#he drives a lot and narrates to focus

[skaruresonic]

The common rebuttal to "this reads like fanfic (derogatory)" is "read better fanfic," which is true in certain cases, but on the other hand, there is some grain of truth to the idea that you can tell when someone's primary mode of literary analysis is fanfic instead of... well... literally anything else. It's okay to like or even prefer fanfic, but if you want to take your craft seriously you also need to read books, dude. Published books will teach you a lot of stuff fanfic doesn't, like proper dialogue formatting and how to introduce your reader to unfamiliar characters. Even the crappiest book (well, if it's not After or 50 Shades, which started off as fanfic to begin with lol) will have been subjected to some sort of editing process to ensure at least the appearance of proper grammar. That's not a guarantee with your average fanfic, and hence why you can't always take all your writing cues from fanfic because it's "so much better" than commercially published original fiction or whatever. Frankly, fic writers tend to peddle some absolutist and downright bad takes sometimes. "Said is dead" is a terrible rule, though not because said is invisible and a perfectly serviceable tag; that's just part of it. Dialogue tags are a garnish, not a main dish that can be swapped out for more ostentatious words. If your characters murmur and mutter instead of simply saying stuff, your readers are going to wonder why nobody speaks up. "'I'm explaining some very plot-important shit right now lol,' she elaborated," likewise, is a form of telling. Instead of letting the reader extrapolate that "she elaborated" via the contents of the dialogue itself, you're telling them what to think about it. And that's why it's distracting: your authorial hand is showing. Writing is an act of camouflage. You, as the writer, need to make your presence as invisible as possible so as to not intrude on the reader's suspension of disbelief. That's the driving reason behind "show, don't tell." And overall, everyone could stand to cut down on the frequency of their dialogue tags anyway. Not every exchange needs "he said" or "she whispered" attached as long as you establish who is doing the talking before the exchange. Some people will complain of confusion if you go on for too long without a dialogue tag, and that definitely is a risk, but at some point you also need to resist the temptation of holding the reader's hand. If they can't follow a conversation between two people, chances are they weren't meeting you halfway and paying that much attention in the first place. In fact, you don't even necessarily need action beats in between every piece of dialogue, as Tumblr writing advice posts will often suggest as a fix. Pruning things often cleans them up just fine.

Another fanfic-influenced trend in writing is, I guess, beige prose? A heavy focus on internal narration with lots of telling. It's not a style I can concretely describe, but every time I click on a non-mutual's writing, I feel like it always has, like. This "samey" voice to it. There's no real attempt to experiment and use unique or provocative language, or even imagery half the time. It's almost a dry recital of narration that doesn't leave much room for subtext. I see this style most often in fanfic where you can meander and wax poetic about how the characters feel without ever really getting around to the plot. And it's like. DO something.

Other tells that the author is taking their cues from fanfic mores rather than books: >>too much minute description of eyes, especially their color and their movement >>doesn't leave much room for subtext (has a character speak their every thought aloud instead of letting the reader infer what they're thinking via action or implication) >>too much stage action ("X looked at Y. Y moved to push their seat in. X took a deep breath and stepped toward Y with a determined look on his face. 'We need to talk,' he said.") >>tells instead of shows, even when the example is about showing instead of telling ("he clenched his teeth in agony" instead of just "he clenched his teeth") >>has improper dialogue tag formatting, especially with putting full stops where there should be commas ("'Lol and lmao.' she said" instead of "'Lol and lmao,' she said." This one drives me up a wall) >>uses too many dialogue tags >>"em dashes, semi-colons and commas, my beloved" - I get the appeal but full stops are your friends. Too much alternate punctuation makes your writing seem stilted and choppy. >>"he's all tousled brown hair and hard muscle" and "she's all smiles and long legs." This turn of phrase is so cliche, it drives me up a wall. Find less trite ways of describing your characters pls. >>"X released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding" >>every fucking Hot Guy ever is described as lean and sinewy >>sobbing. why is everyone sobbing. some restraint, pls >>Tumblr in general tends to think a truism counts as good writing if you make the most melodramatic statement possible (bonus: if it's written in a faux-archaic way), garnish it with a hint of egotism, and toss in allusions to the Christian God, afterlife, or death. ("I will stare God in the face and walk backwards into hell," "What is a god to a nonbeliever?") It's indicative of emotional immaturity imo, that every emotional truth need be expressed That Intensely in order to resonate with people. >>pushes the "Oh." moment as the pinnacle of Romantic Epiphany >>Therapy Speak dialogue. why is this emotionally constipated forty-something man who drinks himself stupid every morning to escape gruesome war memories speaking about his trauma like a clinical psychologist >>"this well-established kuudere should Show More Emoshun. I want him to break down crying on his love interest's shoulder from all his repressed trauma" - I am begging u. stop >>"why don't the characters just talk to each other?" "why can't we have healthy relationships?" I don't know, maybe because fiction is not supposed to be a model for reality and perfect communication makes for boring drama?

