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wyn-n-tonic · 2 years

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Soft Cries

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!reader Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: Blood. Fighting. PTSD. Death. Crumbs of smut but nothing explicit I don't think? Author's Note: I've been sitting on this idea for a really long time. I hope I did it justice. I also think this is the longest one shot I've ever written. A huge thank you is in order to @lovebarefootblonde who has listened to me gripe about this all day and to everybody who has helped me build my Benny headcanons over the last week or so. Love you as ever.

MASTERLIST | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

Benny’s got a mean streak.

Nasty. Dirty. Always itching for a fight.

His face is a gradient of greens and yellows and purples; broken blood vessels scattered beneath his skin in an instant.

There’s something about the pain he likes. Something about the copper taste of blood filling his mouth and the ache in his ribs with every breath. He likes the sweat and stale stench of near death in enclosed spaces of hot air and broken hearts.

Anger evidenced in bruises to cover his vulnerability, he swings first and asks questions later; usually leaning against the sink while you tend to the broken skin but occasionally a hospital bed or a police station. He’ll tell you he’s never lost a fight but that’s a goddamn lie. That’s a lie with every ragged breath and gasp of pain as he fights for air through a tight chest. That’s a lie with every moment he spends hiding from the ghosts inside his own head.

“I fucking won that fight,” he'd spit, “I don’t see the problem.”

It never was one with you, in the confines of your home; the four walls of your bedroom; your bodies between the sheets. He melted beneath your touch as you patched him up and stroked his hair and told him you loved him despite the bloodstain on another brand new shirt.

You encouraged him not to go out, gentle suggestions of movie nights in and cuddles on the couch, but it wasn’t like the bar was the only place he broke. He doesn’t see the problem because it’s never really clear how it starts or where it comes from; the grocery store, the dog park, the drive thru line of the coffee shop you’re too embarrassed to ever go to again.

The problem this time was a fractured orbital bone—not his—and a fist full of broken knuckles that go untreated, yet again, as they shake in his lap in the police station.

“You're a fucking idiot, Benjamin Miller,” you shoot at him, “why do you do this to me? Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I've never hurt you.”

“Is it not hurting me?” You ask him, arms crossed and looking down into those bloodshot blues, “I can’t take you anywhere, my life shouldn’t become housebound because you can’t control yourself. And how long, if that’s what we do, does that last for me?”

“I'd never hurt you,” he says again, looking down to pick at the skin of his nails, “I never meant to hurt anybody.”

There’s an itch in your hand to reach out and card through the overgrown locks of wheat and barley blond but you suppress it. He feels it though, the way you want to touch him and the way you won’t let yourself; he feels the hurt and the worry you’re swallowing down and looks back up with a promise poised on his lips.

“Don't you dare tell me it won’t happen again, Benny,” you pull away when he reaches for you, “stop making promises you can’t keep and get some fucking help because I can’t be it anymore.”

Shaking, he follows you through the station in an almost well worn path. This is the third time you’ve posted bail in as many months and all you wanted was dinner and a movie.

“You owe me so much fucking money, Benny,” you snap at him as soon as you’re tucked away into the car, “a thousand each for the last two times and two thousand this time—and now you have a court date. I’m not bailing you out anymore, you can sleep here next time.”

A smile spreads across his face, a hint of arrogance in his lips as he licks out and smooths a hand down the rough scruff that covers his cheek.

“You said that last time.”

He thinks he’s so clever.

“Get out.”

His face falls.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you turn the ignition, “get the fuck out and call your brother. I can’t do this tonight.”

He thinks he’s so charming as he wraps his hand around yours as he says, “hey, baby,” in the softest voice, "I'm sorry, okay? I’m sorry, let’s just go home.”

He thinks he’s so endearing with those little mouth sounds of love that talk you down from that ledge and he’s right. You only wish he’d talk himself down too instead of letting you both get to this point.

“Come on, baby.” He pulls at the waistline of your pants, taking your attention away from pulling the day—the sweat, the frustration, the sadness—off of your body. “C’mere.” He whispers from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his legs and running his large hands up your back.

“I'm sorry.” He looks to your hands hanging limp at your side, the ones that are usually buried in his hair—especially on nights like this—to run along his scalp and disarm him.

“Baby, please,” he begs, laying his head into your soft, bare stomach; kissing the skin he finds there. “Baby, I’m sorry, it really won’t happen again. I promise.”

You break when he looks back up at you, wiping the tears from his eyes and framing his face with your soft touch, as that splash of angry red dots grows larger across his fair skin.

“I'll get help, okay?” He wraps his fingers around your wrist, turning his face into the skin of your arm to drag his lips along it, “I promise, I’ll be a better man for you. I’ll be a better man for myself.”

Kissing up your arm, he rests his hands back on your hips, sliding them up your sides as he presses his lips into your stomach again; into your waist and ribs as his fingers pluck at the clasp of your bra.

His mouth is insistent, hot and moist across your heated chest as he pulls the fabric away and lifts himself to you with his hand caging you tight to his body.

“Benny…”

“Baby,” he grabs hold at the base of your skull, the whiskers of overgrown facial hair tickling the sensitive skin of your lips as he whispers into you, “I promise.”

He kisses like a man possessed, crushing every whimper into his own mouth and it’s all so incredibly tender the way you trade gasps back and forth. Soft when when he’s gripping hard enough to leave bruises because this is what he does.

That unregulated anger that breaks everybody and himself slips away inside you—his body resetting, exhaling, finding peace in the curves and valleys of your skin. You let him take it, let him grab desperately with split and swollen hands; let him heal himself against your body if that’s what he needs.

He’s still there after he finishes, head laid gently against your chest as quiet tears slip down his nose and drop into the sheen of sweat that still clothes you.

“Benny…” Your hands are caught up in his hair again, that overgrown barley blond wrapping like silk around your fingers.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You mean it this time, right?”

He lifts his head, rough palm smoothing down the expanse of your bare body, “yeah,” he nods, “I mean it.”

“I mean it, Ben,” you cinch at the waist, propping yourself up on your elbow as his face falls, “you can’t keep burying your problems inside my pussy, it’s not good for either of us.”

“I don’t bury my pro—“

“You do.”

He glances down to where your bodies are still joined, inhaling sharply as he gently grabs the base of his cock and pulls away from you and exhales just as hard as he stands and turns away.

“Benny, baby…”

His head shakes as he retreats across the threshold to the bathroom, mumbling under his breath—likely just to himself—and you feel it deep down inside you; the kind of pain within him that only those closest can stroke.

The faucet turns in the dark beneath his touch and you watch as he shuffles through the little room attached out of habit. Two washcloths thrown into the basin to soak as he splashes the not-yet-warm water on his face. He wrings one between his fingers and runs it along himself, tossing it in the laundry pile and grabbing for the other. This one he holds in his hands, wrung out and ready as he turns the water off again and pads back towards you with that same wrecked expression.

“Baby, I’m sor—“

“No,” he cuts you off, “don't you dare.”

His fingers wrap around your ankle and he lifts your slightly, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he seats himself between them. There’s a deep midwest twang that comes out in moments of hurt and it’s thick on his voice now as he cleans himself from you.

“I didn’t realize you felt like I was using you,” he whispers, “I’m the one who should be fucking sorry, that’s not ever how I wanted you to feel.”

He tosses the towel back towards the bathroom and winces as the shot doesn’t quite land, “I’ll clean that up, don’t worry.”

“Baby,” you reach for him, “that's not what I’m worried about.”

He wipes across his cheeks again, thumbing the edge of his sniffling nose as his other hand falls beneath your breast; flattened against the rapid beating of your heart.

“I mean it this time.”

He didn’t touch you for a while after that night, when he’d broken down and taken your words to mean you felt he was using you. He kissed you, hugged you tightly, but he left the touching up to you with gentle encouragement; swallowing the soft cries you gave him beneath in the still quiet of your bedroom.

“That's my good girl,” he told you, lips ghosting across yours.

Everything became more intimate, more tender, in those few weeks with nothing but praises in your ear until one day he couldn’t take it anymore. He kissed you gently and asked permission, hands falling low on your hips.

“I won’t lie to you,” he told you, “I have had a shit day and maybe I do bury my problems in you but that’s not how I mean it.”

“I know, baby.”

