#literally just never occurred to me for some reason despite it being such a normal thing for them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

faejilly · 11 months

Text

so I wanted to riff off of @alexanderlightweight's response to the Alec/Bow/Quiver/summoning meta post by @ralfstrashcan that I reblogged recently, but also I didn't want it to get lost in an increasingly long reblog chain, so I'm gonna quote and start over here:

100%

my headcanon is that it's alec's shadowhunter ability like clary's rune ability and apparently the herondale ghost talking ability(??)

if we really want to take it a step further. we can even talk about how izzy has specially made weapons that have to be super tricky to use which means weapons ability

but that's just my brain. which made that one scene where alec goes back to the institute make no sense, to retrieve his bow because literally every other time he doesn't need to (they just wanted to give clace the training moment and set up the whole hodge thing)

1: I also think Alec's 'have to go get a bow' is just an excuse, but he's using it to a) get away from Jace behaving incomprehensibly & Clary being So Very Clary, AND b) to cover their tracks now that he's realized just HOW comprehensively his siblings are going to go off the rails in the next day or so. (And on a narrative level I really like the scene with Hodge so I'm glad it exists. 😅)

2: I headcanon that part of the reason Alec (& to a lesser extent but still noticeably so, Izzy) can get away with pushing so many Clave/Nephilim boundaries without actually getting deruned despite their parents being on Thin Fucking Ice��️ with well, everyone, is that they have inherited both Family Traits and that's valuable enough (especially after all the losses during and after the Uprising) that the Clave really really doesn't want to get rid of them.

(Similarly, there's some hope that Jace and/or his expected children might show signs of the Wayland traits coming to life again as they've died out otherwise. Obviously that goes a bit sideways once they finally pick up on How Very Herondale he is, but luckily he's Herondale so that's still a benefit.)

Truebloods: very literally truth-tellers. Variations on their skills include the ability to recognize lies, off the charts charisma when they are invoking what they believe to be the truth, and an ability to make the most awkward truths palatable to audiences that normally wouldn't want to engage with them. They were traditionally the guardians of the Soul Sword whenever it left the City of Bones, but that honor faded away over the years as the Council with the Consul/Inquisitor as heads centralized power in their own hands.

Izzy can be seen doing this during her trial, because even when her personal behavior has included digs & microaggressions against Downworlders, she believes that they as a people can and should do better and her speech clearly works in-universe because of that resonance of truth.

(She even occasionally manages the sincere/heart-felt clunky dialogue that works despite being clunky that Alec's so good at, and poor Jace doesn't, despite his best attempts, because for all he's a Lightwood in every other way that matters, he's not actually part Trueblood.)

Maryse has several hints of Alec's same blunt (inexplicably successful) sincerity once she lets herself stop hiding behind Politics & Expectations. When she's upset with Izzy about spending time with the Seelie in s1, she has a line that always felt very self-recriminating to me; (I'm paraphrasing here since I'm too lazy to pull up the script or episode): 'never trust a people who can't lie, they'll find more imaginative ways to stab you in the back'. She knows this about the Seelie because it's what she's always done.

(Alec's shock at his parents being in the Circle can't be because it's against their politics as they've never really tried to behave better. Perhaps it's because it never occurred to him that they could lie that well. Especially his mother, since he has a much better relationship with her than Robert.)

This means that Maryse buying into Valentine's rhetoric was invaluable to him, because she could back him up and help make sure people would fall for it, because she was a Trueblood. Equally, when she turns, that is part of why the Clave lets them back in. Her vow to now toe the party line is completely believable, because she promised on her children... who are also Truebloods.

This also means that their bloodline is one that would not always be popular since they can call out power when it's behaving badly; thus the apparent decline of Trueblood standing in the way that the show refuses to ever really acknowledge it in the present day timeline, and instead talks about Lightwood honor.

(But countered in the way The Clave doesn't move directly against Alec Lightwood, HotI, despite gay and living with a Downworlder, despite how much clear disdain he has for so many of them and their policies. They aren't willing to risk what a Trueblood could do if pushed into active rebellion.)

Lightwoods have a much more palatable martial gift. Their affinity for the adamas in their weapons means they can bond with them, sometimes strongly enough to summon them, manipulate them in the field, adapt them and rune them and enhance them in ways most Shadowhunters can't. (We never see anyone doing anything resembling Alec runing his arrows in s1 after all. What if most of them can't?)

As shown by Izzy in s3 as Weapon's Master, in Alec's ability to beat his parabatai (the supposed best fighter of a generation) when they're sparring with weapons even if he loses once they get to hand-to-hand, Izzy's unique skill with a whip, Alec fighting with everything he gets his hands on, from seraph blades to his signature bow to actual arrows for stabbing. (As seen in everything in ralf's original meta post and delightful fic.)

There's even something in the fact that Izzy was interested in joining the Iron Sisters (which while prestigious also involves even more sacrifice from a people who have to sacrifice a lot already and are thus vital enough that they let Cleophas join despite her past because they needed her) and yet Izzy stayed active duty -- and presumably eventually marriageable.

(I frequently wonder if part of why she chose to make herself as unpalatable as possible for a traditional/political match was a lingering bit of awareness that that was what The Clave most wanted from her, regardless of who she wanted to be.)

ALSO! There has to be a reason that Robert Lightwood was valuable enough to keep even when they got rid of Maryse, a reason the show reiterates Lightwood honor over and over again, a reason he & Maryse got to be co-Heads of an Institute (even if the general fanon that they were more constrained than most Proper Heads does fit what little we see), and we never actually see Robert fighting or sparring, but we are repeatedly told that his children are the best of the best.

But it's seldom mentioned as a compliment, is it? More like an expectation. They're Lightwoods, they have to be the best with their weapons, or what is the point of them? It's just another weight added to Alec's so-called crown, another expectation Izzy has to both flaunt and fight against every day so she can have at least a little bit of herself left to hold onto.

(The one thing Jace is good at, the one bit of the monster his father built that helps; he's as good with a blade as a Lightwood. It's the only thing that gives him hope for redemption, the only thing that gives him enough conviction to ask Alec to be his parabatai and protect his soul from himself.)

126 notes · View notes

brightgnosis · 6 months

Text

I keep hearing from various sources that this Winter's supposed to be a fairly bad one.

I'm ok with losing the Absinthe Wormwood and Mugwort because they're fast growers, if it comes down to it. But the Hyssop was such a slow grower ... I'm wondering if I should just go ahead and dig up the Hyssop, repot it, and bring it in for winter to ensure it keeps- or just leave it and see what comes of it.

Repotting it risks loosing it regardless. But there's still a chance it might keep inground. But I'm still leaning towards repotting it just because it took so dang long for it to even grow the tiny amount that it did and I really don't want to rebuy it next season if I don't really have to because I was able to keep it going, y'know?

Digging almost anything up right before winter, though, is usually such a risky move. Eugh. I'm so conflicted on this one, and I have zero experience with this plant to guide me on it.

ETA: My Husband and I uprooted it and pulled it in tonight, and I'm really glad I did.

I'd checked on everything in the garden before our temps started dropping into the 30's the first time and it was doing ok; about as well as it had been all year- which is to say not great, but at least green. But when we went out today about 90% of it's growth's already died off completely since the temps started doing their switchback* nonsense.

Oklahoma's famous "is it or isn't it" seasonal intermission where it flips back and forth between ~90f and ~30f randomly, and you never know what it's going to be from day to day. Not until it finally decides to get its act together more consistently- which is always a tossup for timing; could be a week of the nonsense, could be 3 months. You literally never know. Just the perks of being in a massive ecological transitional zone.

The plant never got any bigger than my palm throughout the year, despite it supposing to be a semievergreen subshrub that gets quite big- and by this point it should be roughly rivaling my Rosemary in size. But there's only about 4 living stems left on it now, out of the 7 it originally had, and the leaves that are on the remaining ones are shriveled to Antarctica and back. The roots were unhealthy and had significant dieback already, too. Especially compared to some of the healthier plants I dug up alongside it and chucked (because I'm not keeping them).

We'll see if it survives, but it looks kind of grim either way.

ETA 2: For those saying Hyssop "should be hardy to my Zone" ... Yes ... I do know enough to know that it reasonably should be; reasonably speaking, at normal times, in normal seasons, my area shouldn't routinely get cold enough to make it an issue, especially with good Winter protection.

Unfortunately in the last 3 years our Winters have gotten particularly brutal; we've had Ice Storms (a rare phenomenon that only typically occurs about every decade or so, and most frequently in January) occurring twice or more in a season, as early as October. And we're seeing regular temperatures as low as -25f for weeks at a time. We're also getting snow (a phenomenon we don't usually get here that much or for that long, where we mostly just get Sleet- or frozen rain, for those unfamiliar with it- for about a week) more often and in larger quantities than before.

Hyssop is really only cold hardy down to roughly -13f. So even the best Winter protection is not really going to protect Hyssop from those kind of conditions. Especially not in a year when the coming Winter is predicted to be even worse than usual (which includes being even worse than the last 3 pretty bad years that we've already experienced) ... But it's especially not going to protect a palm sized, 1 year old Hyssop plant that's already been struggling all year long to begin with.

Very respectfully and appreciatively: "It should" means absolutely nothing in this circumstance and ultimately doesn't really help me. I'm just going to delete those comments because you're being unhelpful and irrelevant.

#Personal #2023 #My Garden #Garden 2023 #Verderer #Gardening #Green Witch #Green Witchcraft #Oklahoma #Witchy Gardening #Witches Garden #Witch's Garden #Gardenblr #Plantblr

22 notes · View notes

dannyphantom-justiceleauge · 2 years

Text

Teen Wolf Tucker

okay, i’m ready to write this even though i know nothing about teen wolf.

it’s starts when tucker turns sixteen and ends up going through essentially werewolf puberty. there are probably going to be a lot of signs before his actual transformation that he just writes off. like growing hair on his chest and being sweaty. massive growth spurts. normal puberty. gaining muscles? a result from all the exercise involved in ghost hunting. danny and same a strong too. teeth and nails getting sharper, better sense of smell? eh probably a ghost thing. might need to be checked for ecto-contamination. werewolf never even crossed his mind as an option

it’s a genetic thing. from his moms side. part of her love language is feeding her family meat. tucker also has always had a sensitive nose for meat so it tracks as a wolf thing. his clumsiness could be explained as his dumb puppy stage. still the day he has his first transformation is wild. in part because he was not in his room like he was supposed to be. he’d been out ghost hunting with his friends and therefore abruptly turned into a wolf for no reason right in front of them. he woke up in the opts tower and sam and danny were fine, not a scratch on them. apparently he wasn’t a very aggressive wolf, at least not towards them. course he tries to hide it from his parents but his mom brings it up on her own and tucker is like O.O this is going to happen again? i am a spook? tucker’s parents emphasize that this is something he needs to keep a secret, even from his friends. and off course next scene tucker is kicking danny’s door open and crying “GUYS HOLY FUCK!!”

from there naturally shenanigans occur. they’re trying to figure out how to turn sam into a spook because she refuses to be the teams normy. she’s gonna have to get bitten by a vampire or learn how to be a witch. they just found out other monsters exist, they have to run with this. is tucker going to me more useful in ghost fights? not really. are they going to have monster fights added to their pile of ghost fights. absolutely. their luck is bad. i can also see danny fully delegating monster stuff to tucker because he has his hands full with ghosts. it’s literally true, he really doesn’t have the time, but also rude. tucker helped danny with his ghost problems for two years and this is the thanks he gets? to be fair danny also helps but he doesn’t actively fight the monsters he just kinda stands back and lets tucker do the work unless theirs some kinda monster and ghost team up. much sass is had about this regardless. i also think a side effect of sam desperately wanting to be a monster is that she’s off-putting to the monsters. girl wants it too bad. she’s freaking them out.

tucker being the butt of furry jokes but faster. tucker and wulf hanging out a lot more and just being some dogs in sunglasses. tucker and danny having power centric contests. the trio being considered even weirder than before despite puberty treating all of them well. i see danny as taking on a more dan physique. tucker grows tall and lean, probably more of a runners build, he’s actually considered small by wolf standards but to humans his size is nothing to cough at. sam is a muscle girl, still goth but leaning into more masc fashion.

in wolf form tuckers basically just a goofy dog. sam and danny have probably passed him as that to get out of situations. he can transform anytime, now that he’s has his first turn. but he has to do it on the full moon and he doesn’t remember those nights. like he keeps his human mine the rest of the month but not on the full moon. he has a full wolf form and a half wolf form, the bipedal type of form, similar to wulf. also should be noted wulf was really excited when tucker had his first transformation. like wanted to have a little party excited. they’ve bonded. it’s cute. tucker has super strength in general. most of the typical powers of wolves. better sense of smell and hearing. night vision, claws and fangs. hunting instinct. tucker is more aggressive to his bullies than before and has to an extent chased them off. now that he can mach them in size and strength bullying him isn’t as fun.tucker trying to gain popularity through his wolf powers and succeeding for a bit but finding the experience shallow and empty. he cant talk to the a-listers about his the latest tech, what’s the point.

tuck developing dog habits and just generally being cute in that way. tucker dealing with the changes/paranormal puberty and having danny to help him through it despite being different creatures. sam laying off on tucker being a vegan because technically he’s a carnivores, but being very grudging about it. tuck getting closer to his parents. just the sheer coincidence that tucker happened to be a werewolf this whole time and also happened to be friends with a future ghost boy. their paranormal is completely independent of each other. sam is digging into her family history. it’s like everyone in the friend grop being lgbtq but not realizing until after they graduate and then looking back in hindsight like “damn our friend group was all queer.” only with being spooks. the queer parallels were already there, lets be real. i suggest leaning into it this au. is being a ghost and werewolf metaphors for being lgbtq? yes. are they also lgbtq as a separate thing from being paranormal? also yes

i just see them all having a lot of fun with tucker being a wolf. something needs to be done for sam so she isn’t left out. the jealousy is only funny in the beginning. but has angst potential and i don’t want that for her. she should be able to stick with her friends.but just in general they’re vibing.- Hestia

#dpjl #hestiawrites #tucker foley #Danny Phantom #teen wolf au #spooks au

86 notes · View notes

crystalelemental · 10 months

Text

Sync Pair Retrospective - Summer 2022

Summer alts in gacha terrify me. Maybe it's because I'm from FEH, but it always signaled the coming of the most uncomfortable art for your favorite female character you could imagine. Thankfully, Masters is still a Pokemon game, and my initial encounter with Summer alts was pretty mild. The realization that the first ever summer alts, Lyra and Steven, were literally just normal clothes, was refreshing. And 2022 followed suit, basically giving N and Hilda a focus on festival clothes. I appreciate it...so much. So glad they continued this with Tate and Liza.