>>improperly using actions as dialogue tags ("'Looks like we're going hunting,' he grinned") >>why is everyone muttering and murmuring. speak up >>too many adverbs, especially "weakly" and "shakily." use stronger verbs. ("trembled" instead of "shook weakly") >>too many epithets ("the younger man" or "the brunette detective") >>too many filter words ("he felt," "she thought," "I remembered")

>>no, Tumblr, first-person POV is not the devil; you're just using way too many filter words (see above) and not enough sentence variation to make it flow well enough. First-person POV is an actually pretty good POV (not just for unreliable and self-aware narrators) if you know what you're doing and a lot of fun crafting an engaging character voice. Tumblr's hatred of first-person baffles me, and all I can think is you would only hate it if your only frame of reference was, like, My Immortal. Have you tried reading A Book? First-person POV is just another tool in your toolbox, and like all tools, it can be used properly or improperly. But it's not inherently a marker of bad writing. The disdain surrounding it strikes me as about as sensical as making fun of the concept of characters. Oh, your work has characters in it? Ew, I automatically click off a fic if it has characters in it. like what.

#writing #obligatory disclaimer that I am speaking broadly and this is in no way intended to make anyone feel self-conscious

[fanfictionalhooligan]

Wounds of the Final Battle〚Haganezuka x Kakushi!Reader Oneshot〛

Preface: Being happily married won't stop you from doing your part as a Kakushi to help the Demon Slayers defeat Kibutsuji Muzan, even if it means risking your life. Hotaru, your beloved husband, struggles with this reality.

Just like the original chapter of this continuity, this can be read as an independent story. See the AO3 version (link) if you prefer third-person over second-person narration!

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Why would you do something so stupid?!”

You recoil at his sharp words. Hotaru has never yelled at you like this before. At everyone else, yes…but not at you. Not with those kinds of words.

“Hotaru, I have to!” you tell him hopelessly. He's stormed off towards his workshed and you desperately follow him; it's something he tends to do in order to calm down, to pick up a sword and start sharpening it or begin forging another one.

The two of you are starting to attract onlookers, and although you can't see their faces behind the Hyottoko masks, you can still register the shock in the sharp turn of their heads and the gasps as the hotheaded swordsmith – your enraged husband – goes off the handle and begins kicking and throwing aside any objects in his path.

“Stop that!” you yell after him, but he picks up his pace, oblivious to all your attempts to console him. It's as if he can't stand the sound of your voice right now.

...Or rather, he can't stand to hear another reason why you have to be there to fight Kibutsuji Muzan with the Demon Slayers.

You might be just a Kakushi with absolutely no swordsmanship skills, but this battle is going to take every person and every ounce of strength that can possibly weaken the progenitor of all demons. Many Demon Slayers will be wounded if not killed, and every Kakushi counts to keep them alive as best they can.

Hotaru has a problem with the fact that you, his wife, aren't able to protect yourself the way the Demon Slayers can. The Kakushi are completely at the mercy of the demons if the swordsmen are taken out. You can't even blame Hotaru for going off the handle right now. You would be angry and terrified in his shoes, too. You're trying your hardest not to cry seeing his pain manifest into livid rage.

The two of you eventually make it to his workshed, and Hotaru nearly slams the door in your face until he sees your expression; you must look pretty awful and he simply doesn't have it in him to drive you away. When he'd asked you to marry him, he had promised you that he would support you through everything and do all that he could to help you endure as a Kakushi. It's starting to creep into his conscience now, you can tell.

Unable to think of any words to say, Hotaru turns on his heel and marches to the back of the workshed. He's trying to find anything at all to work on, to channel his absolute focus that can tune out the painful world, but he's distraught and ends up knocking over a basket of dull blades. “Fucking hell!” he roars. 