“I'm not using you,” every part of him was so warm, “I never would I just—“

He stops and inhales a sharp breath, hands sliding up beneath your shirt, “sometimes I just need a little extra comfort, I never realized that was coinciding with my episodes.”

He barely left the apartment either, home to work to home again. He didn’t have a perfect record there either but they mainly let him work alone. Can’t have a problem with anybody if nobody’s there to have a problem with. He was on his best behavior, cold turkey from the outside world until he started with the therapist Will connected him to; somebody down at the VA licensed to help him work through the scrambled thoughts of his brain.

He looked more like the full picture of Benjamin Miller—the man you fell in love with—than the glimpses the mere glimpses you’d been given since he came home.

A few weeks after that, Benny got off lucky with a sympathetic judge who listened to the character witnesses vouching for the kind of man he truly is.

The other man dropped the charges.

Even with a half broken face, hearing the words veteran and PTSD and special ops go a long way. Especially when the well-respected and widely loved William Miller stands up to speak. Takes responsibility and apologizes for not working harder to keep his baby brother under control.

Nobody blamed him, nobody was mad. Benny had the combination of boyish features and tragic backstory that made you want to bend over backwards for him.

“Don't let me see your name cross my sight again, son,” the much older man in robes seated above them stared down at the end of it all, “your record will be cleared with the completion of anger management.”

Between that and therapy, he gained coping strategies and tips on calming down. Everybody emphasized to him the importance of attendance and a consistent routine, pointing out that losing his strict schedule with honorable discharge was what started this spiral to begin with.

Nothing changes overnight but part of you thinks he did, that soldier’s resolve and discipline coming back at the mere mention of routine and consequences. He was better, genuinely better and not just acting. When met with a stressful situation, he’d excuse himself out to the car or just to the bathroom. He looked for breathing room instead of others forcing him to find it.

“Dad used to say you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink,” he told you one night as he brushed his fingers across your forehead.

Your nose wrinkled as he trailed down to the tip of it.

“Actually, I think that saying pre-dates your daddy by a few centuries,” you’d told him, “gone through a few translations too most likely.”

His hand dropped to cradle your head, pulling you up slightly to press his lips to yours, “you sound like Fish.”

“Fish is a smart man,” you told him, “you should listen to him more.”

That’s when the fighting started; the real fighting, the legitimate fighting. Fish got him in the gym and then he got him against other men. Men who wanted to be hit and did so for money.

“I'll pay you back, baby,” he’d told you, showing up with flyer for a competitive match, “I’m fucking good, I’m gonna win that fight and make so much of this right again, baby.”

“I don’t know, Benny,” he had you pinned against the counter, confidence and excitement buzzing from him, “I was just mad at you when I said you owe me so much money, baby, you don’t have to do this to make good on that.”

“Then I’ll use the money to help us buy a house,” he said; that crooked, cocksure smile you haven’t seen since well before retirement spreading across his face.

“Ben…”

“Come on,” he insisted, “don’t tell me you don’t wanna get out of apartment life. Huh? Don’t you wanna have a big ass kitchen to make those cakes you like? And a room for all your books?”

He wasn’t giving up so you gave in.

You wrapped his knuckles before every fight; putting extra care into the hands you love that have already seen so much hurt. Kissed his palms and wrists and fingertips before helping him into his gloves.

He got shit at first, for having his girl in the locker room with him. They said there was no way he could fight like a man if he couldn’t even get ready like one.

He went unbeaten for eight straight match ups, always looking towards you at the end of a fight and making grabby hands as soon they dropped his arm. They couldn’t contain him, always having to let him through the door and back out into the crowd as soon as possible so he could get to you.

Nobody said shit to him then.

Then Santiago came home and, suddenly, he was undone again.

You stayed back the night of the ninth fight, insisting he’d be fine with Frankie wrapping him up. He begged you to come, said he couldn’t win without you there.

“I'm sure Frankie would be happy to give you kisses on your palms, baby.”

“Yeah,” he shot back, a grin overtaking him, “but he’s not as gentle as you.”

Taking his hands in yours, you kissed palms and then his wrists and then his finger tips before standing on your tiptoes to kiss his lips.

“There,” you told him, “tradition done, you’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t.

He lost the fight, walking in way later than his boy’s nights tend to run with Santiago supporting him around the waist. It was the crashing that woke you up as they both tried to kick their shoes off in the dark.

“What the fuck?”

You turn the light on and stand there, arms crossed over your chest, “I’ve been calling for a while.”

“Baby,” he looks up at you now, letting go of Santi and making his way to you, “baby, I lost.”

“I know, Frankie texted.”

“You weren’t there, that’s why,” he says, large hands framing your face, “promise me you’ll be at the next one, I can’t lose like that again.”

Leaning to the side, you look at Santiago, "how much did you give him to drink?”

“Not a lot but it was tequila,” he says, hands shoved into his pockets, “I think he has a slight concussion.”

“Baby,” Benny grabs your attention back, “I’m gonna go with Santiago to Colombia for the weekend.”

You look back at the dark haired man, “is that so?”

“Yeah,” Benny continues, “getting seventeen grand to help with a recon and then I’ll be home.”

He crushes you against him, bending slightly to lift with his knees as he pulls you off the ground; stumbling as your added weight throws off his balance. Your eyes stay on Santiago the entire time, sheepish and looking anywhere but at you.

“You better start looking for houses, baby,” he says excitedly, “that’s our down payment right there.”

He explained his thinking in detail, the logic behind his decision to follow Santiago’s dumb ass into what you assured him would be another mess.

"But have I died yet?” He asked you back, “I'm doing this for us, for our future.”

“No you’re not.”

Another conversation had in the dark of the bathroom as Santiago slept off the spins on the couch in just one room over, no way to really see him.

“I am,” he said, “I am and then I’m done, it’s just three days and then I’m home and we’ll buy a house, baby. We’ll start an actual life.”

“We have an actual life, Benjamin.”

Voicemail inboxes ran full on the third day after the third day.

You’d called them all when he hadn’t come back on the plane he promised he’d be on. When he didn’t show up at the airport, that’s when you’d called every goddamn burner phone number they’d given you.

You told him it wasn’t just recon and information gathering. You told him burner phones were fucking out of the ordinary. You told him he was making a mistake.

“You're not going for us, Ben,” you’d told him, “don’t sit here and say that to me, be honest. You’re going because Fish and Will are going and you feel some sort of need to keep up. Haven’t you ever thought about why they’re so protective over you?”

“Fuck off, they treat me like a kid.”

“They don’t want you to get hurt, Ben,” you said, “you’re trying so hard to keep up with them and get on their level and they are trying so hard to keep you from getting as fucked up as they are. Especially with your inability to compartmentalize.”

“You're saying a lot of really hurtful shit,” he pushed past you and back into the bedroom, “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight, take the couch when Santiago’s not here tomorrow night.”

You followed him, pulling his arm back when he reached for his pillow and turning him towards you.

“No, you will not sleep on the floor or the couch, Ben,” you tell him, “I just want you to be honest with yourself if you won’t at least be honest with me.”

He kept up with the story that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. Pleaded with you to understand his thought process.

“It's just a couple of days,” he promised as you kissed him goodbye, “I'll be back before you know it.”

Three weeks passed as you called every number every day. Benny. Then Will. Then Frankie. Even Tom too. A steady rotation as you prayed that one of them would pick up and you would hear his voice on the other end or in the background.

Three weeks of watching videos just to hear his voice and lying to his mom about where he really was. Telling her you weren’t worried, that sometimes these little boy’s trips just last longer than they say they will.

Three weeks of hoping you weren’t rifling through the closet of a dead man; of hoping you weren’t sleeping in a corpse’s bed.

The very idea of Benny being nothing but a body broke you, bringing nothing but silent tears to the surface as you willed yourself to keep believing in the best. You hadn’t cried this whole time, you certainly weren’t going to mourn before a reason was given.

When he was in the service, he told you not to worry about him. He told you that not hearing from him for a while was normal and as long as you heard nothing from anybody else then that meant he was safe. But there wasn’t protocol for this sort of thing. No higher ups, no dog tags shoved in boots to be given back to you upon receipt of a coffin and a folded up flag.

Not hearing when he said you’d hear from him again was as good as a notice of death.

And not just him but Will and Frankie too.

You laid there then, listening to the automated voice tell you the mailbox was full yet again, and closed your eyes hoping sleep or your own death might find you to still the way you felt your entire life caving in.

