near the floor.

"You coming?!" He shouts, cupping his hand next to his face so he's heard over the sound of the roaring engine.

"Oh! yeah! Hah! Oh my god" Natasha snorts behind him. You give an excited wiggle and there's a nearly painful tug to his chest. You step onto the aircraft, looking around with your mouth half open, Bucky can see you taking everything in, looking at the inside of the jet like you're in an art gallery. When you take off you squeak softly in excitement, then in fear when Natasha speaks from the pilot seat and startles you.

"Hi" she grins "nice to meet you, I'm Natasha. I'd shake your hand but we'd probably crash if I do that." Your eyes widen, looking at Natasha curiously and maybe a little nervously. "I've heard a lot of good things about you." She says pointedly. Bucky gives her a warning glare that he knows she caught, even if she doesn't turn his way.

"You have?" Your voice comes at an unusual high pitch "I mean, nice to meet you too. Thank you so much for doing this"

Bucky can't tell what's wrong. Maybe it's nothing, or maybe it's the stress of the day that's getting to you, but your voice is a little strained when you talk to Natasha. And your eyes look almost... sad?

He moves closer to you.

You arrive at your hometown almost two and a half hours later, and Bucky's a tad disappointed that it went by so quickly. He isn't about to say anything to you though.

The ride was quiet at first, but Nat had made an effort to spark a conversation (thank the heavens for her, he'd have to buy her one of those gooey brownies that she liked when they got back). It had worked, because soon all three of you were talking and laughing. He enjoyed the way your expression changed when you listened to them tell stories of their past missions, looking almost like you were watching a super interesting movie unfold right before your eyes. You'd relaxed around Nat too, and he breathed out in relief when he caught you giggling uncontrollably at the Budapest story.

"I'll have to meet Clint someday" you gasped, holding on to your stomach.

Natasha made a considering noise "Oh, he'd love you. Maybe I'll invite you guys for coffee someday"

You choked on your next breath, your mouth dropping open with a faint pop. You were about to speak but were cut off when Natasha spoke again.

"We're here"

You stood up in a flash, and Bucky handed you your bag while Natasha landed the aircraft at the hospital's parking lot.

Nat reached upwards and flipped a switch, which caused the door to open with a sharp hiss.

"You guys saved my life today" you said sincerely, shouldering the duffel. You grinned up at Bucky, stepping closer and then immediately stepping back. "Um, can I hug you?"

Bucky's breath punched out of his lungs. He couldn't believe you. You wanted to hug him, and that was a surprise on its own. But the fact that you asked? Search his face kindly to check if he was comfortable? It made his heart ache with a sudden burst of... something.

He couldn't speak, so he only nodded at you. You stepped forward again, confidently this time, and wrapped your hands around his waist in a tight embrace.

You were warm, and soft, and your shampoo smelled like coconut. Your bag hit him in the ribs, but he couldn't care less. It felt like comfort, something he hadn't had for many years, not for real at least. He shut his eyes tightly and tried as best as he could to absorb the feeling through his skin.

You pulled apart after a long moment, one that felt too short anyway, and smiled at him before shouting your goodbyes to Natasha and then sprinting off the jet.

"Wow" breathed Natasha.

"Yeah" Bucky said back.

They watched you be greeted halfway through the parking lot by a tall, dark skinned man who swept you into a tight hug before ushering you inside.

"She has a soulmate" Bucky blurts without thinking, keeping his eyes on the glass door even after you disappear from sight.

"What?!" Natasha snaps her gaze to him "that him?" She points towards the hospital entrance, then flips the switch that closes the door.

"I don't thinks so. I don't think she's met them actually, she wears a leather cuff because she doesn't like her words." He sits down on the floor and leans on a wall.