You have never seen your husband so shaken before. “Hotaru…” you call to him softly. He pauses, fists clenched as he stares toward the ground at all the scattered Nichirin Sword blades. There are a lot more of them than usual because, lo and behold, the entire village is also preparing the Demon Slayers to fight Muzan. It doesn't help Hotaru at all right now.

You quietly make your way over to his side as he simply stands there and stares at all the spilled blades. “Do you want me to be here right now?” you ask him gently. There really are no words to say that would make the situation better.

To your dismay, Hotaru shakes his head violently. “Not if it’s going to be the last time I see you alive!” he scowls.

“Don’t say that -”

“Then can you guarantee you’ll survive this suicide mission?” Hotaru shouts, causing you to flinch. “Go ahead, say it – tell me you don’t have any real chance of being butchered by a demon this time!”

You hang your head. “I…I can’t.” The words drop like a dead weight and the room feels heavy. “I’m so sorry, Hotaru. I can’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and grabs his head with both hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as he turns his back to you.

“But you know why I have to go, don’t you?” you tell him desperately. “It’s my duty as a Kakushi, just like yours as a swordsmith, you know – like how you didn’t stop honing that sword while a demon was attacking you -”

“SHUT UP!” Hotaru screams, without warning. “SHUT UP AND GO AHEAD AND FUCKING DIE SINCE YOU WANT TO SO BADLY! I obviously don’t mean shit to you, anyway!”

You recoil and the tears begin to run down your face. Your husband has completely lost it and has gone somewhere you can't reach him. “Hotaru…” Your voice is shaking now, and it hurts to speak at all.

Your husband wheels back around at the sound of your tortured voice, his fingers still digging into his scalp as you stand there trembling. “Oh, God.” He has returned to you, and it makes you want to cry even harder. “Oh, God…" he whispers. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes widen. You can count on your fingers the number of times you've ever heard of Hotaru apologizing in his life, and you didn’t see this one coming. His good eye looks wild and distraught, unable to process the horror at himself and at the reality of the battle that he is completely helpless to stop.

“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him meekly. “I don’t want to leave you here…”

Hotaru’s arms lower from his head; one of his hands covers his face instead. Is he about to cry? He probably doesn't want you to see it. “T-there are hundreds of Kakushi going to this battle…” he mutters. “What difference does it make if just one of them sits out?”  

“Everything,” you reply automatically. “Every action builds upon the next. Every person counts.”  

Your husband knows that there is no stopping you. You wish you could turn away from the battle, to stay home safe and sound with him and let him hold you for the rest of your lives as you promised each other. But your duty as a Kakushi is more important to you than the possibility of dying, like how Hotaru can't even tell when his eye is being crushed or when his body is being slashed repeatedly once he starts forging a sword. You've devoted yourself to doing your part to help the Demon Slayers after watching your entire family be slaughtered by the monsters several years ago.

…But Hotaru is so precious to you, too. Ever since he came into your world, you've had something dear to hold onto and someone who can make you smile no matter how beaten down you are after carrying dying or dead Demon Slayers back from battle. A lot of times, he carries you on his back himself when you return to the village looking crestfallen and your uniform stained with blood that you haven't been able to wash out despite your best efforts. He gives you a place to rest, as he promised. “I-I want to come home, Hotaru,” you tell him hopelessly. “I want to come home to you so badly. It will help me stay alive, I promise.”

‘Help’ is far from good enough to comfort him, but it's all you can manage.

Hotaru finally lowers both his arms. “I know.” He looks away for a moment and yes, those are tears. “I just… At the very least, I want to be by your side if you die out there.” Your heart breaks as his voice cracks. “But I don’t even get that luxury. I can’t fix you if you’re gone, not like swords that can be reforged and honed again - I can’t do a damn thing -”

You can't bear to watch him like this and before you know it, you run forward and throw yourself into his arms. “I love you, dear Hotaru. I love you so much. I’ll do everything I can to come home.” He goes still for a moment, but you feel his strong arms wrap around you and squeeze you tight enough for you to fear that he plans on staying like this to stop you from taking a single step away from him.

“I love you, too. More than you can ever imagine.” His voice is shaking just as much as yours is, but both of you close your eyes and cherish the fleeting memories. Like how the sun had never shined so brightly before when you were married on Mount Yoko a month ago, the place where Nichirin Swords themselves come from. Hotaru had taken you to his most sacred place on earth just to promise himself to you. Tecchikawahara-san, Kanamori-san and even Kotetsu-kun had been bawling with happiness for the both of you. A crowd of Kakushi who were close to you had shown up as well, and even Tanjiro – who is more terrified of your husband than anyone else – was there alongside his closest companions in the Demon Slayers, and his smiling sister repeated “Congratulations!” like a broken record. It was the most beautiful day of your lives.