Gentle lips find you in your dreams, the rough texture of facial hair tickling the sensitive skin of your cheek as he presses against your eyelid and down your face.

“Hey, baby,” gun calloused fingertips run down the length of your nose, “god, you’re pretty when you sleep.”

Every time you think of him, every imagination of his voice, it’s with that twang nestled comfortably in his mouth. It’s not sadness that brings it out of him, you learned a long time ago that it’s vulnerability. That’s why it’s almost exclusively reserved for you and this room.

“I know you can hear me,” he says, his timbre dropping low as he whispers into your ear, “trying really hard not to scare you here but,” he sucks in a breath, “judging by the way my shit’s all over the floor, I think I already have.”

He tickles that sensitive spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, fingers sliding back until his hand cradles the base of your skull and he presses his mouth to yours.

Your eyes shoot open as your breathing stops, caught wholly off guard by both the dream Benny and the very real one that kneels beside your bed.

“Did I scare you?”

Your heartbeat rushes through your ears as you fight to push yourself up, his hands helping you along the way.

“I fucking scared you,” he stands before sitting beside you on the bed, “I’m sorry.”

His clothes are new; crisp jeans and an olive green jacket. His eyelashes are darker than you’ve ever seen, like tears have been on the little blond strands so long they’re now forever dark.

“You look like shit,” you say, “where the fuck have you been?”

He laughs, “there's my girl, I missed that smart ass mouth. You find us any houses?”

“I stopped looking two weeks ago, too afraid there wasn’t gonna be anybody to put in that house.”

“And here I was,” he shakes his head, “trying so hard to baby trap you, if I had my way we’d have eight to fill a house with by now.”

He leans back into you, propping himself on his elbow, “but I can’t even manage to pick up the phone and tell my girl where I am so it’s probably for the best I haven't even given you one,” his eyebrows raise, “not for lack of trying, mind you, I did say I’ve been trying to baby trap you.”

He smiles when you do, melting into you as you push him back into the mattress. His hands lay heavy on your hips, guiding your body onto his as you talk and breathe between frenzied kisses and feral touches.

“I was so worried about you—“

The sound of his jacket zipper being pushed down permeates the space.

“—I know, I was worried about you too.”

His fingers meet yours as you fumble with the clasp of his pants.

“I thought the worst, Benny.”

He lifts his hips and pushes the material down his legs, his half hard cock springing free.

“I know.”

He pushes your panties to the side, fingers pushing in slightly as a less than half assed attempt to get you ready.

“I tried not to for so long, but then you didn’—“

He cuts you off as he guides you down on top of him, mouth opening up against yours to swallow the half-pained moan you give him.

Seating you onto him fully, he pulls away to lay flat on his back, arms above his head as you both breathe through the sensitivity.

“You weren’t at the airport,” you tell him on the wave of a sob, “you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

You catch his tears as you lean forward to kiss him again, thumb rubbing across the swell of his rough and sunburnt cheek.

His chest heaves gently as he repeats himself again.

“I know,” he cries softly into your open mouth, “I’m sorry.”

#ben miller #benny miller #ben miller fanfiction #benny miller fanfiction #ben miller x you #ben miller x reader #benny miller x you #benny miller x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #do not perceive me

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poorlittleyaoyao · 3 years

Note

and so the reccee has become the reccer.... fic anon here! ive read quite a lot of fics (-trips and a thousand yunmeng brothers reconciliation fics fall out of my pockets-) which is why i was hoping for Undiscovered Gems thru you, but this does mean that i do have things to rec you myself, yay!

in no particular order and with prayers that the links will work:

Rotten Work by ShanaStoryteller

post-canon jin ling-centric fic with stellar uncle-nephew interactions, a mianmian to die for, and lotsa sect politics

What I failed I will not unknow by theleakypen

post-canon one-shot in which jiang cheng, who raised a child with him, and lan xichen, who was sworn brothers with him, talk about the loss of jin guangyao

waiting for the remedy by Lise

night hunts in fics be like -throws you in a situation that is SO specific to your unprocessed trauma- aka jin ling manages to drag both his uncles on a night hunt with him. there's falling and a cliff involved

history by tongzhi

sizhui gets to grieve and sizhui gets to be angry: the fic, aka what do you do when you learn that the clan who raised and loved you let your original family be massacred

whipstitch by curiositykilled

au in which wei wuxian didn't die – he was locked away in a little house outside yunmeng, mouth sewn shut and never spoken about again. years later a young jin ling gets lost in just the right forest

Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It by Silvestris

against all odds, wei wuxian manages to grant xue yang's request, and xiao xingchen comes back to life. this is only the start of his problems. (the songxuexiao roadtrip story to painstaking recovery you didn't know you needed - with beautiful illustrations! (even if you're reluctant about this ship, i wholeheartedly recommend))

a symbol to remind you that there's more to see by paperminds

one-shot. what if everything happened the same, except jin ling did receive wei wuxian's gift for his 100th day celebration

宗彝 (Two Vessels) by Clarice Chiara Sorcha

a so far four-part one-shot series set during the years of wei wuxian's death, in which jiang cheng and jin guangyao raise their nephew together. platonic, canon-compliant-ish (so warning for jin rusong's death in the 2nd one-shot)

okay i'll Have to stop here bc otherwise you'll reach the same conundrum in my list as on ao3. (i am crying tho. so many of my faves... no trace of them here.) hopefully you find something to your liking!!

from this list but in general too, I encourage you to check out the other works of the authors! if you're overwhelmed by ao3, it's always a good course of action to just find a fic you like and then check out both the author's other works and their bookmarks. pre-curated collection for your reading pleasure! it works like wikipedia rabbit hole-ing the moment you start to check out an author you got to through a bookmark lol

AHHHHH ANON YOU HAVE DONE A GREAT SERVICE HERE TODAY

These all sound EXCELLENT, and precisely the sort of stories I love reading! Thank you so much, both for the recs and the advice on how to navigate!

#fic recs #!!!

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maldito-arbol · 2 years

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CMTO Ch.2 Mar Mar

First of all fuck you for that title I hate u so much how could u fucking to this to me I am going to die

‘—Marcy was not entirely unconscious.’ (MARCY OH NO )

You kept me alive (*sobs*)

The sound of a spine being snapped under the weight of pink is an afterthought, (as it should be)

as is Andrias’s final call of, “Heart, Heart, why have you abandoned me? I promise I still love you.” (Screaming crying sobbing WHAT THE FUCK-)

“And don’t you dare trust Strength while I’m gone, you hear? Keep an eye on that little bastard. Don’t forget what it did to us.”

“I never did, Heart.” (HELLO???)

‘as though a piece of her brain’s been lobotomized,’ (omg yay more reasons to relate to Marcy <3)

Things like, “you’re safe now, little one, back in my arms, and I’ll never let you go again. I’ll watch over you this time.” (Hhhhhm I’m love,,,, they care about eachother so MUCH,,,,,,)

Oh I LOVE a good callback,,,,,,, hell yeah

“There are a couple things different that she takes note of—first of all, it’s humid here. Normally, the air would be dry and arid as can be, just the kind of atmosphere that would call for a glass of water. But right now, it feels as though there’s a blanket of water vapor over her.” (Oh it’s HUMID there’s WATER in the AIR! This is such a dumb detail for me to get this excited about but it’s so CLEVER)

(If Witney loves Heart as much as she claims to, why did she block them out?)

(WAIT “STOLEN” AS IN RIPPED OUT IF THEIR VESSELS??? IS THAT WHY HEART AND ANDRIAS WERE SEPERATED???? BECAUSE STRENGTH RIPPED THEM OUT AND STOLE THEM FROM ANDRIAS????)

“You should check Heart’s” “It’s green down there,” she reports. (Wow Marcy, incredible observational skills. Great job 10/10)

“Would that not make sense? An ache in your head for a loss of a piece of it.” (I mean sometimes I guess)

“Um, well, this is definitely more of a personal question,” Marcy prefaces. “I noticed that when you were talking about holding hands, you referred to yourselves as ‘the four of us’. And y’know, I figured,” she scratches the back of her head. “The first three would be you, Heart, and Strength. But…who’s number four?”

Witney spins madly. “Pass.”

Marcy winces. “Sorry. That have something to do with the past you don’t want to talk about?”