"Well that sucks"

He hums in agreement but doesn't say anything. He's thinking about that man he saw you hugging, he really had no idea who he was, or who you were, for that matter. He didn't actually know anything about you, and who knows, maybe he was your soulmate. It wouldn't make a lot of sense for you to not live in the same place, but it was still a possibility. Maybe it wasn't him, but you could have already met them and just hadn't told him anything. Jealousy churned uncomfortably in his gut and her frowned at himself.

"Why haven't you said anything then? Is it because you're embarrassed?" Natasha says, interrupting his train of thought.

"I'm not embarrassed" He really wasn't. He was against telling the team at first because he knew they wouldn't leave him alone about it, but he had never been embarrassed of liking anyone, and wasn't about to start now. He wanted to tell you, the problem was that he couldn't. It was just better for everyone involved if he kept his feelings to himself.

Part 19

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kvothe-kingkiller · 5 years

Text

wtf is Nephelai

aight so if you’ve been following me for a bit you probably have Noticed me posting about the Thing I am writing which is called Nephelai.

so I thought I’d give a lil primer on it just for uhhh fun? I guess?

anyways. if you want it in a sentence its ‘gays out-science the competition’

if you want a little bit More info than that 4-5 word (depending on ur opinions on hyphens) blurb, here u go. I will put her under the cut so it does not clutter up the dashes of anyone who isn’t into this kinda thing. I am shit at brevity so this in itself is kinda long.

Just as far as vague genre/feeling stuff goes, it’s a sci fi and it kinda combines adventure with slice of life? Idk man. Its very much character based and a lot of it is dialogue. If you’re looking for pretty, poetic writing you’re not gonna find it here, I tend to just get to the point lol. It deals with some pretty heavy/dark stuff but I will tell you upfront that the ending is happy. There’s too many dark edgy books that end sad. Plus we don’t have enough gay stories that end well. It’s also quite R rated, though more in the violence/sweary way than the sexy way.

Given that it does deal with some Rough Shit (child abuse, racism, depression, etc.) I have a list of all the chapters and their possible triggers here. (its at the bottom of the post) I just put in general things but if you have a specific/more obscure trigger I would be happy to inform you if/where it shows up.

Also, just so you know, this fucker is Long. its at 180+K and I still haven’t gotten all the chapters out yet. As well as that, this is essentially a first draft. I know its slow to start and choppy in some places but currently Im just trying to get it out, and uploading the chapters as I go gives me incentive to do that, cause otherwise I’d never even get the first draft done. Basically I write a chapter, check for spelling and grammar mistakes, miss most of them because grammar is my kryptonite, then upload it. I will be editing it a Lot in the future.

anyways.

Setting

The story is set in our universe in The Future. How far in the future? don’t ask because I don’t know. I don’t want a 2001 space odyssey situation. A lot of the technological advancements would take wildly different times to achieve so I don’t want to put a number on it especially because we are very bad at predicting how fast things will advance. It is at Least 150 years I’d say.

Humans have moved on from earth and colonized new planets. They’re still on earth, it’s just that they’re also in other places. Namely Mars and proxima centauri B which has been renamed Salus to keep up with the whole roman god thing (she’s the goddess of safety). Both planets have colonies from multiple different countries. Not all countries, I mean lets be real lichtenstein isn’t colonizing mars anytime soon. The two american colonies on both planets are Lincoln (Mars) and Roosevelt (Salus). The way that people travel between these planets which are v far away is through electromagnetic radiation powered engines and the use of man made wormholes. Let’s ignore relativity and pretend that when you get close to the speed of light your timeline Doesn’t slow down because I don’t want to deal with that.

However, those planets are not where most of the book takes place. The main planet they are on is Nephelai (shocker I know.) It is a planet with a small research colony on it. Before the colony was put in place, it was a barren planet with some water that was in the zone for life, and just didn’t have any. They terraformed the fuck out of it so the atmosphere is the same as earths then installed a Beyersdorf around it. A beyersdorf is basically a time machine. Anything inside it will have it’s timeline sped up. Uses some black hole jiggery pokery I don’t want to explain because it would be... impossible. Anyways, they placed some organic molecules on it and sped it up until life evolved then slowed it back down to normal time to go in and observe. It has tall mountains and a surface that is so hot that water boils. So all of the life lives up in the clouds around the peaks. Most of it is adapted for life in the air. Such as: giant borzois with wings and living blimps that are basically guppies. Its very cold and people have to have specialized gear to go outside.