“I don’t know how to handle this. I’m a damn wreck,” Hotaru finally admits. You wrap your arms around him tightly as you feel his chest heaving with a sigh. “I…I thought that swords were all that mattered in the world. But you, you are like – the most beautiful of blades, you know. Like one that has just lit up and changed colors beneath the sun and outshines the rest. You came into this world more beautiful than all of them and you are the last one that I want to see broken.”

Your husband’s analogies to Nichirin Swords being the only way he knows how to compliment anything or anyone always makes you giggle. “Dearest husband, you’re making me blush,” you tell him, almost playfully, if only the tears weren’t streaming down both your faces and your voice all crackly. You bury your head in his chest to listen to the sound of his heartbeat, and he has no choice but to give in.

“Please come home…okay?”

"Heave, heave, heave!"

"Don't retreat!!! No matter what happens!"

"Do not fall back! Continue to push!!! We're all together! We are not afraid!"

...

...

Dawn has arrived.

The frantic voices surrounding you are like distant echoes. Your consciousness is fading in and out and you're vaguely aware of the massive pool of blood soaking the stretcher beneath you. You're dizzy and your blood-drained face is pale.

“DON’T YOU DARE DIE, YOU HEAR ME?” Goto’s voice registers somewhere between your lapse in conscious moments. “Your crazy husband will kill us all if you do!”

Your crazy husband.

That's right. Your crazy husband is waiting at home with a row of knives laid out for every person he's going to deem responsible for your death if you leave him behind. “H-Hotaru…” you call softly as you picture that image, which looks endearing probably only to you.

“YES, keep talking! Stay awake!” Goto yells next to you. The air is whizzing past your face, and you're surrounded by fellow Kakushi members hauling your body along to who-knows-where. Your head rolls to the side, and suddenly you notice the blankets covering endless corpses laid across the ground. There is sobbing everywhere around you.

You remember that you were crying, too, when you had pulled a blanket over the young Mist Hashira, who’d passed away far too young. A second later, Kibutsuji Muzan came rampaging and fleeing for dear life – you will never forget that horrifyingly hideous body – burning in the sun. Everyone, Demon Slayers and Kakushis alike, charged after him and resorted to utilizing everything possible in the environment to stop him from getting away.

Your memory is fading, but you faintly recall Goto and two others jumping behind the wheel of three cars before driving straight at Muzan in a crazy, suicidal effort. You were with a crowd of fellow Kakushis pushing a bus with all your might to stop the hideous Demon King from escaping. He clawed at everyone and cracked open the wall behind him, thrashing and causing massive chunks of bricks and debris to rain down upon the Kakushi. A stop sign was uprooted, and its broken pole sailed straight at you…

You look down at yourself and finally register the thick layer of bandages around your abdomen.

...Oh. You've been impaled, haven't you?

But for some reason, it doesn't hurt that much. You wonder if this is what it feels like to die, and it's actually not as bad as you thought. Your eyes begin to close, ever so slowly.

Please come home…okay?

Your husband's voice, so raw and somber and hopelessly praying for your safety, echoes through your head and hurts more than any wound from that hideous Muzan. You suddenly feel tears pooling beneath your eyes and snap them back open. “Hotaru – where is he?” you ask deliriously.

“On the way here! JUST STAY ALIVE!” Goto bellows back, though his eyes carry a new relief at your first coherent sentence.

“O-okay…” you reply weakly.

Everything fades to black. 

“Out of my way!”

“Haganezuka-san, she’s still resting -”

“GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY! I’ll kill you!”

It's the sound of his voice that stirs you awake. It's a familiar chorus to you, filled with yells of terror and the sharp sound of a knife – or multiple – being unsheathed. And above them all, the wild screams of rage from your husband. It makes you smile.

You feel heavy footsteps shaking the wooden floor itself as they rush over to your bedside. You slowly open your eyes. 

There are two of him, for some reason. Hotaru's face is doubled and the two images cross each other for a moment before solidifying into one. “…Hotaru?” you murmur groggily.