“Yes.” (Well fuck. I was so sure I was right with the four but if Witney doesn’t want to answer that question. Oh no, it could still be about the two and their old vessels. I’m def less sure now but I still think I’m right)

“You’re damaged,” she murmurs softly.

“A little,” Witney agrees. “It is nothing when compared to Heart, however.”

“Heart’s cracked too?”

“Very,” she affirms. “It is hard to see if you are not looking closely, but I am always looking closely.”

“What about Strength?” She somehow doubts her gem will be happy to answer.

“Unlikely,” she grumbles. “Unless your Sasha makes a habit of knocking it around.” (Oh I picked up on that implications STRAIGHT AWAY. Okay umz yeah okay fuck. Shit. So many thoughts yet so little coherency)(“but I am always looking closely” Witney wtf this dynamic between u and Heart is, interesting I guess. I don’t know what word I’m liking for but they dynamic certainly Is)

“Why are you crying?” (‘WHY ARE YOU CRYING?’ I fucking- I found the fucking line- “why are you crying” I DONT KNOW MAL WHY THE FUCK AM I CRYING TAKE A WILD FUCKING GUESS)

“You are…gentle,” Witney tells her, softer than a whisper. “I did not know anyone could touch so lightly in their dreams.” (‘I didn’t know you could be gentile in dreams’ Witney noooo,,,,, SHES SO SAD WITNEY I LOVE YOU YOU DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER- who did this to her I’m gonna kill them-)

“ Are we people?”

The question strikes her like a crack of lightning. A question Witney has to ask, one she doesn’t know the answer to, is this . (Screaming crying sobbing crying,,,,, Witney,,,,,, Marcy is so fucking right these casual lines from Witney are desvistating)

How the FUCK did I get half way thru the next paragraph before realising it said Keeper Of The Box- wait was WITNEY the old Keeper of the Box????? Also fun fact I literally threw my phone when it clicked multiple times at my bed as hard as I could, do with that reaction what you will

BARREL??? Oh of course Wit was the first to have a vessel, she has had the most out of the three, but Barrel still would have been at the same time as the other two would he not? Which doesn’t make it any better honestly. If Barrel is the bitch ass who hurt Witney I’m gonna fucking kill him

“You want one Mar Mar?” (Sash What The Fuck. What is wrong with you why do you keep saying these things)(I feel like I may have mis interpreted what was being said in hindsight but, still um Sash what the fuck)

she wouldn’t mind the idea. “Ooh. I’d get to wear a suit.” Actually, maybe she likes the idea. (Omg Gender?)

“You might need that monocle,” again, Sash what

“It says, ‘the answer to that will not benefit you, for she no longer exists’…whatever the hell that means.”(agshfjahag is this what u meant when u just avoided saying Froogs Name indefinitely. I know it makes sense character wise and shit but it just reads so funny)

OTHER HUMAN VESSELS????? What

“The death of the heart,”

A final home for a gem of blue…

(HELLO???? Brain stop getting hung up on the fact that Heart isn’t capitalised it doesn’t matter this is Big Shit What What What. WHAT THE FUCK DOES THE CORE HAVE TO DOWNITH HEART WHAT THE FUCK HUH)

(How many. If the box left Amphibia a thousand years ago. How many of Wits vessels did Andrias kill. How quickly did he do it. Bro…… and why did he keep the bodies like dude that’s a little creepy, at least they got coffins..?)

Yet another dead end for a gem of green… (…)(screaming crying sobbing fuck why do other people have to be home I just wanna Scream)

“Andrias woke up.” (WHAT HOW???)

What?!

“This early? He was down bad.”

Sasha shakes her head. “He’s a sturdy bastard.”(SASHA U SHATTERED HIS FUCKING SPINE HE SHOULD BE LUCKY TO BE ALIVE)

Sash is giving me *terrible* vibes. Since the start it this chapter really. This does Not seem to be going well. And wrecker the Fuck she’s doing with Andrias is just even worse. Bro what the fuck is this. Sasha what

“Just that my gem’s been screaming at me to kill you for the past few minutes, and it just now went quiet.”(….huh um. U know could just be me. But the implication that Sash yelling at Marcy and kicking her out placated Strengths lust for Andrias To Fucking Die Already, nooot painting a very good picture of I do say so myself. Not, not very good, terrible vibes rn.)

AWW THE LITTLE SMILE,,,,,

Plus bonus second read comment:

“Letting him touch her gently” FUCK OFF NO FUCK YOU FUCK OFF NO. No,,.,, no cuz Witney DIDNT get that, fuck, no,,,, please,,,,, hnnnnnnnn

SO GLAD I revealed the title theme so early on, now I can torment u guys within the first five seconds of opening the chapter <3

Rip Marcy hope she’s doing alright lmao

Remember how Marcy and Witney’s relationship went from “is my life all you care about??” to “you kept me alive <3” man good times

HAHAHAHA OH YEAH SEE I WASNT SURE IF I WANTED TO KEEP THAT LINE IN THE FIRST PLACE, but I was like “it couldn’t hurt to have more Pain <3” man can u imagine being Heart and hearing that while you’re desperately struggling to keep your current vessel alive? Hearing it from the one you spent a thousand years trying to return to, the one you loved, the one who now carelessly beat and stabbed the new vessel you’ve grown so attached to. It is such a HUGE betrayal Andrias doesn’t even know he’s committed, and it’s made worse by the fact that he seems to blame it on Heart even in his final moments. Absolutely devastating Godammit getting emotional about Heart now when will it stop

Don’t forget what Strength did to us so true <3 yeah I’d like to formally apologize for this Witney/Heart dynamic they’re so TOXIC and yet they also have a sense of solidarity with one another because they have SHARED TRAUMA :) absolutely terrible folks we hate to see it

ANOTHEF REASON TO RELATE TO MARCY SNANWWMWKQI DUCK

They care each other sm 🥺

Oh THAT ONE was fun. Tell her off Olivia <3

YEAH ITS HUMID ISNT THAT GREAT i absolutely hate humidity i Do Not envy Marcy for a second but yeah i just thought it’d be a cool detail to add :3 since they’re not being violently mashed together they simply have slightly invaded the elemental space within each other’s dreamscape.

I’m SO sorry to inform u of this but Witney’s also fucking terrified of Heart and there’s still that bitterness in her mixed with the love she has for them. The “i want us to be together but you also make me wanna crawl out of my skin!” Love is what Witney likes to present on the surface while the fear is something she tries desperately to bury inside of her to no avail. The duality of Witney….YEAH WE’RE GONNA DISCUSS THE ORIGIN OF THAT IN THE BACKSTORY HAHA!!

:) Strength….what did u do

Strength: OH GREAT NOW YOURE BLAMING ME TOO I DID NOTHING WRONG!! NOTHING!!!

Hm okay yeah sure

It’s gween down there gween is not a creative color

I meant to talk more about Marcy’s headaches but I suppose they’ll have to wait for chapter 4. Yeah uh hey remember how she only has one eye? And how her head was the prominent source of pain when she shared Witney with Heart? Marcy probably gets migraines like there’s no tomorrow now.

Hahahaha I knew u were gonna have a crisis about that line. Yeah I’m still not telling you <3

Their dynamic is FUN, because it’s not just the thing with Strength, there’s MORE to their trauma and the parallels between them (they understand each other so much better than Strength does oops). Actually I’m surprised nobody’s out here wondering when in the fuck Witney got the chance to even look at Heart in the first place if they can’t invade each other’s dreamscapes without their vessels. Nobody? Hah alright :)

Awwwwww are u crying <3 good. Watching ur reactions to all these Witney reveals brings me great joy.

I guess you could say…Witney was the First Keeper of the Box……DONT THROW UR PHONE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD—

Like I said iCANTWAITTOTALKABOUTBARREL OH MY GOD!!! But not now. In good time my friend….

“U want a Midwife Marcy?” No. No I agree it’s a HORRIBLE joke to make in the same vein as the “I’m guessing Andrias’s sleeping quarters are off the table” like sasharcy’s jokey light-hearted dynamic really coming to bite them in the ass no u CANT joke about Marcy’s trauma Sash, no you CANT make comments like that now that ur Queen Sasha stop— see it’s the little things that amp up the tension between them and oooh that’s gonna catch up with them real fucking fast.