N (SUMMER) N and Zoroark is absolutely hilarious to me. Dark-type damage at this point felt...underwhelming. At least to me. You had Sygna Suit Cyrus, but very little else in the type's favor, what with most tools being really bad (Grimsley, Karen at the time) or good DPS in exchange for dying (H!Hilbert, BP Karen). Sygna Suit Cyrus was the first significant encounter with a good Dark-type damage dealer, and he was mostly sync and sleep focus. N was the first to feel like he was really taking advantage of Dark as a limited damage type. What he offered was big damage in Night Daze, and utility in the form of Snarl. His sync wasn't the best, but as a DPS unit, he's pretty nice!

Unfortunately time took a bat to the back of his skull.

Night Daze can miss. Yeah, somehow N's kit doesn't solve for the accuracy issue. Moreover, while his DPS is good, it's not exactly life-changing. The accuracy debuffing was nice, but didn't lead into much of note for him, being too inconsistent without On a Roll to matter much. And to top it off, a four-bar move means you need gauge control, which he doesn't really have. N wasn't quite bad, but he's one of those pairs I've never had a good time using.

Which makes the following events worse. Karen got a grid expansion and it was unreal, offering a fantastic 60% flinch rate on her Dark Pulse, better self-setup with double debuff Snarl (N himself only had a 50/50 shot, Karen was guaranteed), and much improved sync damage. Nanu got his grid, and went from mostly a utility bot, to a legitimately astonishing sync nuker of his own. Champion Serena showed up and covered Dark in addition to her natural Water, and while not carrying the same DPS, her sync was unrivaled. And of course, we then got Champion Marnie, who just obliterated anyone's attempt to keep up on Dark-type DPS, and the illustrious SC Zinnia with an absurd Buddy move and some really nice utility for a team.

N was top dog for a very brief moment in the type, and hasn't really kept up with the shifting of the tides. I'd argue Karen is legitimately just better than him at everything he wants to do. Better gauge control, better debuffing, better secondary effect on solid damage and much better sync. And considering Karen is like fourth best in the type now? Yeah, N stands very little chance. I'd say he got the benefit of Lodge Dawn, whose Team Sharp Entry and speed buffs salvage a lot, but she's not exactly a reliable answer to CS, you know? And so, N just kinda...exists. Sadly.

But again, it makes this next part hilarious.

HILDA I love being right. I love it more than anything. And once again, my love of supports does not steer me wrong.

Hilda, by contrast, has done pretty alright for herself. Despite being reviled as one of the worst sync pairs of the last year, Hilda was always pretty good at her job. She's a tank, taking hits wonderfully, and at full investment offering some clutch debuffing of the foe's defensive stats. Among other useful options. The main reason to dislike her is really just...no pop healing. First Aid 4, that's it. She doesn't recover well, and as a pure tank, that's a problem.

What she does have, however, is Topsy-Turvy, inverting a foe's buffs to debuffs. Which some may ask, is that really that good? Yeah dude! Have you never played Gauntlet before? Sudden shits in stats occur on the regular, and do you know how valuable it is to invert the early Bar 1 +2 accuracy to a -2 accuracy? Do you know how sick it is to press a button once and have Latias go from a major problem to bleeding out? This skill was great! Sure, some people considered it niche, but I've always thought it held tremendous weight.

That said, this never caught on as a gimmick, despite being delightful, and Hilda does not offer nearly what SS Morty did as a support. If anything, many would consider her primary competition to be BP units, which isn’t good as a seasonal. BP Morty had the same buffing trainer move, but had Potion and Astonish. BP Clemont would show up with the same trainer move, but also accuracy buffing and Screech for better defense debuffing potential. She absolutely couldn’t keep up with powerhouses like Morty, so what possible chance did she have against a nightmare like Aura Cynthia? There was just no reason to even look at Hilda.

Hilda was largely relegated to Gauntlet, being quite good there, but languished in CS. A little unfairly, I might add. I feel like there were enough stages that Topsy Turvy still had merit, it’s just that no one else agreed.

But as a wise man once said, true genius is never recognized until it’s needed, and I am vindicated once again. The 12.5k Master Mode meta added a few new tools to select from, and one of them was the "All Stats +3" condition for foes. While generally not selected for anyone, Summer Hilda suddenly pops off, able to hit the foe for -3 in every. Single. Stat. Suddenly, you're halfway to a full sync nuke multiplier. Need Relentless support? Great, just pack a Leer ally and this condition, and you're at max performance for sync 1. Devastation? Same deal. Power Play is now 83% charged in one action. Anything is on the table now. To say nothing of fights like Glacia, where she comes in with +2 accuracy and the heavy-hitting Blizzard, and you can just...invert it and laugh.

Hilda and N are great examples of what makes a sync pair good long-term. Sure, N was temporarily a great DPS unit, but without some key elements, he's just waiting to get outdone. Comparatively, Hilda's traits are fully unique. Someone may come along and do it better, like how Lucian now outclasses P!Dawn in every meaningful way, but P!Dawn isn't useless because of this, you know? She's just not the top dog. Hilda will always have this niche. Despite being disparaged as a bad support like so many others, she's just another in an extensive list of sync pairs that showed up with something unique and valuable, and has stood the test of time. Sure, neither of these two were like...meta defining options. But man, you can't always be pushing boundaries, and we just got done with Jotho VA and Sinnoh E4, let people breathe a bit.

#sync pair retrospective #summer hilda

3 notes · View notes

possumsinpeoplesuits · 4 months

Text

CW: Literally every mental health trigger you can think of, but primarily suicide and abuse.

It's not a secret to my loved ones that I've been struggling with mental health this past year.

January of 2023 started with me having a huge nervous breakdown that sent me straight into psychosis and ended with me being institutionalized for 9 days, and partially hospitalized for another month.

Then, when I was finally stable enough to go back into work, I was put on an employee improvement plan day 1, with clear intent for them to cover their bases and fire me because they had already hired my replacement.

If that wasn't shitty enough, I then got the call from my brother that my father had taken his own life at the age of 53, and I had to deal with the face that my last call with him, immediately after leaving the hospital... was about suicide.

So, I dealt with stress the only way I knew how, and just... mentally checked out from March until, well... probably the past two months? I don't remember much of what I did until I started going back to college. Just a few tidbits here and there, but that's just kinda how I've always dealt with stress. It's why I have basically no memory of my childhood, either.

Totally normal way to deal with stress, right?

Well, the things I do remember, and an issue that's intensified these past couple of months, is some weird nebulous health issue that miiiight be adrenal insufficiency? We're not sure exactly why, whether it's autoimmune like Addison's disease, a form of hypopituataryism or whatever, but the point is my cortisol, which is a steroid/hormone your body produces to deal with stress is just... not really happening.

There's fucking... boatloads of reasons this could occur, as mentioned, but one that stood out was Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in childhood, and sometimes in treatment resistant depression, like my dad had. I have an entire rant locked and loaded about how many symptoms between the two issues overlap, and how they should reeeeally look into the deficiencies that can cause depression, fatigue, back pain, abdominal discomfort, and all that... but I've got something else I want to shout into the void tonight.

But this realization... and the fact that I don't remember much of my childhood, and the fact that what I do remember is enough trauma to already have my psychiatrist talking about PTSD for years... kinda led me to realized that I might actually have that thing I've been diagnosed with already.

Yes, I know, my roommate already had the "Yeah, that obvious" reaction, but denial is a powerful thing, and this still isn't the point I'm getting to. For that, we need to circle back to my mental breakdown, and all the things that go through my head when I'm in active psychosis.

I occasionally have hallucinations. Not frequent enough, or persistent enough for a diagnosis of any of the diagnosis like schizophrenia or the like, just enough to throw me off kilter when I'm stressed, or haven't slept enough. I usually see visual hallucinations, usually people ducking behind cars, or standing over the bed, or sometimes just contextless gore that follows me around like a gnarly eye floater.

I don't usually hear voices, but when I do, it's not... well, it's not an auditory hallucination? It's like an intrusive thought, but... verbal. I'll start having thoughts in my never-ending mental monologue that just... aren't me. The way I described it to the nurse (when asking for every sedative they had, because I was convinced this fucker was the literal devil) was that it felt like someone thinking using my brain, and that it felt like being possessed.

I never acted on it. Obviously, because I'm back home with my cats, and not in jail. These thoughts are profoundly angry, but despite being in anger management as a child, somewhere along the way I just... stopped having an anger response? To anything? My mom claimed me and my brother were mistakes, insulted my nuclear waste disposal job, outed me as trans to a room full of doomsday preppers because we were, for some reason, having Thanksgiving at their house surrounded by AR15s, and I just... laughed it off, and then blocked her number for a year and a half?

This... voice or thought intrusion thing, though, it only ever appeared before when I would have these angry blackouts, which usually wouldn't happen more than once every several years, between which I'd be a fountain of calm.

The other part of psychosis, though, is delusion. I have depression psychosis that intensifies when I'm really, really down, and when I get the combo of those two feelings together, the conclusion my brain jumps to is that everyone around me is real, but I'm not somehow? I'll sit and think about how I never get mad, or how apathetic I'll feel, and while I tend to also start doubting reality around me, it's almost always centered around this distress over just not... being real, while desperately wanting to be.

I didn't have many hallucinations, though, and talking with a therapist usually keeps me from spiraling into that delusion. The usual medications for psychosis tend to make the depression worse, so it's a careful balance of making sure I don't get too deep, while also being able to, well... function with my ADHD? That I also have?

Well, Christmas came around, and after being pretty stable all things considered, I just... didn't sleep for fourty hours. It was the first holiday visit home since my dad had killed himself, and I was spending it with my mom after reconnecting with some hard boundries to make sure she was on her best behavior.

I've still been ill, vomiting, ect, so I didn't really eat much, and ended up looping back to driving the four hours back home, and once I pulled into the parking lot... boom. I see someone hiding behind a car. Then another. Then I realize that it's EVERY car, and I realize that I'm very definitely hallucinating, and need to get some sleep ASAP.

So, I take my night meds (mirtazepine mainly, which is technically a tetracyclic antidepressant, but seems to function like an antipsychotic for my particular brand of every kind of disorder intersecting), and hide in the bathroom while listening to something not-real rooting around my house when I'm home alone, which REALLY doesn't help with the sleeping thing... but somewhere between all that, I start hearing that same voice/narrative creeping into my head.

First reaction was "Oh shit, I thought I got rid of you" because my last interaction ended with them... storming out? It's difficult to explain, it was like they got frustrated and left, which I sometimes tell as a funny story of that time I annoyed my psychosis into remission.

This time, though... it's not anything angry, and it's not alone? But this very masc voice just starts asking me who I really want to be, that none of these things I hate about myself matter because I can just change it?

I was in full on scared child mode at that point, which tends to happen when I'm really, really scared... but I can still hear my usual thoughts, too? Like the normal part of my brain is still active, as well as the other hallucination, and the night basically ended with normal-me and this voice just trying to calm scared me down.

I slept for about fourteen hours, woke up, and went "What the actual fuck was that?" and tried explaining it to someone close to me with the preface of "Okay, so I don't have DID, but this weird thing happened..." followed by everything that happened put into words as best as I could.

Then, I had a therapy appointment. Same thing, except this time he's like "No, that actually sounds like textbook DID." and it kinda made me realize I didn't have an actual reason against that? So I tried to communicate on purpose, without the whole... staying up 40 hours thing, and kinda came to a realization.

That child is the real me. At least, the original, before the more heinous abuse happened when I came out as trans, but just... dealing with being beaten at ten for not wanting to sleep in a shed in winter.

Then, the angry one I hear sometimes, that's the me that built up during the closeted years. I was absurdly angry, repressed as hell, and getting into fist fights all the time, and just... absolutely not a functioning human being, until it just... stopped.

There's another big gap there. Just a big blur where I never left my room for literal years, and then got my first job in a nursing home, and just sort of became this... very gentle person. I was good with patients with dementia, or ones who were just jerks, because everything they said would just roll off, and even if a patient got violent, it was just immediately forgiven.

When I'm breaking down, it's almost always because that nature is being taken advantage of. I'll just get more and more work piled on top of me, because I don't know how to say anything back because I don't do anger.

Then... I remember that the me I've been all these years, this endlessly forgiving person is just... not real, in the usual sense of the word. That I'm built up to be the functional one who never provokes, because the previous me was an incredibly angry man, who was built up around a scared little girl who doesn't know why mom's hitting her for wanting to sleep inside.

To be honest, I have absolutely zero idea on how to cope with any of this. My self care skills ran out like three disorders ago, but neither of these other people I am can function, so I don't think anyone else can front properly. I'm tentatively calling them alters, but I seriously don't know as much about this as I thought I did.