Plot

I don’t want to go too much into the plot because... thats why you Read books, but I’ll give my best summary. Basically the main character, Nadia, is getting her masters in evolutionary biology and has to do a year long research project. She goes with her professor, Brenley, to Nephelai to do the project. While there, the planet is invaded by uhhhh neo nazis (whoops) and they basically create a hostage situation that is very hard to get out of in order to get the third main, Krupin, a celebrity trash man, to work for them and make some very dangerous biological weapons that his company’s products would be able to produce. Obviously they don’t want this to happen so they have to come up with a plan to escape. However a lot of what happens is more based around the emotional toll it takes to be trapped for so long with no contact to the outside world and the uncertainty of whether they’re gonna make it out or not.

Characters

Alright so now the characters. As I said, this is very much character based. So its more about their interactions than anything else really. Again, lotta dialogue.

Nadia Waters

She is as said before, the main character. A 23 year old dork who is a complete nerd (they all are). She is bi and also a bit of a disaster, naturally. Quite smart but doesn’t think she is, very loyal to the friends she has, and can be a bit shy at first. She is also stupidly brave to the point where its a problem. Her need for adrenaline is Real and she does very stupid things to get it. She describes herself at one point as “just a grad student with a very poor sense of self preservation.” While she doesn’t go looking for fights she will definitely stand up for herself and others and throw down against people who could very easily kill her.

Elias Brenley

Nadia’s professor, also a dork, also a nerd. A lanky french weirdo with an obsession for physics and a love for 80s music. Very spontaneous and doesn’t give a shit about embarrassing himself. He has aspergers and even though he is very smart and can do some savant-like tricks, that isn’t the only aspect of his personality (what a novel idea...) He Also isn’t just a ‘robot’, he cares a lot about others, especially those who don’t mind his quirks. Also I took the expected subplot of ‘male professor gets with female student’ and threw it in the garbage where it belongs cause he’s gay as hell. He and Nadia do become very close but it is 100% platonic

Feliks Krupin

Also a nerd, also gay (seeing a pattern?). He is pretty much a public figure as he owns one of the biggest biotech companies out there, Vozmet. Kinda like if you took elon musk and removed the asshole-ness. Annoyingly perfect in every way, charming, pretty, v smart, all those. Struggles with a good amount of mental stuff that most of the world doesn’t know about and came from a pretty shitty background. Him and Brenley have some History though at the beginning of the story they haven’t seen each other in 9 years. Tends to be noble to a fault and will sacrifice himself for basically anyone.

Some other characters who aren’t the main three:

Kristina: The president of Vozmet to Krupin’s CEO and his best friend. About five foot nothing and has the appropriate amount of concentrated rage. She’s not mean, she just doesn’t let anyone push her around and knows how to get what she wants.

Heidi: One of the only sane ones. Was determined by others to be the leader of the hostages so to speak and has Way too much on her plate. Is often the one voice of sanity or the one to actually get the others to stay on task

James: Drinks that respect women juice all day every day. Very nice. Doesn’t deserve this situation. Has a bit of a thing for Nadia.

Scott: Is the other only sane one along with Heidi. The doctor of the group who almost acts as a father figure to all of them even though he’s not That much older than some of them.

Saoirse: Dumb irish lesbian. ‘Nuff said.

Links

so if you like the sound of any of that you can find it on

fictionpress: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

or AO3 here

if u took the time to read this massive post, and/or read some, I luv u. *mwah*

#my shtuff #nephelai #big boy post #lorge

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