GENDER!!!!

This one is Less Bad but it’s not helped by the fact that Sasha’s been cracking fucked up jokes already so it could easily be taken the wrong way.

I love how you find this funny it’s not funny in the slightest. *takes out an eraser that says ‘For really LITTLE mistakes’* wait Froog why are you running wait—

Other Human Vessels~~~~~~~~~ woooooooooooo I once again forgot you guys didn’t know this before YES where do you think Heart’s other vessels came from :^)

“For the record, I am sorry,” Wit tells her. “Over the years I’ve gotten wise. I’ve gotten wise enough to realize I can fight Strength all I want, but I will never be able to stand up to Heart. To think your Anne managed to do so is…incredible. After seeing so many of their vessels fail before, I was expecting the worst. It is so easy to be consumed by the darkness—and Heart has come to crave it. You’ll never see horrors as magnificent as theirs.”

I LOVE that you noticed ‘heart’ isn’t capitalized hehehehehehehehehehehe but what DOES Heart have to do with the core I wonderrrrr

This is one question I kind of know the answer to and yet kind of don’t. In canon the eyeball door has 8 heads in its circle, and the very First shot of the crypt shows 8 visible coffins, so the logical answer would be 8.

Whether or not I decide to go with that number is anyone’s guess, but it’s a good estimate! Considering the timeframe between when Andrias started collecting Wit vessels and when Heart was stolen (it’s. not as long as you think.). Why did he keep the bodies? I think he started off by keeping the first for personal reasons and then just….kept doing it. Disturbing I know right

I have been WAITING to go OFF about how much of a Dick Move those first lines of each gem riddle are, and you FINALLY have the context for Witney’s my god. It’s so horrible, yeah. Andrias you’re such a bitch leave her alone. Leave ALL of them alone actually—

Yeah fuck Andrias for Waking Up to begin with, but I needed him to torment sasharcy some more <3

Sasha’s vibes ARE Off and it’s so unbelievably exciting for me that she’s getting progressively worse with every chapter because I get to write in her POV in chapter 4 and who knows how unhinged that entire chapter is gonna be. Insane. Beware the Queen! Something is wrong…

Oh THAT line hahah…yeah unfortunately that Is Not the reason Strength went quiet but I can’t get into it rn lmao the important thing is Strength is fucking PISSED Andrias survived that attack and moreso that Sasha purposely left him alive. They were supposed to kill him. Supposed to.

Anne smiling at Marcy in her sleep watered my crops I had to do it. Makes the “But how is she supposed to smile in these conditions?” line hurt more.

Absolutely disturbing to me that Andrias knows how to touch gently because of course he does. It’s great for emotional manipulation!

Hehehe can’t wait to go thru the rest of this stuff, my lovely followers be prepared for a spam <3

#ask mal #CMTO #there are SO MANY little things to analyze about this chapter that’s why I’m so proud of it #like I was paying attention to every fucking detail bc getting another perspective on Sasha’s behavior is VITAL in these last moments #if my outline estimates are correct we will only get One more of those before the big breakdown hits. IF that #chapters 4 7 and 9 are very much Sasha oriented and chapters 3 and 6 don’t even feature her (hahaha)#we Don’t Talk About Chapter 5

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ragnarokkvaa · 3 years

Text

Chaos Rising - A Loki x Wanda fanfic

The young Midgardian witchling upon his door brings with unbridled surprise within Loki; tempered quickly. It is but a brief play across his visage. How she found him when he’d thought he’d covered his tracks well was …beyond him. She stands before him, sleeves of her black sweatshirt balled into her fists; backpack hanging from her left shoulder frayed.

Loki watches wordlessly as she shifts her weight; the weathered wood underfoot creaking slightly with the shift of weight; her auburn hair hanging free down her back and over her shoulders, drifting across her face with the soft whispering of the chilling Norwegian wind.

It carries with the slightly salty tang of the sea, the sharp scent of evergreens and the soft floral scent of her perfume.

“Loki.” She says his name again and it breaks him from the spell of revere he’d been under.

“How did you find me?” Though there’d been some suspicion that the people of the small fishing village a few miles of the wilderness he claimed as home might be aware of who he was, if there was truth they did not dare speak it.

He’d done a fairly good job of hiding post-blip when he escaped Thanos’ destruction of their vessel …and during the blip and post-everyone’s return. Though the magic that hung in the air even now was sharp and metallic and somehow sweet like burnt sugar leaves a bad aftertaste in his mouth, Loki had deigned not to come out of hiding.

There was a peacefulness to Norway — he can see it now — why this was the place Odin came to die once free of his spell. There was old magic saturating the earth here that called to him, the lingering of devotion that he’d once sought so desperately and greedily; that soothed his wildest impulses like the lullabies Frigga had lulled him to sleep with as a small, fussy infant.

He watches as the Sorceress — for he can sense that she has come into her own — bites her bottom lip; marred by worrying it as she does now. “Your magic.” She admits, blinking her wide eyes at him; doe-like. Soft. As beautiful and wild as the seas of Norway.

That Loki notices this is slightly jarring; but what is even more jarring to him is that her explanation makes perfect sense to him. She is the master of chaotic magic — he can almost taste it; as sweet and tempting to him as spun candy floss. Her magic speaks to his own; a soulsong that he cannot begin to understand.

She is quiet for a few moments more, seeming desperate to look at anything but him. “Can I come in?” She asks then, when it is apparent that he cannot fathom the why.

“Of course.” Loki replies softly, stepping aside so his lean, tall frame was no longer blocking the rune carved doorway to his home.

That is how Wanda Maximoff came to stay with him; denying his offer to take her to New Asgard with the firmly rooted belief that Thor and Brunnhilde would take her in. Whether it was a lack of trust in herself or not Loki cannot be sure but finds himself caring less and less as Wanda’s presence begins to, as the weeks swell into months, bring comfort.

They take it slow: she does not ask how he is still alive and he does not ask what has caused the grief that haunts her gaze, that causes her mind to wander in what he believes mortals call ‘thousand yard stare’ when they sit before the fire. This unspoken agreement is comfortable despite that it leaves Loki maddeningly curious.

Imagine, he thinks one day as he neatly skins a large fish one of the villager’s sons had brought in exchange for a small talisman carved from the branch of an ash tree — a pale imitation of Sleipnir whom has been glamoured so that his extra four legs are unseen; him being curious about a Midgardian.

As unlikely as he’d always thought he would find it: it was nevertheless true. Especially when he caught her humming soft and foreign lullabies to herself; that he assumes as her comfort ‘round him grew became full-fledged lullabies sung in Sokovian as she cooked paprikash from ingredients they bought at the village market.

“That’s a lovely song.” Loki remarks as they stand side-by-side at the cabin’s kitchen counter: him slicing up chicken as she tends to the egg noodles boiling in a pot on the gas stove.

Wanda is so quiet for a moment that Loki cannot help but think he’s overstepped. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child.” She tells him after a long moment of silence filled with the splice of knife thru meat and the soft sound of bubbling water. “And I sang it for my boys.”

Surprise draws Loki’s eyebrows up — he had not known she had children. He suspects, quick as he is, that something happened to them as they had not been with her when she’d first appeared on his doorstep …nor had they appeared at all; and she speaks with grief, the lulling lilt of her voice carrying her Sokovian accent — which he’s learned came out when she spoke of her family, of her home. Which, was rare. Or when she was angry with him; which was not all that rare at all.

It happened on occasion. Typically, when they were training and Loki pushed her too far, or when she’d get riled about the fact that he had yet to tell Thor he was still alive — and had been the whole time.

“Where are they? Your sons?” Loki asks hesitantly, watching her hands carefully as she pauses stirring the noodles. A muscle in her jaw jumps and she gives a sharp tilt of her head; which is usually a good indication that Loki’d crossed that invisible boundary line.

“They’re gone. They were …” Wanda struggles, her voice thick with emotion and her accent brought to the surface with her grief. “…never real.” Loki looks away the second he sees a tear slide down her cheek; leaving a glistening trail of her sorrow. It feels private; that moment. Like he was glimpsing at something he had no business seeing.

“I’m …sorry.” He offers, unsure what else to say and hating that it seems so feeble. He quietly scoops the sliced chicken between his hand and the flat edge of the knife and drops it in a frying pan, focusing on the sizzle as he turns and washes his hands.