I don't even know everything that happened, I don't think. The things I CAN remember are horrible enough to have my psychiatrist talking about CPTSD, but there are YEARS missing that I don't remember, but my body apparently does, because even losing my job and my father killing himself somehow hasn't prompted my body to release the amount of a stress hormone I need to live?

So I guess I'm just, like... shouting into the void, asking for any more modern resources about this than Wikipedia. I've talked with one friend who's also got some plurality going on, but like... how the fuck do I reach out to two traumatized people with conflicting gender identity that apparently share my body?

Also holy fuck no wonder I cut my hair into an androgynous style and bought a binder even though I'm transfem and already had breast augmentation. I've also been going through this cycle of alternating masc and fem presentation that I didn't do before this all started.

Bruh.

#did system #actually did #did alter #plurality #plural system #Please help I'm not ready to be a mom while sharing custody with my fucking eggshell #I did get on meds for the cortisol deficiency #though #It's like I'm losing my mind more and more but it's never made more sense.

1 note · View note

husbandohunter · 3 years

Text

A Small Predicament [Baby Genshin x Reader]

Characters: Scaramouche, Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Xiao, Zhongli, Albedo

Synopsis: Cursed for a week, the boys either have to live with it or find a cure as soon as possible. You on the otherhand hoped otherwise.

(A/n): It only takes ONE glance for me to start having ideas. It was twelve in the morning yall, enjoy~

Oh here's part 2

--------

Scaramouche

• "Oh you shrank? I couldn't tell-"

• Threatens that he will murder you to pieces and burn your remains but his voice was so squeaky and high pitched (voice crack) that you couldn't help but burst into a tearful laughter.

• Its payback time Bully him, take his hat and hover it above his head. Truthfully, without his hat Scaramouche looks like a little schoolboy. Overall less intimidating.

• Tries glaring. Cute. He's really bratty as a kid, sitting on a high chair (which you had to help him get on) and demanding his servants to do his bidding. In reality, his personality never changed. You realized that even as a grown up he still acts like this (bratty kid in a grown man body).

• The curse made his week a living hell. Signora had the audacity to pull his ear when he misbehaves. Childe constantly messes with his hair while giving head pats and the WORST of all, pinching his cheeks. Scaramouche never wanted to commit arson so bad in his life.

• Eventually finds a cure so he doesn't have to deal with it anymore and orders everyone to never speak of it again. Though, he's plotting how he'll get revenge on everyone who made fun of him using the very same curse (You better run).

~~x~~

Diluc

• "Oh…Oh my! Diluc you're just so cute!"

• Diluc grimaces as you glomp him in this state. How can you help it? With his head so small it makes his hair all the more fluffier! His coat no longer fits him to the point the sleeves had made past his fingertips. He tried wielding his claymore again, only to lose balance and fall flat onto his bum

• (insert kid voice "Retribution!") Did I mention the babyface?

• Diluc tries to act as if everything was normal, acting like the Darknight hero and Mondstadt's Tycoon but fun-sized. He couldn't. There was no way people would take him seriously in business meetings. Same with fighting abyss mages, his smaller form was too much of a disadvantage. Thus you ended up doing most of his paperwork.

• One time you caught him sitting on the floor couldn't reach his office desk while reading away the various books for a cure. It was three in the morning. You told him it was way past his bedtime and he argues saying when did he ever have a curfew schedule. In the end you managed to convince him and he begrudgingly obliges.

• The type to NOT ask for help even when it's obvious that he really needs it. Before he was the one who helped you reach things from the top shelves, oh how the tables have turned. He avoids Kaeya like a plague unless he was in it for another round of funny remarks. When he wanted to go out and get some fresh air, you insisted on accompanying him. Worst mistake in his life. A travelling merchant bumps into you and commented that you had a very cute son. Diluc was mortified.

• The day ended up with him sulking in his room. Although it was tempting, you resisted from cooing over his adorable form after days of treating him like a child. It wasn't because you were teasing him, Diluc just works so hard that you wanted to spoil him a bit. At least he could still play a game of chess with you.

• When things went back to normal, Diluc ensures that you will NOT see him as your son.

~~x~~

Kaeya

• "Well look who it is, my little Prince Kaeya~"

• Tries really hard not be bothered by it at all. Kaeya still maintains his suave facade, throwing in a couple of flirting lines here and there (and forcing his voice to go a few octaves too low in which puberty has yet to occur HA). Though no matter what approach, he couldn't ignore the sparkling mischievious glint in your eye. You were obviously not taking him seriously.

• Things couldn't get any worse. He lost his masculine physique and boob window, he wasn't able to go to certain places without supervision. But the worst thing of all was that he was underaged. Kaeya hated the fact he couldn't drink anymore, he even insisted you to sneak him a few bottles (which you refused) and had to settle with plain beverages such as fruit juice (what an insult). He was never really grounded since his childhood days but he certainly felt like he was grounded now.

• Kaeya still kisses you on the lips whether you like it or not. If you ask him to sit on your lap, he will find a way to turn the position into his favour such as resting his face between your breasts. You're not gonna treat him like a kid, nuh-uh, he actively avoids it.

• Since his personality still remains, Kaeya is a naughty child. He will use his innocent appearance to sway people (even you) to get what he wants. That was how he was able to take a sip of the wine he stole somewhere (he wouldn't tell you). Diluc scolded him heavily and threatened to ban him from drinking from his Tavern for a week (they ended up arguing, Kaeya being the passive aggressive little shit he is).

• He was extremely relieved to return back to his normal form again. He has so much to catch up (specifically his bedtime activities with you *wink wonk*)

~~x~~

Child(e)

• "Hmmm to be honest, this actually suits you very much."

• Unlike the other boys, Childe was completely okay with it. Turns out that YOU were the one who was not going to be okay. If you thought taking care of Teucer was energy-draining then expect Childe to take that tenfold and beyond.

• You've officially became his full-time babysitter who is in desperate need of a raise (and rest). You can't take your eyes off of him and archons forbid that he will ever meet Klee. One point he'll be running ahead by your side and the next you'll find him getting himself in a 1vs7 situation with some shady looking treasure hoarders. Childe genuinely thinks he could take them on but the curse downgraded his abilities. You carried him and barely made out of it alive. (This made you ponder whether the best solution would be to strap him against a chair for the time being…)

• Childe being a child will eat all the candies and ice cream he pleases. You wonder if the curse also turned him a few years back or was it that he acts like this simply because he wanted to (it was the latter). He loves being spoiled, spoiled by you! Childe demands your full attention, spoon-feeding his meals, back rubs and head pats. Yep, he's definitely doing this on purpose.

• Did he just call you 'mommy'? (Childe has mommy kink confirmed). He has so much energy that it was exhausting, you literally had to drag him away from what ever he was doing in order to get him to bed. "No Childe, your sleeping time is 9p.m stop whining." He bargained that he'll sleep if you sleep beside him (you didn't get any sleep. You knew what he was planning. In the end, you tried to make sure he didn't sneak out behind your back.)

• Finally you were able to get out of that hell-hole. Childe promised to make it up to you, you deserve it after all~

~~x~~

Small (aka Xiao)

• "Did you know in the Liyuean language, Xiao translates to small?" You didn't say that out loud. Not when he's this angry (this angy)

• He just stands there, crossing his arms and grumbling. You were hesitant to touch him in case he might hiss at you. Xiao has always been short, maybe an inch taller than you, but seeing him like this made you think 'my almighty yaksha can't be this cute♡'

• He gets mad when you no longer call his name for help. How could you? He's just so precious~ Xiao makes it clear that no matter what form he takes, it doesn't make him weak ("Adepti and you mortals are nothing alike." Or so he says but you could tell he wasn't running as fast as he used to because…small legs). You may not comment on it aloud but he can tell just by the look on your face and it irritates him.

• Also the type to not ask for help but worse. Xiao is an agressive little kid, he seems as if he'll be willing to bite someone's finger off if they try to pet him (He gives strong cat vibes, so thats understandable). His spear was too big for him to wield so he often has to put it away or else he might knock someone over with it. Xiao hates being short so you'll be hearing him complain alot.

• Since he was an adepti, he didn't need to sleep however, the curse must have brought down his power by a significant amount to the point you DID catch him napping. You almost swooned out loud just by taking a glance upon his face. For once he didn't wear his signature grumpy look. Xiao appears like a normal child, one full of innocence. His snoring was soft and breathly but that just meant he was deep asleep. (You wished to take a picture).

• Of course, everything had to come to an end (much to your disappointment), he still complains about the incident to this day.

~~x~~

Zhongli

• How is it possible for a baby to still look so handsome? (Must be his godly abilities)

• Zhongli is unfazed by this 'curse' since his past lives have already taken many forms. Though for some reason whenever he walks down the streets of Liyue, young girls, mothers, ladies all come him was and start complimenting him and gushing over him (he was suffocating). They'd squeeze him tight or squish his cheeks, it only takes once glance before the little girls start blushing and hiding behind their moms.

• Needless to say, despite what form he is in, Zhongli is still able to get free stuff. He got some free candies and some free kites to play with. You had to help him carry his items. Zhongli ends up tripping too much because his tailcoat reached his feet (he decided to just take it off. You had to hold that too). Seems like he can have anyone do things for him in the end HA.

• He still got that drippy voice and you're just like ???? "What on Teyvat Zhongli, you're a kid." This is why you can't see him as one, its nearly impossible.

• Actively avoids Hu Tao and Childe. Once Hu Tao caught sight of him and chased him for hours, he couldn't stay in one spot knowing that she might just pop out of no where. Childe still spoils him, however Zhongli feels irritated by the fact the only things Childe buys him toys (its different when other people do it.)

• Everytime you guys go back strolling through Liyue, you had to hold his hand in case more women come swarming hin again. You swear that at this rate he might get kidnapped because hes just such a beautiful baby.

• Zhongli learned an important lesson after his curse was lifted: no matter how many years he lives throughout never take a form of a child.

~~x~~

Albedo

• You find him buried beneath a pile of books and had to dig him out before he suffocates.

• Albedo has the cutest eyes, they're big and round full of curiosity and they sparkle too (he has the prettiest eyes out of everyone tbh). He is the only person who is fascinated by this outcome and immediately goes in the wild to test out his new physique.

• He was always curious why Klee T-poses when she runs so he decided to try it out himself. She was thrilled to find out that she now has a little brother to play with. In the end, Albedo indulges in the games she always wanted to play but couldn't because he was too old: princess dress up tea parties.

• You felt many things when you saw Albedo wearing a frilly gown and a plastic tiara tucked on his head. Deep down you knew regardless of what gender Albedo was still pretty. Klee even had the guts to redo his hair and hardly anyone was able to recognize it was him at all. He has pigtails, PIGTAILS! You made sure to burn that image into the very depths of your mind forever.

• The only advantage was the he was ablw to fit through small spaces, other than that, being small was way too inconvenient. He knocked down a few of his potion bottles which damaged the floor (thankfully not him) because they were lethal (he wonders how Klee was able to not injure herself when using bombs). You carried him and lifted him to alot of places such as trudging through the snow because Albedo would surely fall on his face due to his small form.

• Enough was enough, he only lasted a day with this and decided to just make a potion and put an end to the curse once and for all.

#genshin impact #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #albedo x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao x reader #childe x reader #genshin impact scaramouche #genshin impact headcanons #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #Kaeya #kaeya alberich #tartagalia x reader #genshin impact scenarios #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #nya writes #scaramouche x reader

7K notes · View notes

kyberphilosopher · 3 years

Text

Androphobia

Requested? No Word Count: 7014

An Android attempts to offer comfort to someone with sleeping trouble.

Androphobia [an·drow·fow·bee·uh]; Fear of or aversion to men. A related concept is misandry, the hatred of men, but not necessarily fear of them.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

Every woman or female born member of society has experienced an off putting encounter with a man.

This is not to be entirely blamed on men- not as a whole, no. But individuals, the ones you run into on your way out of the grocery store, the ones who stop you on the streets, they are the ones to blame. Some women have the guts to tell them off. Not an easy task with the given anxiety, but one to take pride in for the capability that comes with it. Some women stay quiet, rush away as fast as their polite feet can take them and hope someone will see the problem. They usually don’t. And some women are outliers, tricking their ways out of interactions with these men one way or another, and to them I take my hat off.

There are men who are easily construed as monsters, when in the dead of night their silhouettes flash beneath the tallest of streetlights. And there is no reason to not believe them as such right then and there, for as spoken by our Lady Galadriel, “the hearts of men are easily corrupted.” And any look into statistics will back up this fear, any personal experience, any hug that’s gone on just a bit too suspiciously long, any catching of those wandering eyes and it’s easy to feel in your heart that men are not to be trusted. They are not to be confronted, nor left alone with, and they will jump at the opportunity to put down anyone for the validation of other men.

This is the reality of women and men in 2021. It is the same for several in 2039.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

You step out of your old, dusty car. Chips of the dark red paint flake away as the raindrops hit it. Above you, the gloomy, warm gray clouds roll against each other in different shades and sizes, high above the skyscrapers and the stress of the world.

Gathering your belongings for the day, you shut the door with your hip and shoulder everything. Then you make your way towards the Police Department, your work, with the heels of your shoes scuffing against the parking lot.

Across the way, you can see Detective Reid, who rubs his brow while he does his usual slamming of the car door. There’s no point in looking for Hank at this ungodly hour, he’d never be in on time. He’ll probably park his car next to yours as usual- a little too close so it’s hard to squeeze into your own and pull out without causing his vehicle damage, but you never say anything. Not because you are one of the people who feel threatened by Hank as a man- It’s more because you trust Hank as a person, that you’d never bring up the obvious annoyances he places upon you and everyone else. Though, once you had tried.