He dries them hastily off on the kitchen towel and feels his breath leave his lips in a soft rush as he turns to see her standing, wooden spoon immobile in her left hand; her right hand balled up in the sleeve of her shirt, pressed against her mouth as pained sobs wracked her body.

“Wanda?” Loki was no stranger to grief — far from it; and he liked to credit himself as being better with emotions than Thor but finds himself reaching out to her; placing his hand on her upper arm. He doesn’t try to tell her that it would be alright …because would it? He couldn’t say; and Loki was never a fan of false platitudes.

He could feel her magic; seething within her. Connected to her emotions as it was and with her little bit of training its still reactive. Working to protect her as if it were her armor — as Frigga had once described magic to Loki as a small child.

His own magic works to subdue her’s, keeping it from lashing out in her grief.

Wanda was getting better — stronger — but she still had a ways to go before she mastered it. She was a fast learner, which Loki was grateful for, but he lacked his mother’s finesse with lessons, and if he was being honest her saintly patience.

Even so, he was grateful that they discovered their magic did not reject each other like opposing magnets …which Loki suspected was because their magic was both borne of chaos. That strange soulsong that only their magic could recognize; complimentary …and if combined? Loki shuddered to think of it.

The God of mischief feels his muscles pull taunt as he tenses the second Wanda steps closer to him and presses her face against his chest, the spoon clattering to the floor as she clings to him. Loki isn’t sure what makes him draw in a deep breath and press a kiss to the top of her head as he held her. Soft.

The instinctual urge to push her away was strong; Loki’s natural defense to any time he started to let himself be emotionally vulnerable in any degree with anyone …but —

this time, with her: he resists.

#chaos rising #loki #wanda maximoff #wanda x loki #wandavision spoilers #kinda?#loki fanfic #wanda maximoff fanfic #my writing #might write more of this as muse strikes me and/or if there's any interest in it #i'll probably post this to AO3 at some point #loki in this is a cross between mcu & mythology #q are my sunshine

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horselessjockey · 3 years

Text

Oscillations of Consciousness

One hundred million cups of water floating in an endless ocean  One hundred billion drops of rain which linger in the air

 One hundred clouds now filled to swollen; oceans all the same  One hundred years of transience, four hundred cycled seasons, changed

Liquid sunlight drips into  a sea of blue from parts  which hover out of view

Condensed is sodden air containing memories within its bounty

Cyclical are storms of sadness  Starsheen parts the clouded skies  Eternal is the endless ocean  Fading are the tides

A drop of light in aether  unto thee, collective breadth,  sends ripples to the edges  of the vessel

From what source is metaphysical water; and how steamy spirits linger in the aer;  what is One - the godhead all-becoming; whence does dense disparity compare?   Who am I who melts to never being?  What exists in transience, renamed?  Ever is the Ohm in om’nous humming thru transpiring ripples in the waves.

#poetry on tumblr #my writing #writers on tumblr #spilled ink poetry #spilled poetry #spilled words #writerscreed #spilled thoughts #spilled ink

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mrfutureboy · 3 years

Note

I would like to know when you started drawing and where your passion for fanart started 😊

Oh FUCK dude i did not see this i’m so fucking sorry this is so late 😭 damn you, tumblr, for not fucking notifying me!! Anyway buckle up this is gonna be much longer than you asked for <3

Honestly ive kinda been drawing all my life! I hope that doesnt sound dumb cuz obviously almost everyone drew pictures when they were kids, but i know that it’s been a consistent hobby for me since i was little. By the time i was in 3rd grade I was hoarding notebooks to draw in. Cuz that’s something fun about me: i had a real huge habit of drawing in things that werent sketchbooks. Through middle school and beyond I did buy/receive sketchbooks, but I started out with various kinds of notebooks. One I had from like 2nd grade was like a hardcover, stationary-type notebook that I drew cats in lol, and I have 2 velvet lisa frank notebooks from 3rd grade. In high school and college I had a really bad habit of drawing in the margins on my notes and on handouts the teacher/professor would give. Those classes where the prof just prints out all the notes beforehand and gives them to you to follow along? Oh man, I spent so many classes barely listening while I drew on them! I also used to draw on my physics homework and tests and sometimes I even got extra credit for them (thank you jeff :D). I actually have a folder of various drawings I’ve kept from that 8yr time period and a lot of them are on classwork 😂

Obviously, I’ve been doing a lot of digital art lately, which I’m sure is what u were more curious about rather than the shit about drawing on my homework. I got a surface pro as a graduation gift in 2016 bc prior to that i had a wacom tablet and a janky ass laptop, so the gift was kinda a 2-in-1: i can do schoolwork AND art easily! i like digital art a lot and honestly im still learning new things abt it every time i draw. I use Leonardo currently (i’ll skip that story) but I started out doing digital art on sketchfu WITHOUT the wacom tablet in maaaaybe 2012??? 2011??? does anyone on this site remember sketchfu? Honestly couldnt even tell u how i found that site hahah the internet was just full of wonders back in the day. RIP sketchfu. Once i got the tablet tho some time later i used sketchfu still (i think) but also gimp and krita i believe.

Oh i suppose I should mention that i took art all four years of highschool and also minored in it in college! So it’s something i did academically as well as for fun. I keep thinking about going to art school for realsies but idk. I’m already $$$ in debt from my first degree i dont feel like adding to that 😅😓

Ok now for the second part of your question: I’ve also pretty much always done fan art! Ive never really been one for OC’s, EXCEPT for the self-insert superhero double life “comics” i wrote about a poodle named Sassy when i was in third grade. And then the knock off “comics” i wrote at a later time which honestly it was weird that i did a knock off of my own thing rather than just adding them to the original or making it a spin off with at least one of the og characters. Cuz it wasnt a spin off!! But anyway there wasnt really much to any of these characters; i just needed vessels to get my weird ideas out.

So anyway yeah most of what ive ever drawn has been fan art or self portraits, because its just easier for me to take characters that already exist and bend them to my will (artistically). Well excluding art assignments in school i guess because i would usually have to draw something specific and therefore not something self indulgent. But yeah ive drawn for lots of fandoms like the earliest i remember is warrior cats. Then theres things like pokemon and warriors and random other books i read thru middle school (i used to read a LOT but now im practically illiterate); spn, sherlock, and marvel through high school; and then marvel and bttf thru the end of hs and beyond. Idk i also have always loved looking at other peoples fan art and so im like “shit i wanna do that too!”. Tho i will say marvel was my biggest fandom and the one i had the longest interest in, so that was probably where the passion REALLY came from cuz I was drawing marvel stuff for such a long time (tho not posting shdjsk u have to trust me), but ive been doing fan art forever :)

(Of course, a lot of the fan art i was making prior to recently was drawn in lined notebooks or on homework sheets or what have you, and I wasn’t posting really any of it, but i was still making it and a good chunk of it still exists. Oh i should also mention most of it was with pencils or ballpoint pens like i wasnt doing anything too fancy. There was some digital art in the highschool-college time frame but it also really wasnt…much. Honestly i barely posted any of it here but I know some of it’s on deviantart)

I cant pinpoint the exact time I started getting more “serious” about my art in general, but i know the first pandemic lockdown gave me more free time and i was less stressed about schoolwork so i just kinda had a good outlet. (Tho i will say that prior, I had been in a life drawing club for a short while, and i had also been working on a personal sketchbook project that had me pretty ~inspired~ to do art. Also i watched twin peaks around this time and it inspired a lot of Feelings and i was making funky collages and other art pieced that were sometimes related to that. Some of those are on deviantart)

Honestly I think the Big thing with my digital art was coincidentally getting back into BTTF the summer of the 35th anniversary bc the fandom here was THRIVING and i was like “oh shit wait i want to contribute!” But as i kept drawing i kept wanting to improve and that leads us to right now where im constantly trying new things (whether subtle or obvious) and challenging myself to do full body drawings with different poses, and doing screencap redraws and what have you for various reasons (backgrounds, proportions, pose, etc)

So yeah :) Basically I’ve been doing fan art forever (I didnt even get into all the mediums ive tried but that’s another conversation bc this is already so long and convoluted) and it’s kinda coincidental that ive suddenly really gotten back into it and have improved dramatically in such a short time. Thank you so much @rovermcfly for the ask and again im really sorry you had to wait so long for a response! Stupid tumblr