(“Cars parked a little close, don’t you think?”

“Shut the hell up.”)

The inside of the Department is bustling. A female Android brushes past you briskly, the others at the front desk all seemingly click clacking away in their own brains. Even months after they’ve gained independence, it’s not uncommon for you to remember how they were before. How still and lifeless they were. And looking back on it, it was awfully sad. They seem busier now, more alive and fast. A strange image, in your mind, but not an unwelcomed one.

You reach your desk in the lobby, on the right side of the room slightly separated from the officers. You’re a psychologist, so it’s not plausible for you to be seated next to bias. Instead you’re in your own corner, with a rather cluttered desk on the top and empty rows of drawers. You do, however, keep a small japanese cherry blossom tree on the top, courtesy of Hank, though his has all but fully withered at this point.

And then you’re ready to start your day. Pull out your chair, click your pen and type away reports and notes on the computer to send to the detectives. You don’t have any meetings scheduled today, so there’ll be no need to prepare questions or anything of the sort. Just an easy day.

And then...

As you and I, the dear reader, have already discussed, finding men to be generally scary is an easy task. And even though you are smart enough to know that it’s simply not possible to truly believe that every man or male presenting individual is terrible, or has done terrible things, or has experienced the desire to do something terrible, there are times where you can’t help the cautiousness. You can’t help the flinch, the distrust, the physical distance, the hand in your pocket grasping for anything to use in self defense. Seeing men like Detective Reid in power, brutish and given guns and easily agitated, certainly doesn’t help.

So when you swish your chair around and come to a stand, your heart drops. You’re looking into the presence of someone tall, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. A man.

[Sort of.]

“Good morning, Doctor L/N.”

“Connor,” you breathe out, eyes flitting down as you attempt to quiet the thump thump thumping of your heart in your throat. “I- I didn’t-”

“Your heart race has increased. You appear stressed, Doctor L/N.”

He cocks his robotic head to the side, his eyebrows creasing as the literal gears in his head turn.

“You just startled me,” you admit, grabbing the back of your chair and moving it over as an excuse to create a bit of distance between you and the [possible] threatening force. “What is it, Connor?”

Now, for context, you and he were not considered close. You’ve spoken a few times, though never as friends, only friendly. You remember seeing him last Winter, when he would stand out in the snow outside the station, just gazing up after Hank had already returned to his own home. You remembered how he was different from the other Androids, besides being more advanced to begin with. You’d never said anything about that. It was obvious the only person it would’ve really mattered to, Hank, was already aware of this. And Hank liked Connor. There was no point in interfering.

In Connor’s eyes, you could really do no wrong. You were smart, intelligent, and diligent in your work. Your job had been threatened by the presence of Androids for years by the time Connor had showed up, but it still appeared that they wouldn’t have done your legacy justice. But despite this, interactions were scarce. You were not friends. You were friendly. And you were always on your guard.

“I was hoping to hear your thoughts on a case Lieutenant Anderson and I have been working on,” Connor tells you. He’s always made efforts to keep eye contact with people, and the tilt of his head tries to follow your eyeline to do so. But it’s never to any avail. “I apologize for the abruptness, but the thought only occured to me last night and I think it could be a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” you answer. “I can help with that. I’ll get the details from Hank when he comes in.”

“No need,” the Android quickly assures you. When you look up to him for a brief second, you can see his tongue sway against his bottom lip, creating the softest of imprints. His dark eyes glitter like a beatles in the catch from the light above.

He produces a light, manilla colored folder lined inside with papers. “I hope you’ll find all the details you need here,” he explains, offering the file to you.

You take it after a moment, watching his thumb let go in the softest, most normal way possible.

“Thank you, Doctor L/N,” Connor smiles. “I’ll go get you your morning coffee.”

Connor is like a dog in that way. Not in an insulting way, or an obedient way. In a kind way, in a warm way. With his chocolate eyes and the dimples when he smiles, it’s hard not to want to just believe that he is incapable of hurting anyone or anything. Especially a woman.

But when you snap back to reality, you can see his male form. His set back shoulders, the robotic strength, the fact that he was programmed to execute any task he so desires. And then you’re right back on edge, wanting to step back from him until you’re sure you can take a full breath.

It’s easier when he’s taken himself away. You can see him through the glass walls in the kitchen, waiting for the pot to heat up. Doesn’t seem so bad from far away, like most of them do.

You return to the chair and open the file. At first, your eyes flit to the pictures attached at the top- one of a woman that looks so familiar, another of a man whose angry brows cover his eyes. Then they move to the written report, and something clicks.

The woman in the picture was an acquaintance from college. The man next to her was the main suspect, and apparently her lover.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

“Morning Doc,” Hank waves tiredly. Then his tone changes slightly. “The fuck are ya doing at my desk for?”

You push yourself from your lean on the edge of his property anxiously. “I read the report on your case. The Carla Rodriguez one.”

Hank sighs in his classic sigh, tired and grumpy from the morning and being alive. “What about it?” he questions, rummaging through his large bag of prescription pill bottles he’s brought with him every day this year. You suspect Connor has something to do with this.

“I had a... personal relationship with the victim,” you begin, crossing your arms. “I knew her.”

Hank looks at you, bewildered. “You were sleeping with my victim?”

“What? No. What? I- anyway. Carla and I were in college together.”

Hank’s face changes. He leans back with high raised brows in the way he does when processing something.

“The boyfriend did it. I remember him from back then, I think. Real angry guy.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re talkin about?” Hank questions you, though not in an insulting way. You know it’s anything but that.

“I’m sure. I can tell you what you need but you know I can’t testify. You won’t be able to use my bias in your report.”

“But the bias is the whole point.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, along with your shoulders. It’s the universal symbol for ‘I don’t know what to tell you’.

“You talked to Connor about this?”

“Well, no. I- he wanted my opinion but I didn’t tell him this part.”

Hank glances around. “Where's he at anyway?”

You shrug again. You’re thinking about the disposable coffee cup on your desk, left there by Connor a few hours ago, that you’d never brought yourself to touch.

“Run it by the Android before we do anything,” Hank advises you. “Nutjob’s got this whole system in his head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter as Hank seats himself. “That guy’s weird.”

“Tellin’ me?” Hank groans.

And the rest of the morning you spend avoiding Connor, thinking at your desk, barely doing your job while you let yourself get lost in thought. You’re not usually like this. You’re very professional at work- you love this job. The thrill, the learning about criminals and their rehabilitation- it makes you feel so tranquil. Complete, even.

But knowing a victim, knowing the perpetrator, still adapting to the change of Androids looking happy for once, knowing Hank pretends you’re the child he lost- it... it...

You snap your drawer shut.

What’s wrong with you today?

You huff out dry air. When you turn ever so slightly, you can see Hank at his desk, eyes already on you with concerned and empathetic brows. Seeing him calms you down a little, at least makes you feel more in the real moment. After a moment, you turn back straight. Then you smooth back your hair, and open a your file again.

“Doctor L/N?”

You look up slowly, recognizing the boyish, sturdy voice of Connor. Sure enough, there he is. Tall, looking down at you with his warm, brown eyes. They remind you of an excited, loyal dog. Yeah, you think, Connor seems like a dog person.

And then you catch the sharpness of how broad his shoulders are, how little effort it would take for him to kill you, or pin you down, or come at you in the dark.

“Can I speak with you candidly, Doctor L/N?”

“You...may,” you say slowly. Connor begins to squat, until he is level with your eyeline, though he’s over on the other side of your desk. From your view, your cherry blossoms pink petals stand out against the paleness of his skin, and then the darkness of his hair.

“I heard what you said earlier to the Lieutenant,” he begins.

Truthfully, your eyes flicker around his face, mostly between his lips and his nose and his eyes. They’re all so realistic. Well, obviously that was the point in his creation, but still. They’re so human. Connor is human. Even the way he seems to move his mouth, like his lips are just a little dry, is human. Such a strange detail. Perhaps you would never have noticed it if he hadn’t gotten this close.

“When?” you question.

“About 3 hours ago, about the file I gave you.”

Your eyes snap away. Connor’s own eyes follow your movement.

“I know that this must be difficult for you-”

“Connor,” you sigh, slightly exasperated, but still holding it together. Your eyes close like you can’t bear to look at anything in the present moment right now. You must be trying to pretend that you’re somewhere else. “I’ll be alright. This was in my job description.”

The Android’s eyebrows knit for a split second, confused. “Overseeing the psychology behind your friends death was in your job description?”

And it’s a genuine question from him. That’s what makes it so hard to contain your laughter, no matter how frustrated or overwhelmed you are right now.

“Yeah,” you finally muster with a light chuckle. “Apparently.” Then you’re back to business. “This is my job. I’ll be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

“I just considered that, since you’ve been on the news before, the suspect could know that you’re involved.”

“So?” you ask, slightly more snappy than intended.

“He may know you’re here and subsequently attempt to cause you harm.”

There are two conflicting sides in your brain right now. The first one says: Now think about this. How could he harm you in a place full of cops? It’s not like he knows where you live or anything. How could he even find that out? When they bring him in, he’ll be in custody the whole time. Gavin won’t let him out of those handcuffs. Everything will be just fine.

And the other part? It shows you a dark, masculine figure, looming over you. Police department or not, he is there. He will cause you grief and harm, do something so terrible to you you could not even fully imagine it enough to anticipate yourself.

And, despite your better judgement, and to your full awareness, you listen to the second half.

“Okay, so,” you breathe out. “So what are you saying?”

Connor’s eyes draw to his left in a stutter, his mouth parting as if he’s in consideration. “The Lieutenant and I had talked about... having you stay in a... safer place.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean by that?”

Connor looks so human in this moment. it’s so apparent, and piercing in this exact second. The details in his eyes, slightest of blemishes on his cheekbones.

Connor leans in, his eyebrows raising. Subconsciously, you lean back ever so slightly in response.

“We were thinking of taking you to the Lieutenants place.” He sees your eyes widen, getting ready to give a vocal response. “It’s a very safe place,” Connor promises. “I can assure you there are many rooms to your liking.”

You take a minute, looking the Android right in his warm, hopeful, perfectly symmetrical eyes. “Connor, I’m not interested in having this discussion right now.”

“It’s just-”

“Back off,” you snap. It’s assertive. Something you don’t usually do towards masculine presenting beings.

As soon as you say it, you regret it, however. The person across from you just looks so heartbroken, almost. His big brown eyes, the ones that remind you of a loyal dog, are looking right at you. How could you not feel bad for snapping at Connor? Sweet Connor, who doesn’t take pleasure in hurting people no matter how much you convince yourself he does.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

The Carla Rodriguez murder case went on for two more days. Her boyfriend, unfortunately, was not yet found. Hank was working on obtaining a warrant based on your instincts that would give him access to search family members houses for the man. Things were becoming focused.

Each night you went home, you struggled to sleep. You did in fact, find out that Connor may have been onto something when he suggested the consideration of safety. You indeed stayed up later than usual, using both locks on your dirty apartment door for once. It was hard to fall asleep. Whenever you did, it became all too easy for you to imagine a solid, big, broad shouldered figure standing over the foot of your bed, waiting to strike.

A man, as usual.

Ironically, you did feel better when Hank- a man- would come into the station. And then there was Connor, who was somewhere between a puppy and a wolf, half following Hank, half fully capable of loading and discharging a gun. Connor made you feel safe too, but only by association. It felt bad to think about him after the snapping that occurred Thursday, but it could’ve made you feel worse to act unprofessionally in the work place. It was best you try to forget it, and try to forget that Connor has unlimited and invincible memory.

On Sunday, you and Hank had your weekly scheduled lunch. Nothing fancy, just fast food from a food truck by the train tracks. You’ll both probably get burgers, except Hank will try to add lettuce and some vegan bullshit to convince you he’s sticking to his diet. Of course he will.

You throw the keys to your locker in the backroom into your desk drawer, and slip it closed. Across the floor, Hank is already ahead of you, tugging on his crappy jacket and somehow standing patiently and grumpily at the same time.

“Ready to go?” you ask as you approach him, your own jacket in hand.

“Yeah, just waitin’ for the kid,” Hank replies casually.

“The kid?”

“I’m ready to go, Lieutenant,” the enthusiastic voice of Connor rings out. He has one of those voices where you can tell when he’s happy and smiling too, and he is in this very moment.

Nobody ever joins you and Hank. You knew Hank had taken Connor to the truck before, but that was just between them, and this was just between you. An odd decision on Hank’s part to make such a change.

“Alright,” Hank calls back. Then he turns to you, the smallest of knowing grins on his face. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”

You just nod your head and start walking out to Hank’s car, unsure of what to do think. In the end, you decide to just not think at all.

“What are you doing this for?” you’d ask Hank as you were walking, when the Android known as Connor was out of earshot.

“What? You got a problem with Connor?” You shake your head no. “Well good. Because besides bein’ a freak he’s perfectly fine.”

Yep. Thanks, Hank.

The drive over is silent, besides Hank’s music. You like his taste, but it doesn’t make you feel less tense around Connor. On the other hand, Connor is completely oblivious of said tension. You can see him in the rearview mirror, smiling and looking out the window every now and again.

Once arriving to the scene, Connor gets out first. You click your seatbelt away, about to pull the handle open when you notice Hank hasn’t moved at all.

“You coming?”

“Mm,” Hank fake thinks, flipping through his cd cases. “Nah.”

“Well then... well then are you even hungry?”

“I got food back at the office,” he sighs, not even looking up at you. “Indian from last night. Gonna wreak havoc on the ol’ plumbing.”

“Then what did you bring me here for?” you question finally, developing a tension headache from how often you’ve been knitting your brows together lately.

Hank looks up and over, an almost offended expression on his face. You can see it in his wide old eyes, the angry eyebrows, the slightly opened mouth.

“Because I’m trying to create a warm and loving social circle.”

“You one time told me die because I ate your jar of pickles!” you cry. “Oh my god- Hank, is this about me and Connor? Is that it? You want us to get along?”

“Yeah, and what if I do?” Hank turns to you fully, putting an angry hand on the steering wheel to clutch something.

“It doesn’t matter!” you exclaim. “It literally doesn’t matter at all!”

Hank is quiet. You can see his beady, angry eyes on you, his jaw clenching. “Get the fuck outta my car,” he says at last.

“Gladly,” you mutter. You open the door and slam it closed.

Looking across the wet, rainy street, you can see Connor looking up at the sign of the food truck known as Chicken Feed innocently. You breathe out, feeling the heat from the previous ‘discussion’ beginning to melt away.

Okay, Y/N, you tell yourself. Just go talk to him.

You begin your walk across the street, hearing the light tapping of the rain hitting the asphalt all around you. His back is getting closer and closer. You still have a chance to turn around.

“Hey, Connor,” you say lightly.

“Hello, Doctor L/N,” Connor greets in return warmly.

“Whatcha... thinking about eating, there?” you ask, both of you knowing damn well Androids can’t eat.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Then he shrugs, and very genuinely says, “I guess I could have some french fries.”

“Alright. I’ll get you some.”

And you do. And you feel so stupid while ordering it. The guy in charge, Gary, looks at you with an ‘are you sure?’ expression on his face, but you only continue with the order, confirming that, yes, you are sure. Then you and Connor sit next to each other in silence, waiting for your food to be ready. You pretend to be very interested in a stain on one of the back menus for about three straight minutes.

“Here you go,” Gary hands you the food. You take the bags and speed off immediately to an umbrella by the place. Even though you’re essentially powerwalking at about 6 miles per hour, it doesn’t feel fast enough in the moment. Connor is right there beside you the whole time.

“Here’s your fries,” you mutter, pushing the bowl towards him.

“Thank you,” he says, formally. Then Connor just stares down into the bowl.

“I appreciate you paying for this meal, Doctor L/N,” Connor decides to say after another moment. When you look up, you can see he’s leaning down ever so slightly so that he’s closer to your height, and making pretty sturdy eye contact. It’s moments like this that you think you’re talking to Connor’s social programming, and probably not him naturally.

“You don’t have to call me Doctor, Connor,” you breathe. “We’re not at work right now.”

“I apologize. How would you like me to address you then?”

“Well... how would you like to address me?”

Connor thinks for a moment. You can tell because his led is switching between yellow and white. Then the beginning of his eyebrows start twitching, along with the corners of his mouth, just like a human would when they have several thoughts on the tip of their tongue but none of them seem just right. It’s cute when he does it.

“You can just call me Y/N,” you rush out in an attempt to save Connor from quite possibly exploding.

He does the twitching once more, then looks up to the top of the umbrella without moving his head. “And, is this outside of the workplace or in it as well?”

“What would you prefer?”

His led goes yellow again. He looks back to you. “That depends whether or not you consider us friends, Doctor L/N.”

This takes you back. You’re silent, stunned, looking at him with slightly widened eyes for a few seconds- maybe a whole minute- before you make the decision to look at your burger and change the subject.

“How’s been adjusting to life as a free man?” you ask, unwrapping the foil from your warm food.

Connor adapts to the subject change after a few seconds, and you know that he’s seen right through you. “It’s strange,” he tells you, deep in thought, but sincere. “But, people seem happy.”

“Are you happy?” you prompt further, biting a big bite into the meat.

Connor thinks again. He thinks a lot. “Yes,” he decides. “I suppose I feel alive,” he admits. It sounds like a confession, and when he turns his head to look over to you, he sees your eyes are already on him. “Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” you repeat in question. “I... guess I am, overall.”

“Do you enjoy working as a criminal and forensic expert?”

Now it’s your turn to think. You swallow down your bite. “Yeah, I think so. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. And now I have it, and I’m comfortable and all. So yes... And you? As a detective?” You bite into the burger again.

“Well, it is what I was created for,” Connor tells you, with an almost charismatic, joking tone. It looks like he’s smiling a little, too. Cute. “I think so. Working with Lieutenant Anderson has gotten better.”

“God, I remember when you first came in,” you roll your eyes. “Hank was all in a mood. One of the grouchiest days for him. But he likes you now.”

Connor watches you pull the burger away from your face. He’s thinking again, but also admiring your features from up close. He doesn’t usually get to do this with you. The proof is in the lack of response to the ‘would you consider us friends?’ question.

“You know,” Connor says, and you can hear the sincerity in his voice for the millionth time. “I really admire how talented you are in your line of work.”

You feel heat in not just your cheeks, but in the rest of your face as well, as if you have a very sudden fever. You decide to keep your face down, trying to naturally make it not look like you’re using your burger as a shield. “Thank you,” you respond.

The heat begins to subside, so you look back up to him. “I admire your...” and you can’t finish the sentence. Not because you can’t think of anything to admire. You know you had a good one in mind to say to him. But when you look up at his boyish face, with the innocent smile and the comforting eyes and the most human details in his skin, you lose your train of thought.

It seems too late and rude to continue by the time you regain it, so you just decide to leave it and eat your burger as quickly as possible.

“Are you done with your fries?” you ask, as Connor looks down at the untouched basket.

“Yes, thank you.”

You don’t even look into the waste of 2 dollars as you speed walk to the trash can and dump it full of everything. Then you hop across the street, Connor right behind you.

Getting back into Hank’s car makes you roll your eyes. It’s not that you’re mad with Connor anymore so much- not that you would describe the feeling as mad in the first place. You’re not even sure you’re ‘mad’ at Hank so much anymore. It’s more like you’re in the area that you previously had a yelling match in, so all that energy is still there. So stupid.

“Hey, you two,” Hank greets, though to you it sounds condescending.

“Hello,” Connor chirps back.

You just shoot Hank a glare.

“How was lunch?” The old man prompts, holding your eye contact knowingly the entire time.

“It was fine,” you tell him.

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” you practically seethe. “Just fine.”

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

You stay in your house for another two days. Sleeping has become far more difficult, though you’d never openly admit it. Hank can see it in your face. There’s dark circles under your eyes, far more noticeable than before. Your eyes are dragging themselves down, along with the rest of your body which seems to be in a constant slump.

You’re like a zombie. You’re just carrying yourself around, mindlessly doing your tasks while you try not to nod off at work. Hank hasn’t said anything. He just watches you from afar, not knowing how to apologize because he’s never been able to pull himself into one.

Connor hasn’t said anything either. Hank’s pet has continued his daily routines around the precinct, going where he’s told and sitting on the other side of the older man. You haven’t been observing them much lately. Been a bit too preoccupied with the threat of sleep paralysis to do anything that you find matters in a social sense.

Carla’s case is still open. Her boyfriend is still out there, watching and waiting. Maybe for you. Maybe for some other innocent woman. You keep picturing him towering over you, his shoulders looming, strong jaw twitching with anger. Those masculine brows, defined with the intent to strike at you. Kill you, like your old friend.

Finally, on the fourth day of little to know sleep, you fell asleep at your desk. Completely zonked out, your head slumped against the surface, squishing your cheek in the process. Connor jumped up from his seat, Hank following shortly after. But there was no threat, you were simply resting. Once the two realized this, they calmed a little. Hank opted to send Connor over to you to check you out, crossing his arms as he got ready to observe.

The Android creeps over. Your breathing is steady. So is your heartrate. You’re not in shock or anything at all. You’re not even hurt.

“Y/N?” he prompts lightly, now crouched to be close enough to your ear so he can whisper. His chocolate eyes glance around the precinct, looking for anyone who might have noticed you to try and save you some embarrassment. Then he glances towards the Captain in his office, and he knows he has to hurry himself so you don’t get caught and reprimanded.

“Doctor L/N?”

No response. Connor looks back at Hank, who shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly with little help.

“Doctor L/N, you have to wake up,” he tells you, poking the back of your slumped shoulder.

You were asleep, yes, but apparently not very deeply. You stir from your slumber, raising your head and your mousy appearance to look over at Connor with confused eyes.

“What happened?” you strain, stretching. Connor detects a bit of drool on the corner of your lips.

“You fell asleep at work,” Connor explains slowly.

“I did?” you squint, obviously still out of it.

“You have... drool on your lips.”

You wipe the left corner. “The other side,” Connor gestures lightly to his own lips. “Yes. You got it.”

“Was I out for long?” you look around, adjusting to the so very bright lights of the building.

“No,” Connor answers in that sweet, sweet voice of his. “Maybe a minute, or two.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes wandering around.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

That night, it rains.

Thunder echoes, with ripples of light from the lightning that bears across the sky like great claw hands.

You watch the view out your window from the middle of your bed for a long time. You’re curled up in a ball on the blankets, not even under them. You’re just there, watching the sky that reflects in your eyes.

A sudden stir in you gives you a change of heart. Something you can’t explain to the fullest extent, something not even I, the one in charge of relaying all that’s happening to you, could explain the exact feeling. It’s like the snapping of a rubber band at 2:15 in the morning.

You can’t stay in this apartment anymore. Not even two locks are enough to protect you. Not your kitchen knives, or the gun given to you from the department for self defense. None of it seems like enough, because all of those things are used after something happens. They don’t prevent it.

You’re in a hurry. The comfiest pajamas you own are soaked in the salty rain water and protected only by the simplest of winter coats you own. It’s nice, though not appropriate for the current weather of course. Your hair gets drenched fast. Every individual drip that falls from the tip of your nose is felt, like you’re more hyperaware than usual.

Now you’ve arrived at a house. A one story, fairly inexpensive home with a garage and recognizable old car out front. As you approach, you can already hear the barking of a dog, see a neighbor turn their lights on briefly to observe you, and feel the shivering of your knuckles as they tap on the door sporadically.

Come on, Hank, you think. Please protect me. Please do this for me.

And, believe me, Hank Anderson would’ve done it had he been awake. But he hadn’t been, and so he didn’t answer the door. Instead, the door swings open, and inside you see an Android.

A tall one, with soft facial features. He has long, dark eyelashes framing dark eyes, surrounded by dark hair. He’s clean and clear cut, very put together. It’s Connor, Hank’s pet that you’ve never been able to get the hang of knowing. And he’s as shocked as you are.

Your drenched hair, shivering body, distant look in your eyes. Though, Connor’s unsure of how he would appear if he had to show up to anyone’s house at 2:34am. Probably unwell. Probably a little bit like you.

“Doctor L/N,” he says, though it seems mostly to himself. His parched lips barely move, though you notice how pink they look in comparison to everything else right now.

“Can I come in?”

Connor is still for a few seconds, obviously still processing your appearance. For what, you don’t know. Must’ve been one of the few things he’s simply unable to calculate. But then he moves himself to the side, and you carry yourself in.

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything is so much warmer. You haven’t been to Hank’s place in months, but it still feels as homey as it did before. It’s cleaner than it was a year ago. There’s more pictures on the walls, more clutter lining the shelves. He’s starting to care about things again. That’s good.

“What are you doing here?” you suddenly ask, turning around to face Connor.

That’s right- what is he doing here? He and Hank couldn’t be living together, could they? Or is... or is it that Hank is pretending Connor is someone else, too?

Connor’s led goes yellow, then blue, then back to yellow. “Lieutenant Anderson has offered me a place to stay until I’m ready to go on myself,” he explains, though the way it looks at you makes it seem like Connor doesn’t want to tell you this. Like he feels the need to explain himself.

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

You wipe your face, smearing your leftover makeup from your eye with the rain water. It burns, but you can’t feel it over the cold. “I uh- um... I’ve been having trouble- trouble sleeping.”

Connor’s lips close, and he looks at you in understanding as you stand there, now feeling your own pressure of having to explain yourself.

“Just like... at my place I can’t- can’t sleep. Not a lot of it.”

Connor knows he shouldn’t, but it’s right there on the very tip of his tongue. It’s so close to just spilling out, until finally it does, all at once. He’s too curious to try and stop it. “Why?”

“I just- I can’t-”

You’re looking everywhere. The floor, the wall, covering your eyes with your arm or your hand, shifting back and forth between feet, making a soggy spot on the floor from your dripping clothes.

“Can’t sleep.”

When you look up to Connor again, you feel better. Still panicked, but like you’re not in trouble. His eyes are so soft. They’re so human, and comforting. He looks at you like he understands, and like he’s not upset. You can see why Hank would pretend he is who he is now. But there’s no one for you to pretend who Connor is. He’s just Connor. And he’s better than you.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

Connor lets you wear one of his sets of identical clothes. It’s a grey t-shirt and blue pajama pants. Your hair is still wet, but Connor doesn’t say anything. He lets you sit on the couch and watch one of Hank’s basketball recordings while he goes to make tea.

He brings it to you and sets it down on the coffee table in front, but like days ago, you can’t bring yourself to touch it. Connor’s made himself a cup too, but doesn’t drink it. It’s deadly silent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tv, the only sound coming from the biases of those annoying sports commentators.

“Connor?” you whisper hoarsely, turning your body to face him.

He looks over at you, at full attention. Such a soft boy.

“Do you think I’m afraid of anything?”

Connor’s led goes yellow. It flickers in circles until finally he says, “What do you mean, Y/N?”

You look down at your hands. “W-when I try to sleep, I see someone,” you say, not bearing to look at anyone from that gender for a moment. “He never leaves me alone. I feel like I- like I’m seeing this thing everywhere. I can’t avoid it. It won’t leave me alone.”