#rovermcfly #signed sealed delivered #THANK U SM I HOPE U ENJOY KY RAMBLING :)#id love to ramble more if theres anything else u’d like to hear about my art journey :) bc i know this is all over the place lmfao #i will say some periods of life were a bit more inspired than others and thats bc i like will not draw if im too stressed #bc likely if im too stressed im too tired. see: a few weeks ago when that job was draining my life force

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gooferdusted · 4 years

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hypothetically, if I were to write a fix-it/rewrite au fic, (thinking of starting at s5 but debating starting earlier) what are some storylines you’d take out/change, characters you’d save/kill, and specifically changes to sam’s character/arcs you’d like bc i need ideas

ok. ok. I'm gonna try to not go completely off the fucking rails while I write this up but I gotchu (also these r all just my own hot n spicy takes so like. pick what u like, it's all goodie goodie)

• no time passing differently in hell. literally four months is ~Enough!~ a year is enougghh!!!!!! like I get that they wanted to make hell this horrible unreachable thing but u can still like... get that across without having it be this unfathomable chunk of time out of a persons life. like sam was down there with TWO very pissed off angel's for 180 years??? how can he still speak english??? how does dean remember ANYTHING about his old life when mentally more than half of it was spent being endlessly tortured until he finally cracked??? its just.... Too Much...

• ON that note, I feel like later on they never rlly had sam and dean bond over the fact that like... they are genuinely the ONLY two people on earth who have survived actual hell. I mean we got that one off line from dean at some point but??

• no chuck as god. just a greasy greasy rat man getting insane stories projected into his brain. and on the topic of that.... I dont like the reflection of the real life fanbase in the spn universe??? they're pulp fiction novels, it should be all like 50 year old + ladies who picked them up at the local bargain bin, not b*cky r*sen

• I like... WANNA say smth abt s4..... bc I think the way that they handled things were a little out of character BUT I also think that was lind of the point??? like the angels and demons were manipulating them to say/do things they would normally never say/do to eachother to drive a big enough wedge between then that they would eventually say yes to being the vessels. like it hurts to watch sooo much but it did drive the plot forward in a very particular way that probably couldnt have happened otherwise. that being said, when the levee breaks makes me sad, and I dont want to see sam crying for his dead mother alone in a basement! cest la vie.

• sam and dean.... are Friends...,, why did we all forget that..... watch hell house and maybe I'll calm down.....

• PSYCHIC SAM!!!!!! you all know me. you know how I feel about psychic sam... robbed. s4 finale rlly had sam like "drinking that much demon blood has truly changed me forever..... theres no going back now...... 😔😔" like ok. ok. where are your superpowers. where are they.

• I wish some of the other special children had made it out :(( I really liked andy and ava (also sam finding other friend who are like him??? queer allegory??? spare queer allegory?????)

• I also dont think the roadhouse shouldve burned down!!! that shouldve been a Staple Location like Bobby's house. same w Missouri's, literally why did we only visit her once.

• ur sending an ask to my blog so I assume this is just a given for u but!!! we're takin away the misogyny. we're takin away the fetishization! anything that would be given the greenlight by joss whedon we are putting straight in the trash. <3

• this is mostly a thing in later seasons like. idk 9-15, but no ppl knowing who the winchesters are. they are NOBODIES. they pop up like little meerkats and fuck everything up beyond repair.

• also no fancy tech. no iphone 76z or whatever the fuck. sam has an ipod 1. the wheel is so stuck he can barely press play anymore. remember when he literally just tore off the top casing off his laptop and threw it away? more of that.

• no nice clothes. NO nice clothes we fuckin hate that. everything sam and dean own was purchased pre 1995 and dean is an expert at removing blood stains and sewing up jackets. dean will walk into a laundromat with a tide pen and just start goin for it like that scene in deadpool.

• tbh.... I feel like the issues in later seasons are really this massive horrible domino effect. like I could say heres how to fix s7-10 but the fact is if shit hadnt gone down lile it had in s7 s10 would be a different story entirely.

• I am gonna do it tho bc I suck <3

• s6: soulless sam was funney but did that really go anywhere? no. tbh I dont remember what happened w cas and I'm just not going to look it up. it's just not in the cards for tonight. dean w lisa.... ehh.... I've discussed this at wayy too much length w mushroom and we both agreed that dean would probably keep hunting to keep his mind off things and to try and honor sams sacrifice. I guess theres an argument to be made for the fact that it kind of was Sam's dying wish that dean just go fin her and live a normal life but... idk. purgatory was. . indeed a Concept..... that could have maybe gone somewhere if it didnt rapidly spiral into....

• s7!!! I mean. jesus christ. I know some people like this one but jesus christ. the way they literally couldnt commit to having sam have genuine mental health problems after centuries in hell or to just magically wipe them away..... bobby dying halfway thru.... charlie was a bright spot I suppose, but her intro is not my fave episode w her.... idk what the fuck happened w cas, I guess he was god. the leviathan designs were kinda neat but like oh my fucking god it wasnt worth it.

• s8: uh. rough start. idk why the turn tables so suddenly and dean's like "why didnt u look for me >:((" bc??? yall agreed not to???? at the VERY least they couldve had sam been like "I legitimately had no reason to think u werent dead and in heaven and tha wouldve been a little rude of me to pull u out of that." but we went for ~drama~ to make it spicy I guess. ouygh. bunkers there!!! that was cool!!! MoL is a cool concept!!! altho... it doesn kinda contradict the whole sam and dean are nobodies thing... idk. trials of hell was like... cool in theory but bad in practice unless they were planning on ending the show for realskies. and they did not.

• s9: uhh... hated gadreel! hated that shit! wish they had spun that whole storyline to be more "hey sam I noticed u were s*icidal should we maybe address that??" or even like.... I mean dean probably couldve just TOLD sam abt his plan, he had already convinced him to stay alive by that point??? there was no reason to lie!!! plus the betrayal of gadreel not being who he said he was wouldve been like. literally enough drama, we didnt need to fracture the team again. and cas was??? where exactly??? be was human for at least half of that season but hey didnt know what to do w him so they chucked him in a convenience store??? good lord.

• s10: got no suggestions for that one, just toss it

• s11: ok... shes cute.... we can forgive her.... the lore is shaky at best but the episodes SLAP and the characterization is *chefs kiss*. it's been a hot minute since I've seen it so if smth sucked I dont remember and I plan to keep it that way!!!!

• s12: n.. no. no mary. no mary unless we're doing it right. and I promise u doing it right was not poorly ripping off kingsman. couldve brought back bobby!!! if they desperately wanted some drama couldve brought back john!!! actually fuck that, no way

• s13-15: no thoughts, only jack kline <3

#holy fuck im so sorry <3 #shut up cereal #asks #long post #spn critical #hate tagging my posts as that bc i dont wanna b one of ~Those~ but i dont want ppl coming after me 4 this #theres probably like 100000 things i forgot!!! feel free to add ur own!!!!#there are some seasons i only ever watched once very very long ago....#and tbh classic spn is the freshest in my mind so im focusing on her #spn #supernatural

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fartonexit · 3 years

Text

Well I'm back. Not reaving or anything, but been dealitg with shit.

Got hazed at the drag bar. Probably not meaning to ha e, but thats what it was. So I blew up at them on their fb page the next day and quit, basically. And I know one of them has access to my tumblr. I'm going to address them here just in case.

Kris, no one cares.

Anyways, I'd go in a lotg rant of all the wous and hardships of my daily life that hurt my job and wah wah but at the end of the day the only person that NEEDs to care about me is me.

My problem ot the bar was that I was still coming out and still dealing with really raw emotions based off of abuse I'm still experiencing. And actually now I've gotten an apology for stuff I didn't even know about, but has helped my life for the better.

And yeah I didn't say anything but motherfucker I owe you nothing stop making me feel like I have to tell you my life you fuckin bitch I don't want to get over it.

That was for kris at the end.

Been missing therapy appts, not on purpose. Bc of family or my partner, though now I think I've torn into everyone about how god damn important my appts are that if they intersect and for some reason my appt is their responsibility, tough shit.

The house is slowly becoming less of a hoarder hole. Slowly my mother is starting to accept me and kind of understand that transitioning isn't a little social patty cake game. Its me growing up because I got stunted emotionally, and it just so happens I already hated the vessel I'm in, it was just accentuated more and more for so long I probably am a bit fucked in the head now, but then really who isn't at that point.