“What is it?” Connor prods gently, leaning in in that innocent, but curious way he does.

You open your mouth like you’re going to answer, but then your mouth goes dry. Instead, you just shrug your shoulders in a weak attempt of lying.

“Um... why are you still awake?” you ask instead.

“Androids don’t need to sleep,” Connor explains to you. “We just power down to conserve energy, but I don’t need as much as others.”

A light puff of air escapes your nose in time with the flickering of the corners of your lips. “Sounds like you’re bragging,” you tease for a second.

Then it goes quiet.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” you hear Connor’s voice say clearly. “At least, not that I’ve seen. You’re very diligent in your work.”

You take the compliment. It warms your chest for a moment, but the pit inside you is not so easily gotten rid of.

Your nails scrape against each other, breaking while you pick at one of your index fingers. “I think I have like... this fear of men. Fear of something.”

Connor’s led goes yellow.

“Androphobia, also known as the fear of male presences, affects nearly one third of the current female population.”

Connor watches you continue to pick at your nails. The memory of you standing at the door step, shivering like a kitten, drowning in the rain water stays on his mind. “Is this what you think you have, Y/N?” he asks, though this time it’s far more soft.

It sounds like he really cares.

You look up to him, your eyes glossing over from stress and the incoming wave of tears you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I can assure you, Doctor L/N, you are safe here,” Connor continues, holding eye contact as he speaks. “I won’t let any kind of harm get to you.”

The tears in your eyes seem less violent now. Like they’re disappearing already. And that’s how the story ends, in fact. With you, looking up at Connor, seated on Hank’s couch with your hair dripping around you- him promising not to hurt you. It ends on the silence that follows, right between the stare the two of you share.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ *

This is the first thing I’ve proof read. Also one of the longest things I’ve written somehow? It was fun. I apologize for any mistakes as English is not my first language.

1K notes · View notes

evacado3 · 3 years

Note

Hey 😃 can I request about Vasco with s/o who taller than him? Thanks 🏃🏻‍♀️

Ngl, was kinda surprised when I received this. Me myself is not very tall sooo it might be a little confusing, I’ll still try but don’t judge too hard 😅

hcs

To him it doesn’t matter, nope

Though Jace kinda sees you as a threat

You might have been mistaken for the leader instead

Will try the hair pulling thingy again with you after seeing little Daniel succeed

Will challenge you to touching the door frame

Wanna teach you how to fight, but respects your hobbies

Jace thanks you cause Vasco's not crying for girls no more, and you actually drilled some common sense in him

If your Tabasco's girlfriend, unfortunately you are officially burn knuckles' queen

So don't too surprised if a group of tattooed guys follow you every where, come on they're only checking if you're safe

Uses BURN KNUCKLES SECRET MOVE [INVINCIBLE CHARIOT] for you

Be aware of the ceiling though, will kneel with their head down if you ever get hurt

Burn knuckles will not need a order from Vasco if anyone tries to hurt you, all of them will go berserk

Shopping havoc

Word count: 1213 one-shot

It's been a month of dating the head of burn knuckles, and you're still convinced that he likes kangaroos more than you. No he really made plans to adopt a kangaroo when you agreed to date him.

The scene was basically you blushing after accepting his confession, but only to hear his dreams of having that large animal when he gets married, leaving you very flustered in public.

Though what embarrassed you more, ever since you were young, was the fact that you are taller than the young man before you. You could see he doesn't give it a single shit about that, but insecurities don't leave after a day.

For the last month, every time you made a comment about your height, he'd make a baffled face. "I think it's cool, what are you talking about your height is perfect." No he really doesn't understand why you have it hard on yourself.

Did you fall in love, obviously, yes. Though Vasco doesn't comprehend the reason behind you're insecurities, he assures that not only is it normal, it's beautiful, you're beautiful. Some height ain't gonna scare homeboy away!

So that's why today you wanted to take your relationship on to the next level, the 'normal' level.

I know, the 'normal' level is very correct. Come on does Tabasco really understand the concept of kissing?

Yes, he might have given his umbrella to you on a rainy day, he might have pinned you to the wall just to ask "You do want McDonald’s or KFC?"

Obviously you knew he doesn't have any experience, so fine, you waited. But after another two weeks it came to you that if you don't bring it up to him, he will never figure that out.

So what better to do than teach him on a date? You've planned out all the possibilities and the events that might occur, it took days to work up the nerve to ask him on a date, alone.

Ok, alone. Not with some big group of guys following you, you even begged Jace to make it clear. Alone. He said yes after seeing your desperation, using his detective skills straightforwardly.

"Good luck on that, you might have to even show him a video on how to kiss."

Fine don't ask what video you chose. Anything to open up his eyes to this current problem.

So you weren't sure why, along with your boyfriend who showed up in a nice loose tee and jeans, you felt seven more pairs of eyes following you.

Are you kidding me?

"Hey Vasco, how you doing today?" you asked faintly, despite your height, you're a softie at heart.

"Hey, I'm great, so we going to get some clothes? I could use some new pants."

Yes he does, have yall seen him running around in pajamas?

You tried hard to ignore those guys at the back, what happened to Jace's promise? They all gave out a suspicious aura, everyone was basically looking. And it's whatever if they walked far behind, they're literally stuck to their leader's ass, not even leaving one meter of space.

You could say the date proceeded well on Vasco's side, it was a regular date and you even picked out some nice pants for him. But on your side? Uh... not too great.

Every time you tried to make a move, there just has to be something that stopped you.

"So babe, umm I was wonder-"

"Mister, we are having a sale this month, would you like to pick out another pair to get 30% off?"

As if that wasn't enough, the boys would send you looks of encouragement at the back like it would soothe your embarrassment.

Sighing, you stepped into the final store you wanted to go in.

"I'm gonna pick out some clothes for you too ok? Wait here." he said with enthusiasm, already running off without hearing out your response. Obviously you couldn't trust his choices, but let the boy have fun.

So you minded your own business waiting for him to come back, but why did the receptionist look at you like that. Wait, she turned back to her friend while pointing your way. What's going on?

You could see them giggling after exchanging some words. They both spun your way, one of them making her way to you and the other one just laughed trying to woe her back.

"Hello, yes you over there. How tall are you?" she snickered.

It was almost as if she was the one over towering you when she stared at you curiously. "Uh... I-I'm not too sure." you replied softly, wishing she'd leave you alone.

"Hey no need to lie, damn your voice doesn't suit you at all. I thought you'd sound like a man! You must be at least 180 miss girl!" she exclaimed, though everyone who heard knew, that was spoken disrespectfully.

But you could only nod and fidget a little, not wanting to cause a scene. There was already a few people looking over to you, but shooting glares at the clerk. You were happy that they knew she was the one trying to disturb you.

"Your little boyfriend over there, isn't he bothered? If it was me I definitely would be disgusted. Are you sure he isn't just playing? Oh, do you play basketball?" her ranting agitated the customer, but still showed no signs of stopping.

Your blood ran cold as she kept speaking, what did she say? Isn't Vasco bothered with me?

What if the reason that he hasn't shown me affection was because he was disgusted?

On the verge of tears, you muttered out, "please stop."

"What?"

"Stop, I do not feel comfortable with you speaking to me like this." you expressed clearly.

She scoffed when she recovered from shock, "hey lady, I asked-"

"I'm not." Vasco stated, popping out by your side. You flinched in surprise, but immediately blushing after he gently wrapped his arm around you.

"I heard what you said, and I'm saying I'm not disgusted or bothered by her." He said with a hint of anger. "Please return and do your job, my girlfriend will not like to speak with a girl like you."

Honestly, no words can express how happy that made you, your man stood up for your insecurities while being respectful. How did I end up with such a good man like this?

The girl gasp with an offended look, but looked down after meeting Vasco's eyes. She stuttered out a weak 'sorry' then fast-walked back to the counter.

Ignoring the cheers of other customers, he walked you out of the store. You were still dazed, eyes focused on the man whose eyes where ahead. Maybe the date was good after all.

But before he kept walking, an unexpected sweet peck landed on your cheek. Your face now resembles a tomato.

"Huh?"

Wait, what was that

THAT WAS SO CUTE

You saw in the between those guys, Jace sent you a sneaky wink.

"Was that ok?" Vasco asked, he doesn't look shy at all. Does he even realize what that means?

"Wait Vasco, continue no more, the queen is heating up!"

"The queen is all red!"

"Vasco you killed someone!"

Guess who got assorted out the mall today.

=================================

Forgive me for putting this in two parts and releasing it so late, I was busy memorizing the periodic table 😀

#lookism x reader #webtoon lookism #lookism #vasco #vasco x reader #vasco lookism #lee euntae #euntae lee #fics #lookism webtoon #lookism vasco

196 notes · View notes

queersturbate · 3 years

Note

oooh, yes please. shed all your light having ocd thoughts :)

hello...everyone! LMAO

I didn't expect anyone to want to hear about me thinking Light has OCD! but here we go! (this is with the help of my friend Rio)

This is not an insult to Light's parents because I like the headcanon of them being good parents more than terrible ones. But no parent is perfect and i feel as though they would not be used to mental illnesses/disorders and when you want to raise a perfect child, the child's actions caused by their disorders will make a parent think the child is just acting out and they'll want to punish it. Especially in the 90's (while Light was a child-teen) when OCD and other disorders were looked down upon and thought about incorrectly. They would see Light get overstimulated by things, and do what kids and mentally ill people do when they're overstimulated- he would cry, cover his ears, scream, hide, or lash out. To parents, they would see that as punishable behavior and try to correct it. Which in turn, would cause Light, not wanting to get punished, to suppress these completely normal and valid reactions to being overstimulated and having no support system and see it as a negative thing. Light was brought up to be a perfect child, and OCD helped with that in ways. Just like how Autism makes a lot of people who are autistic a "gifted kid" in school and well behaved for the most part. Being praised for some qualities of your disorder (which you dont know is a disorder, so you just think it's you) and punished for other qualities is really confusing for a child and even an adult.

So Light never learned that these urges and behaviors were okay. He was taught that flipping a switch 5 times, because his brain told him he had to, was annoying. Or turning his plate in circles until it felt right, was weird. Or turning a corner repeatedly until his brain signaled that it was okay, was distracting. He learned that the things his brain was telling him he needed to do were detrimental and harmful of the image his family was so proud of him for. He learned that it is not safe to do the things his brain is telling him to do. So he only flipped switches, turned his plate, rounded a corner once despite his brain signaling that something is going to go wrong and moved on even though his skin itched.

But that's just my headcanon, really. Since we dont know much about Light's childhood except for that he was always a smart kid. But there are a lot of symptoms of OCD that Light just has in canon. Intrusive thoughts, paranoid thinking, constantly checking his actions, having a routine/ritualistic behavior, hypervigilance, repetitive behavior, "hoarding", put togetherness, tidiness. (just a reminder: being neat and tidy =/= OCD) We get to see all of these. I'll give a few examples of the ones people might not be aware of because I don't want to make this too long because I also have another thing I want to talk about.

So like with hoarding, it's not always what you see on Hoarders (tm), it's not always messiness and dead animals hiding under mountains of just trash. I think I can see him as hoarding those books that are lining almost every wall in his bedroom. Books surrounding his bed, books above his desk, books on the wall behind him. Literally hundreds of books. Now, hoarding is not just collecting, but also difficulty getting rid of items, which causes extreme anxiety and stress. Which is more of a headcanon that the reason Light has so many books is because he cannot get rid of them. Anyway. Ritualistic behavior, we saw his routine in school, he seems very particular about it just from what the anime shows us. Also when he has the death note, he puts himself on a schedule, routinely writing names, which we see when L talks about the time the killings occur. When he went to kill raye penber he had every little thing planned out, an exact schedule. Hypervigilance, he's constantly checking over his shoulder, noticing every little detail about people around him. Their intentions, mood, he guesses what they're thinking. One of the scenes that comes to mind is when L shows him the second kira clip and he looks behind him as the officers and talks about how strange it is that nobody explained the video to him. And notices that it's a test when L looks at him.

oh boy! i sure talk a lot! the other thing I wanted to mention is that I think Light also has OCPD (different from OCD, this is a personality disorder) it's possible for someone to have both OCD and OCPD because they're different disorders but it is also extremely rare lol. I just think he has both because I knew a decent amount about OCD before and when I started reading up on OCPD I was noticing a lot of symptoms and traits that I saw in Light. Soooo if you want me to talk about why I think Light has OCPD then lmk again!

OH! Also if you want me to talk about Light and L and how they would co-exist with their own respective mental disorders then lmk because i looooove to think about lawlight and their disorder solidarity LMAO. I think L would teach Light that it's okay to flip switches, turn plates, and round corners as many times as he needs O.O Anyway feel free to ask questions or give me your own thoughts about Light having OCD!

#long post #fr #LMAO #death note #light yagami #light yagami headcanons #ask

85 notes · View notes

shinescape · 3 years

Text

Moon & Star

Part Timer Kevin x Reader

Requested!

AU: soulmate au where your drawing/writing appears on your soulmate's skin

note: I've written a few soulmates aus before but this is the first I ever finished and had fun writing it. Hope this is romance filled enough for you anon. Enjoy!

For the past two months, Kevin has been feeling restless. Every night before sleep, he would look at the back of his hand, the space between his thumb and index finger. A single black star would appear there and he would just admire and swipe his thumb over it. This has never happened before which made him curious about his soulmate.

As a person who loves arts and drawing, Kevin rarely draws on his arms or any part of his body since he prefers to put his thoughts on paper instead. But after noticing the black star, it intrigued him to draw on his skin even more. A sudden determination crossed his mind and he decided to find his soulmate.

At the waffle booth the next day, Kevin tried his best to look awake and presentable despite sleeping at 3 a.m. thinking on how to find his soulmate. He leaned against the counter watching people enjoying their weekend while he has to work to earn for his future like any normal person. He sighed dejectedly which caught his workmate’s attention.

“Are you okay, Kevin? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.” “I surely did not sleep last night, Jacob. Thanks for asking.” He watched Jacob who was mixing the waffle batter and flashed him a tired smile. “I’m here, if you need to talk. I mean...we have all day.” Jacob let out a laugh and went on with his task.

Occasionally, customers flock to their shop but most of the time they just hang around talking about anything in particular. That’s when Kevin wondered if ever his soulmate was nearby, like really close maybe even in this mall he’s working at currently. “Jacob, can I ask you something?” Jacob replied with a “sure”. “Have you ever communicated with your soulmate?” There was a short silence which made him look back at his friend.

Jacob smiled at him and nodded. Kevin proceeded to interrogate the poor boy with so many questions and his eyes were sparkling the whole time Jacob retold his experience with his soulmate. Jacob’s soulmate used to work at a library before moving back to their hometown. He found out where they work from the scribbles on his forearm. It’s usually in a red pen and sometimes they used a black fountain pen which smudged a lot.

“So you went to all the libraries in this city and actually found them?” Jacob shyly nodded. “You’re crazy, Jacob. You could have just written ‘where are you?’ instead of going around searching. But maybe that’s just your way of doing things.” Kevin noticed how Jacob never bothered to cover his arms even when their uniforms are long-sleeved. Kevin could literally see words forming on his friend’s arm right at that moment. His soulmate really loves to write on their arms, he thought silently.

Without thinking, he took a sharpie and boldly drew lines on the back of his hand. If he wanted results, there must be actions. “Kevin, isn’t that too much? That’s not going to come off real soon.” The shock in Jacob’s face made Kevin realise that what he was doing might be the right thing after all. “Don’t worry. This is temporary but a soulmate, that’s a lifetime.”

Kevin drew an X in one of the squares and waited. He was trying to play tic-tac-toe with his soulmate, if that isn’t the most random thing. A customer walked up to the counter and Kevin greeted them. The lines on his hand were so distracting that the customer had to reread the menu board before confirming their orders. He passed the order to Jacob and went to look back at his hand. While the order was being made, he felt a pair of eyes boring into his head. He looked up and locked eyes with the waiting customer.

“Trying to communicate, huh?” She asked him all of a sudden. “Yeah...I look dumb right with six squares-”

“Look! They drew an O.” The customer gasped and pointed at his hand. Jacob, who was unaware of the situation, tried to pass Kevin the order but the lady extended her hand instead. She took the paper bag and watched as Kevin drew another mark on his hand. It never occurred to him that he would draw on his skin to find his other half.

The lady was long gone and the game ended as well. The game was won by his soulmate, fair and square. He had been too excited that he didn’t care whether he was winning or losing. He was staring into space, unsure of his next move. Jacob stepped to his side and told him that they have to wrap everything up soon.

He gave a nod and started wiping the counters and rearranging the topping bottles. He really hoped to meet them soon, unfortunately it’s not going to happen in a day. It took Jacob weeks to figure out his soulmate, his might be longer. Kevin shook his head and scoffed at the silly thought of meeting his one and only the same day he just started to make a move.

As he was moving around the booth and cleaning up the waffle makers, a figure approached their shop and placed both hands on the counter. “I’m sorry but can I make an order?” Kevin walked up to the ordering screen and gave a tired smile. He just wanted to go home and sleep until he forgot the things that happened today.

You were out of breath and looked like you needed some water which Kevin kindly offered. After making an order, he gave out the total and waited for you to take out the bills. You passed the money to him and he extended his hand at the same time.

Both of you were looking at each other’s hand, everything was identical from the squares that Kevin drew to the diagonal line that you made when you ended the game. He took the bill from you and tried to pass back your change without looking too nervous.

He cleared his throat and mustered up the courage to speak to you properly. You were equally as nervous as he was, it felt bizarre seeing your other half up close for the first time. “I can’t believe we finally met. Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about that star you draw every single night?” You could not help but get teary eyed at his words.

“You’re not the only one. I always wonder why you never drew anything back. It almost made me lose hope.” You reasoned back and saw the guilt in his eyes. Kevin slowly extended his arm and wiped the single tear that dropped to your cheek.

“Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Kevin Moon.” He smiled softly and waited for you to shake his hand.

“And I’m your one and only star.” You took his palm and mirrored his smile.

198 notes · View notes

donutdrawsthings · 3 years

Photo

NO THIS POST IS NOT A DISCUSSION FORUM. EITHER KEEP SCROLLING OR VIBE WITH THE REST OF US

I thought I had already been clear on what my stance was on the matter, but after today I feel like I need to yell it off the top of my lungs. I SUPPORT ROETVEEG PIET AND BLM. LISTEN TO BLACK VOICES AND ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR WRONGS.

(Information about the Dutch holiday and why it’s racist under the cut! includes extern sources and images!)

Summary

Sinterklaas is a Dutch tradition that starts at the first Saturday after 11 November and ends at 5 December. A figure called Sint Nicholaas comes on a boat from Spain to the Netherlands to celebrate his birthday on the 5th with his little helpers, the Zwarte Pieten. The Zwarte Pieten give candy to the kids and on the 5th kids get a gift from Sinterklaas.

The Racism (Black Pete)

All sounds fairly innocent, until you see what the Zwarte Pieten look like.

These are the traditional Zwarte Pieten (it translates to Black Petes btw). These individuals are usually played by white people and are purposely darkened to black with red lipstick, black curly hair and sometimes golden earrings. I have always been told the dark skin was to represent “soot” from the chimneys, however, up until recent years there was no effort made to actually appear as smeared. In fact, a lot of effort was put into making sure not a single speck of light skin was visible because that could ruin the illusion. (the illusion being, hiding your identity behind blackface.)

These characters are also played to be playful, hyperactive, carefree, happy to do their work and often praise Sinterklaas himself. Which are all traits often depicted alongside the “happy slave” stereotype from way back when and the S*mbo stereotype.

other racist depictions are also on display in stores and houses (often on display near a window for kids to see) in the form of little Black Petes, most of them resembling the G*lliw*g. (first image is a common window prop during Sinterklaas, the second image is the racist G*lliw*g)

This very outdated depiction of black people only really started being questioned in the early 2010′s. However, support for questioning Black Pete only started to become somewhat acceptable around 2016/2017... And even then the public has been largely Pro Black Pete until 2020, after the Black Lives Matter movement also started to become a valid topic of discussion in the Netherlands.

The Transition

Between 2010 and 2020 a lot happened since Black Pete officially got taken into question and talk about whether or not Black Pete should be changed started to become a genuine topic of discussion. When the question first rang, the majority of the Dutch folk were against the change. I was against this change as well. I think I should note that I was around 13 at the time and it is a very common phenomenon for kids to mimic the opinion of their parents and teachers. But this indeed a genuine opinion I had at some point and I acknowledge that with full responsibility.

The main reasons everyone was against this change was because we did not see it as racist and were convinced the “goal” with this movement was to entirely remove Pete from the holiday or remove the holiday as a whole from the list.

I would also like to note that the Dutch folk’s opinion on what is and isn’t racist is very outdated as well. (As I write this now in 2020 it is still not a whole lot better but around the 2010′s it was definitely worse.) As this topic gained attraction, jokes about black men having huge dicks (the m*and*ngo stereotype), “watering the Africans” and much more were made to me and other people regularly enough to be normal or at the very least, were seen as a bit of a cheeky thing to say. And despite being a multicultural country, Asian people were still referred to as “Chinese”, Native Americans as “Indians” and Islamic women as “Penguins” as well.

But back on the topic. As the years went on, more and more protests against Black Pete gained attraction and by now parents started to use these protests as another reason to be against the change because “they are ruining it for the kids” White parents would also start to praise the word of their 1 black colleague/friend for being against the change as well.

When the topic started to become more prominent, people made the attempt to change the Black of a Black Pete to another colour. This created the short lived bizarre creation of Rainbow Pete. (also seen in the picture above)

Rainbow Pete was a very short lived idea and was considered weird by many. However, I personally do believe this was an important step in the transition. Rainbow Pete took the depersonalisation tied to Black Pete and quite literally, showed its true colours. It’s ehhh hard to explain what “A Pete” is in English. But growing up I never considered them as human, nor were they ever explained to me as ACTUALLY being human. They are just described as a Pete, and a Pete is all they are. They aren’t people who can have other jobs in Spain or can travel the world to find something else to do. They are a Pete, and therefore they will always be with Sinterklaas in Spain, making toys for us, giving us candy and then going back to Spain with Sinterklaas again.

And that’s why I think this odd colour change was so important. Because by making them green or blue or pink it properly showed how ALIEN Petes felt. Like a whole other species. It tied a certain uncomfortable environment to the depersonalisation and after it’s short lived appearance, Soot Smudge Pete was a much easier step to make

Soot Smudge Pete, or in Dutch known as Roetveeg Pete, is the most recent and most inclusive variant of the Petes. This Pete only requires a few dark smudges to mimic actual soot and can be played by all races.

in 2018/19 Soot Petes started to become more present in the official parades, which a lot of parents were rather disgusted about. I personally think this is the period in which a lot of people just straight up outed themselves as racist, actively being against “White Pete” and actively longing for the “Real Petes” to return. Even with these Petes slowly becoming more popular, it is still not safe for most people who are against Black Pete to discuss the matter with Pro Black Pete individuals in this time period. Pro Black Pete individuals (often family or coworkers) more often than not become very heated when the topic arises and I cannot say I’ve ever seen the same attitude from people who are against Black Pete.

Present Day

In 2020, thanks to the Black Lives Matter movement, it has become way more socially acceptable to support Soot Smudge Pete. Parents who are still Pro Black Pete are still vocally voicing their disgust every time Soot Petes are present instead of Black Petes and much like what happened to me back then, their opinions also seep through onto their children. With these people still present in Sinterklaas spaces it also sadly occurs they press their believes on Soot Petes by giving them too much soot and still giving them a black, curly wig.

However, with the way things are going right now and the positive, multicultural depiction present in the media, I believe we are finally on our way to a more positive environment for kids of all kinds of backgrounds!

Afterthoughts

This whole post sparked after I dealt with a nasty situation myself while playing a Soot Pete at my old Elementary school. I really wanted to play this role to tie a more positive view on Soot Petes with all the parents creating such a negative environment around the Sinterklaas times and thought I could take matters into my own hands. However, I was Sooted up by a Pro Black Pete mother and thus, nearly got as dark as my brown hair. (besides that I also have gender issues and despite the school knowing I’m called Josh, put me in a dress outfit,, but that’s a more personal issue) I was able to wipe most of it off by the time the kids came in, but not without sharing some discouraging words with my mother, who told me to “just suck it up”.

It’s really important to me for people to know how Bad stuff like that still is in this country and I just... don’t understand why people would still support Black Pete after all this time. These people are either friends, family, or just kind people I know and love who around November open their mouths to say the most vile things and create such a sour situation for everyone involved. And after Black Pete is proven to be racist time and time again, still supporting it... It makes me wonder if this has to do with pride more than anything.

No one wants to be called a racist, but is it really that hard to acknowledge some of the shit you said and did was just plain wrong to the point that you’re taking your opinion to new extremes and decide to die on a sinking ship..?

I’ve said racist things. I have compared the curly black hair of a Black Pete to black classmates. I have compared Black Pete to black classmates. I have joked about them not needing to be face painted to be just like Black Pete. I have made those connections and I’m ashamed I did. But you do what you can to deal with it and become better for those around you. You listen to black voices, support black artists and black businesses and become better as a person. We need to start acknowledging how much our society is actually structured to belittle and undervalue black people and you can’t do that when you’re THAT far up your own ass.

phew... anyways. Black Lives Matter! Don’t use tradition to defend racism! Fijne Pakjesavond!!

520 notes · View notes

captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Things You Said When it was Over

Somewhere else, anger, a truce, and fight, and a happy ending

cw Jon's typical level of wanting to die but not actually wanting to die, fighting, mentions of vomit but no vomit, mentions of stabbing, mentions of stitches, losing time

Spoilers for 200

Let me know if you enjoyed! Stop back in a week for another fic. I am accepting Things You Said prompt list prompts for Jon, Martin, and/or Tim! I have two prompts in my inbox and both have been back written, but if you are wondering if I have ignored your prompt, chances are I have not!

Being unwound hurts. Unwound. Rewritten. Removed. Pulled and crumpled and twisted and extracted. Spun in with a web of tapes.

Masses of crinkling magnetic strips. Unsure where voice, and web, and body, and blood intersect.

Woven and ripped through that careful crevasse.

And it hurts. Much more than being stabbed. With that awful scratch and skittering of strands being eaten by an eager, hungry machine.

As time and entities and two people are chewed through and eaten with all the care of a faulty cassette player.

It’s a shriek of static, the thrumming whine of machinery wound wrong. The deafening scrabble of unknowable and terrible things going Elsewhere. Loud enough that the explosion doesn’t even register. Just a background whine to the overpowering white noise of the end of the world moving.

And Jon wakes up.

With a gasp. Small. And so painfully normal. Like his POTS flaring up and waking up in the break room. Again.

That hasn’t happened since the world ended. Since things went wrong.

A strange thing to reminisce about. POTS isn’t something he thought he’d miss. And… well… he doesn’t? Didn’t? Doesn’t know the tense to use because there was that slim, slim chance that everything is actually okay. The smallest, most fragile idea that things are back to that idyllic normal of the safehouse.

He doesn't move for a while. Focusing on breathing. It's cold. He isn't sure if the air is cold or if he's experiencing cold himself, or if this is just a new way of feeling pain. He can't tell.