But we're actually going to try to communicate. She walked up to me last night, honestly started to make me flip out because I'm expecting a certain subset of info, which also kinda showed her, hey, I'm defensive rn because I don't expect anythitg good fr stuff, and she's questioning that and I'm fucking glad.

I'm at a point transition wise where I've boiled more genders off too, now I'm just at 2. When I was a kid I experienced more like 10 or so, sometimes it feels like 40 or 50 though, but I think thats the DiD function of your brain at the time.

Side note child psychology and developmental psychology are mother fucking fascinating.

Then it boiled down to seven, then five, then last year it went from five to four, and as I've been able to socialize more, 2. Beth are nonbinary subsets that probably genderwise in a traditional sense ares't very describable, but I experience part of my life thru touch, so while it may not make sense to someone else, its literally just because describing things is dard for me.

In any case, at this point I'm putting money together to get my HRT. The meds are like 99% paid for, I just gotta get the copay. Better than paying 3k a few months a year! I'm gunna legally change my name, and depending on how burned I feel at the time, I kinda sorta decided I'd usurp my full name. But I won't explain why though, I don't owe that to anyone but me.

Only doing pesticide job rn, but honestly other than my income slowing down, things have gotten easier. I actually have time for my hobbies now. I can catually PLAY A ROUND OF TARKOV AND NOT GET IN TROUBLE FOR BEING LATE TO SOMETHING i DON'T WANNA DO. Its literally night and day that job.

Really I think the lesson is work at your own pace and fuck america. And I say that patriotically.

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

Possession Is Nine-Tenths (Rated M)

Summary: Aziraphale tries his best to dodge intimate questions from Tracy when she visits him in the South Downs on his honeymoon.

Crowley, however, doesn't help matters when he finally wakes up and she sees what he's wearing. (1192 words)

Notes: Based on the idea that now that Aziraphale and Crowley are married, Crowley wears Aziraphale's sweaters and whatnot to bed. But maybe sweaters are not all Aziraphale owns XD Inspired by this post.

Read on AO3.

“The South Downs, huh?” Tracy asks, those four words posing all the question she needs. As city dwellers the both of them, it does make sense. Translation: “I never thought you’d leave the hustle and bustle behind for green grass and horse shite.”

Tracy and Aziraphale may have only known one another a short time, but they shared a body. That includes sharing a mind. The cohabitation of another being’s vessel is not a clean business. Traces get left behind when one entity leaves, like muddy footprints on the linoleum floor of the hippocampus. Tracy knows how Aziraphale feels about his bookshop and Soho.

She knows why he moved there in the first place.

“Yes, well, it’s the farthest Crowley and I would consider traveling from our old lives. And for a while, that’s something we need.”

“Makes sense. Must be working. Married life looks good on you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, pouring her tea. “I have to admit, I am quite enjoying myself.”

“I’ll bet,” she mutters as the word enjoying brings a rosy glow to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Speaking of ... where’s Senor Sexy?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He adds milk and sugar without having to be asked, then slides the finished product across the table. “To whom are you referring? The milk man? The post man? Your Uber driver?”

“You know who.” She lifts the tea to her lips, eyes twinkling through the steam rising from the surface. “Your man.”

“He’s not a man, you know. He’s a demon.”

“If you’re trying to make him sound any less sexy, you’re failing miserably, my dear.”

“Since you must know, he’s still asleep.”

“Mmm …” Tracy blows on her beverage, grinning into her cup “… that kind of evening? Or was it morning?”

“You’re incorrigible, do you know that?”

“And proud of it.”

“Good for you.”

“Tell me something.”

“That depends.” Aziraphale avoids Tracy’s eyes in favor of dressing his own cup.

“Your demon …” She leans in, lowering her voice in case Crowley isn’t a deep sleeper “… he sleeps in the nude, doesn’t he?”

Aziraphale fumbles his spoon. It falls on the saucer with a clink, flinging droplets of milk across the tablecloth. “Why in the world do you want to know!?”

“Because you’re not making with any of the juicier details, so I’m filling in the blanks with PG-13 stuff.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at his nosy guest. “And how is your husband, by the way?”

“Not here. That’s why we’re talking about yours.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Crowley does not sleep in the nude.”

Tracy frowns at Aziraphale’s answer. “Of course he does,” she decides, followed by several loud sips. “I’ve been around the block a time or two, and a man like that definitely sleeps in the nude. You lucky dog.”

“If you think you know so much, why did you even ask!?”

“I wanted to see what you’d say. You seem to have a penchant for, shall we say, tiny untruths. As a sinner myself, I’m curious how often an angel can lie before they get struck by lightning as opposed to us mere mortals.”

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “Have you ever been struck by lightning?”

“Once,” Tracy says, going in for another sip, “but I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley mumbles, shuffling into the room. “Lady Shadwell. How nice of you to stop by this morning.”

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale corrects.

“Hmph. Gotta be mornin’ somewhere,” Crowley says around a yawn.

“Well, well, speak of the Devil,” Tracy teases.

“Devil’s on holiday. The states, I think. Just me, I’m afraid. Got anything stronger than tea?” Crowley heads for the stove and its various saucepans, lifting the lids off the promising looking ones.

Aziraphale raises a white ceramic carafe sitting dead center of the table. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

Crowley peeks over. He raises his eyebrows, trying to better open his lids. When he catches sight of the carafe held aloft, he sighs. “Fan-bloody-tastic.” He putters over, grabbing the largest mug they own along the way.

“Rough night?” Tracy asks, playing her favorite game where Aziraphale and Crowley are concerned - Catching Aziraphale in a Lie Involving Sin.

“Not so much. Aziraphale is soft …” Crowley giggles “… squishy … and more flexible than he looks. First two goes went fine. I think it was round seven that did me in.”

Tracy snickers.

Crowley yawns, this time with the addition of a galumphing yawp.

Aziraphale’s nose dives back into his cup and stays there.

No, he didn’t try to stop the conversation before it got this far.

There’s no shutting these two up once they get started.

But Crowley manages to stop Tracy in her tracks.

“Shame on you, Aziraphale, keeping poor Crowley up all---.”

When Tracy gets her first glimpse of Crowley, her jaw drops to her chest.

Aziraphale sees why, and he knows he’s never going to hear the end of this one.

His husband, as always, has an exceptional sense of timing … and style.

Over the rim of his cup, which has become extremely interesting in the past few minutes, Aziraphale watches Tracy give his husband several once overs. He doesn’t intervene, letting Tracy ask the inevitable question herself.

“Uh …” She clears her throat. It doesn’t help “… what is that you’re wearing, dear?”

“What? This?” Crowley looks down his body as if he’s forgotten. Aziraphale hopes Tracy will. Probably not a chance without holy intervention. “It’s some shirt of Aziraphale’s from the 60s. I saw it in his closet and brought it with. You know, for going out. Thought it’d be a nice change from the usual.” He chuckles to himself, picking at the practically see-thru black mesh hanging from his body. “Not much to it, is there?”

“No, there isn’t.” Tracy’s voice cracks when Crowley shifts left and right, revealing the tiniest pair of briefs she’s ever seen on an adult human. And considering her prior profession, that’s saying a lot.

“Don’t think angel ever wore it. Didn’t let me see if he did …”

“You don’t say.” Tracy shoots Aziraphale a look.

Aziraphale, hellbent on climbing into his cup, finishes his tea.

“The 60s were a helluva decade,” Crowley grumbles and leaves it at that. He leans over to kiss his husband’s beet-red forehead (much to Tracy’s delight), then walks off with the carafe, foregoing the mug and drinking straight from it. Tracy watches him go, the loose-fitting shirt (which most likely clings to Aziraphale) swinging with every sway of hips, the selvage skimming the tops of his thighs right below his ass. She waits until Crowley slips back into the bedroom and shuts the door, then turns accusing eyes on her friend.

“You lied!”

Aziraphale tuts. “I did no such thing.”

“Did you not see what your husband was wearing?”

“Yes. Wearing,” Aziraphale says, cheeks burning since his mind chose that exact moment to imagine peeling that mesh shirt off his husband’s body and doing a host of unspeakable things to him as soon as Tracy leaves. “Ergo … not naked.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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