His chest hurts, but he can't make himself check for blood. Moving is still a little too beyond him.

He wants to open his eyes, and look for Martin, but he doesn't want this to go away. Because if he's alive, then Martin must be too, right? Martin was much more likely to survive this. Not being... you know, stabbed?

But what if only Jon is somewhere else? What if this is somewhere Martin couldn't follow?

In that case, Jon would rather not be alive at all. If he doomed all the other universes because he couldn't go through with it in the end... if he gave it all up for Martin... he can't live with that. He can't. More than not wanting to, he just... Can't.

Then again everything is... kind of numb so he can't actually be sure that Martin isn't there... but he is never that lucky. Jon never gets the privilege of the best case scenario.

Breathing still hurts. But he doesn’t think it hurts in the “breathing around a knife” sort of way. Then again, after bearing witness to the pain of Everyone on the planet, a single wound is hardly a drop in that ocean with all the other pain just Gone.

“Jon! Jon! Can you hear me?”

He cracks his eyes open, and is met with the safe house ceiling. Eyes struggling to focus, trying to find the source of the voice that certainly sounds like Martin, but Jon is too sore to move. The force of it hitting him out of nowhere, without him even trying to lift a finger. Senses filling the void of 7 billion people screaming with the voices of scars and joints and exhaustion and hunger.

The best response he can manage is a wheezy groan.

Wheezy?

Does he need his inhaler again? Did Martin pack that even? He hasn’t needed it… since… the world ended.

Everything’s blurry. Where did his glasses go?

“Oh thank Christ!”

Jon makes to sit up, but stars burst in his vision, and his arms give out.

Martin’s hands fluttering around him. Flying to his chest.

Jon carefully reaches for his chest also. There is a hole in his shirt. Well. A lot of holes, but he’s only looking for one.

He feels tacky blood on its way to drying. And as he carefully probes further, he finds a tidy line of stitches in slightly sticky thread, that he has a sinking suspicion is spider’s silk. A final gift. A thank you. He wants to vomit.

But Martin’s hand catches his, stopping him from potentially hurting himself. Jon stretches his free hand to cup Martin’s cheek. He finds it wet.

It occurs to him that Martin has been crying. Is crying? Jon can’t tell. His face is too far away to see more than the fuzzy outline. (Not that Martin’s face is actually far away, Jon just has shit vision).

Crying, present tense, Jon assesses, when Martin shakes with a suppressed, silenced sob. “How could you do that Jon? Fuck! I mean… I knew you would. But how could you do that? You Lied to me. You could have Died! And I know you didn’t. But Jon, I… I can’t. You Promised me! You Promised! I… How could you make me do that? To you? How could you? I… Jon, how could you?” Martin’s crying too hard to get anything else out, and Jon still hasn’t managed to find enough breath and energy to speak.

Jon whines. Too exhausted to even sign.

Martin’s hand on his chest. Still trying to keep the blood in, even when there is no blood trying to get out anymore. Martin’s usually warm hand icy (Jon hopes with fear, and not the Lonely, but he can’t know. Firstly because he can’t break another promise, Secondly because he doesn’t think he can Know anymore, and thinking about trying makes his stomach drop.)

And Jon just… can’t. He rolls on his side away from Martin. Curling up tightly. Against the angry words and the guilt, and the rest of the guilt, and the pain in his body. He’s doomed infinite worlds. He’s betrayed everyone who ever cared about him… who he ever cared about. He caused so much pain and he sat back and watched. It seared through him the entire time of unknown and uncountable quantity that made up the apocalypse.

All the words that he could never say, the guilt he could never express, all his own fear that had been just as much a meal for his god choking him.

And he braces for the hate and the rest of the yelling, and everything else he deserves. Everything he brought upon himself, one poor choice after another.

Squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself gone and wills that if he doesn’t just vanish out of everything that Martin will get done yelling quick so maybe Jon can grovel some comfort out of him, even if it isn’t forgiveness, it will be better than the aching nothing that has been threatening to overtake him since he tasted the bitter words of the false statement.

Martin more than deserves his anger, but Jon can’t take it. He’s literally held together by spider silk. He’s worn and tired and battered. Guilt plunging deeper than Martin’s knife ever could.

Not that he’s not grateful for this time with Martin. Not that he doesn’t deserve every centimeter of guilt piling up on him. He deserves all the hate. And all the anger.

He’s spineless, and he knows it. He Almost did the right thing, but he couldn’t. And he almost lost everything he cares about. And now he probably still has. And… and what? What now? Martin elected to stay with him despite it all, on one stupid, slim chance that things could be okay, but how can they be okay ever again, with this aching hole of fault and blame and regret and shame pulling at his core. And he wants to be pulled open and rip it out. He wants to enjoy what he has, but he can’t and Martin has every reason to hate him.

He’s lost time.

Martin’s calling his name, and his limbs are stiff and numb from bracing for an impact that never came.

“Jon. Christ. Jon! I’m… I… I didn’t mean to scare you. I… I don’t hate you. I love you, I promise. …I’m… angry. And we need to talk about this. But… but I think that should wait until you’re up for talking, and I’m up for not crying for ya know, more than five minutes at a time. ….And Fuck. I just… well. You owe me a good screaming at, too. And Goddamn it, you were just doing what you thought was right… and you tried to tell us… tell me. I’m not saying you were right, because you weren’t… but I’m not saying you were wrong. And. Well. We’re both here. Please. I’m sorry for yelling. Can I touch you?”

Jon nods jerkily. Because he can’t stand the distance between them. He doesn’t care if touch can get him hurt, he’d take hurt over the space between them.

Martin holds him like he’s precious and Jon cries.

Harder than he has in a very long time.

And when he’s done he’s empty and shaking and filthy.

They shower and sleep. In the morning they can shout at each other for broken promises and wandering off, and not communicating enough, and not listening when the other is trying to communicate. And one leaves in a huff, and one cries himself sick in the bathroom, and there is hugging and a trip to town for tea and figuring out if this is the universe they saved or one of the infinite they doomed. And there are years for the aftershocks of those arguments to bounce around, losing energy in the form of heat: tea, hugs, hot showers, overeager workouts, kisses a little too rough, hugs a little too tight, a strange combination between fierce affection, and things a little too much to make them feel like they are accomplishing something.

And they can grow whole once more.

And they can grow old.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma spoilers #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #cw suicidal ideation #sort of #cw fighting

144 notes · View notes

drowningbydegrees · 3 years

Text

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

330 notes · View notes

rataltouille · 3 years

Text

GEOMETRY OF THE HOLY MOON (1 AM): A SHORT STORY

GENRE: surrealism, literary fiction.

POV & TENSE: this little space is not enough for how wild the form is so i talk about this later!!

SETTING: a small desi village, 1924-25.

TONE: dreamy, unsettling, melancholic.

THEMES: faith vs reality, how people perceive others and how they perceive themselves, grief dealt the wrong way.

AESTHETICS: the splash of water on a quiet night, thick clouds obscuring the sky, rippling the moon’s reflection on the water. the intensity of a garden in spring, the emptiness of a dying town, the suffocation from being singled out. hands grazing lightly but never fully held. a lingering sadness behind your laugh. believing in things you shouldn't believe in. putting faith on a starless sky.

STAGE: completed first draft, 4085 words.

LOGLINE: a young boy, surrounded by loss, claims to talk to god. the story follows him and his conversations with this god, all while his village spies on him as he weaves his way around the two most crucial and lonely years of his life.

LITERAL LOGLINE: on today’s news let’s talk about a small backward town that hates sad little boys who worship god, even though the place is lowkey a cult!!

CHARACTERS:

THE SUMMER BOY: he’s around thirteen, and he’s very emotionally attached to his past. he lost his family at a young age to an unstable force, so he spends his time talking to himself. he’s a quiet, demure and sweet person, always willing to help others. he’s outwardly oblivious and sees only the good in people to a point where he doesn't understand when they’re trying to do him wrong. but! considering how the story [like a lot of my others] has themes of perception vs reality, it needs to be said that he isn't all that innocent. he’s rather impulsive and rash, never afraid of hurting himself [and thus accidentally harming others].

A GOD: is he real? do we even know if he’s an actual god? a very elusive figure despite having a lot of screentime. he’s a surprisingly humanised character and arguably the one with the most empathy. he has a soft spot for the boy and the two have a deep bond which is not common for a human and a god to have. you don’t get insight to what the other gods are like, but they’re implied to exist. this story has a very messy and hazy view towards religion and godhood and their nature towards humanity, and this vague figure, a dreamlike character, is proof enough of that.

THE VILLAGE: okay so in general these people suck. the village consists of, well, the village, but they’re very fluid in the way they appear in the story? as in for the most part they appear as a collective, a unit. one character, the summer boy’s “friend”, is somewhat separate considering he’s a pretty important character. it’s very hard describing this unit of a character but essentially they’re the main antagonistic force and they hate the protagonist for seemingly no reason.

WHAT GOES DOWN:

sometime around this time, the boy chances upon meeting his “god”, this being who lives up in the clouds and whom he talks with often, except you don't know if this god is real or not. that’s one of the recurring themes of this story: what’s real and what isn’t. it’s :) a fun time :) for sure :)

essentially Things Happen And It Only Gets Weirder. i cannot even try describing what happens because it’s all very spoilery but let’s just say that this is a very sad story but not even in a “this makes me cry” manner, but rather in a “this is so fucked up wtf why”. the prose of this is very, very hazy and thick, in a manner that’s both smooth and suffocating. there’s also a lot of moon and water imagery which we love. i love the atmosphere + the setting—colonial india— as it’s a subtle but key element to the plot.

FORM:

OKAY YES be prepared for the true colours of how unhinged i am. i apologize for the form brainrot.

POV: so in this story i really said “what if it had all three of the main povs... jk jk... unless 😳😳” and then proceeded to use all three povs. you’re probably wondering, how did i do that? WHY did i do that? and my answer to that is: 🙂

the first-person pov: the summer boy narrates in first person. his pov takes up about 40% of the story, and this is where we unlock family backstory + how he feels about the various forces playing into his life. he’s an extremely unreliable narrator and he knows it; his narration oscillates between very naive and very self-aware, and this effect is pretty disconcerting. the summer boy is kind of a walking contradiction and we love that conflict.

the second-person pov: a god narrates in second person. his pov takes around 20% of the story, and his scenes all involve his conversations with the boy. his pov is extremely detached, and suspends belief because he seems awfully made up. there’s an edge to the prose in his narration, where you know that something's off, but you can’t exactly pinpoint what.

the third-person pov: the villagers narrate, either as a collective, or as an individual figure, in third person. they take up the other 40% of the story, and there are so many different people and differing opinions with this, and every time we read a third person excerpt it’s a different person, and this is mostly used to add onto the different ways in which the boy is perceived. this is also where the structural part of the form gets really wacky.

STRUCTURE: if my story isn't told in vignettes is it my story though /j. gothm is told in vignettes, each one between 50 to 500 words. the first and second person bits are normal-ish vignettes, with straightforward narration. the third person vignettes, on the other hand, are super assorted. we have a lot of epistolaric sections— there’s a letter, a folk song [which was found around the summer boy], and most of the conversation is told as just plain dialogue without tags. there’s also a phone call transcript, and finally some normal chunks of prose. what am i doing wtf.

also to add onto this the story is told non-linearly. 😀 the only thing that keeps me from going insane is the fact that there are chronological tags before most vignettes [also the manner in which they're tagged differs from pov to pov. for example a few of the third person conversations are marked just as “sunday” or “thursday”, while the summer boy’s narration is marked with the full date and year]

in all this clownery i completely forgot to mention what the tense was [the way everything else was so complicated that i forgot tense was a thing lmao] and good news!! it’s the only sane thing about this story!! it’s told fully in present tense. thank everything.

AN EXCERPT:

okay i’m once again not sharing much because this will be submitted to litmags 🧞

[The boy is scrawny as always. He carries an air of diswant— even death had rejected him when the plague killed only his grandmother— but walks like he doesn’t notice. He smiles at them, jitters, and wipes his hand across his knees. Blood comes away in thin, translucent lines. He saves it on the kerchief he keeps tucked in his shirt, careful to dirty the cloth even more. The villagers scrunch their noses in disgust; who knew how old and rotten the kerchief was, or how long it had carried blood like the unwashed sword of a warrior?]

also by the way this excerpt is in square brackets because it is a third-person interjection in a vignette that is otherwise first-person [at this point...]

SPARE THOUGHTS:

this was inspired by a conversation i had with my grandfather, where he was telling me about how people used to sing songs to the skies, as a way of devotion to a specific god. he used the [loose translation of] the english word “yearning” to refer to the emotion the singers would invoke, and that sparked the concept of a disillusioned young boy who talks to the moon as a way to please the god he’s in love with. it’s a very softly disconcerting story and once again deals with the theme of “perception vs reality” which if you know me and my work, is the theme i’m forever obsessed with.

i really like how this turned out? the atmosphere is exactly how i wanted it to be, and there’s so much i have to add on as i edit and i’m really looking forward to that. this is also the only short story i’ve written where i knew which litmag i’d love for it to be published in? like i never write things with publishing in mind, but for some reason while writing this story it occurred to me that it would be a perfect fit for this specific magazine and i love that. anyway if you’ve made it through the post till here,,,, bless you and your braincells. and that’s all for today!!

#am writing #writeblr #wtwcommunity #atlastracking #ofcolourtracking #crabappletracking #tw death #tw plague #tw blood #the way this post gets increasingly incomprehensible...#love how my blog has just descended into pure chaos post-hiatus #geometry of the holy moon (1 am)#god complex #god complex intro

127 notes · View notes