You hear all the knives clatter to the ground as he throws his arms around you, lifts your entire upper body from the bed, and holds you tight. You hear countless protests from frustrated Kakushi across the room, something about ‘You’re going to open her wound and make her bleed to death!’ but you soak in the warmth of your husband's embrace and none of it hurts.

“Y-you’re alive..." Hotaru whispers, his voice trembling. “You’re alive.”  

“Mmhmm…” you reply faintly and rather anticlimactic, mostly only aware of how safe and warm his arms feel around you.

“We’re about to start another blood transfusion,” says someone behind him.

“Go away or I’ll kill you,” Hotaru replies murderously.

“She needs that to live, you know.” Goto’s grouchy voice is easy to recognize. He’s always had a limited tolerance for others’ carelessness, no matter their seniority or even if they happen to be waving knives at him.

“Hotaru, it’s okay.” You smile and lift your arms weakly to wrap around your husband. He hasn't loosened his grip around you one bit, and it grows even tighter if anything. “Let them help me. It’ll make me get better sooner.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and loosens his arms just enough to lean back and look into your eyes. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

You could swear that there are subtle groans coming from the others around the room, who probably aren't keen on having Hotaru for company while tending to your wounds. But neither of you are paying much attention to it.  You lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’d like that.”

Nightfall comes, and Hotaru manages to fit himself on your bed with you. He's never going to let go of you again, nor you of him. The demons are gone, and so are the deepest terrors of losing each other to them. It's the most peaceful sleep you've ever had in your life and before you drift off, you smile knowing that the sun will rise and you will get to return home with the love of your life, hand in hand.

- The End

Thank you SO much for reading! 💚

Post-credits and Commentary:

This was requested by a commenter on AO3 but adapted to the traditional second-person narration on tumblr. As far as writing goes, the story ends here but there are a series of miscellaneous comics requested by tumblr users here if you'd like!

References to the bus scene (and used in header image):

Drawing references: - Stretcher- Hugging- Sleeping

All fanart and comic: link

Original Story (in third-person)

#haganezuka x reader #haganezuka x you #haganezuka #hotaru haganezuka #demon slayer haganezuka #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kakushi #oneshot #fanart #my fanart #demon slayer fanart #kny fanart

[campbyler]

i have so many things i want to say about everything but i do remember the moment where mike (playfully) accused will of lying and it makes so much more sense now i thought he was just being smug as hell like “oh ofc you would’ve kissed me two months ago i am just that spectacular” but no. i’m sorry for doubting you michael you DEFINITELY had grounds for that claim. out of focus eye to eye kidnapped my firstborn and left a changeling in its place. lives were ruined in the best possible way.

exactlyyyyy you get it! the way you worded this ask actually made me want to make a little note about why we wrote the reference in, because it was very intentional and there were a couple different reasons for it which i think are both very important !! (but obviously could not mention here before out of focus dropped)

1. obviously it was a Reference, in that we thought this is a big enough piece of lore that it would be weird for it to never ever come up even once, but the whole idea of the companion fic was that it kind of has an ambiguous ending and even mike was not super duper 100000% sure of will’s intentions (due to the #inebriation). so it was unlikely at this point in their dynamic that they were going to have a real fleshed out conversation about it because it would definitely need both of them to be vulnerable in a way they were Not ready to be at the time (will admitting to wanting to kiss mike/mike admitting to having wanted to be kissed? noooo way). mike is kind of testing the waters here (and being annoying on purpose) but from his pov will either still does not remember or does remember but does not want to talk about it, so it doesn’t really go anywhere anyway. but alsoooooo

2. another remnant of the post ch05 era specifically was a lot of people commenting things along the lines of “omg mike is being so flirty” “where did that confidence come from” etc etc which is so true bc poor will got absolutely blindsided by it and it was so fun to write but!! the idea also is that half it was that confidence boost you get after realizing that someone is also into you/attracted to You and i think mike would’ve taken that and ran with it for sureee (esp bc will initiated the ch04 kiss And the ch05 morning kiss mostly) and the other half was mike having information that the readers and will both did not have! a majorrrrrrrr driving force of acswy is the fact that neither of them are ever working with All of the information, hence the unreliable narration, hence the drama and history and them both being so annoying and unserious, etc etc etc. i think that’s important to keep in mind, especially now that we’re in the ch09 era where their dynamic has shifted pretty drastically since their rivals era in the beginning, or even chapters 04/05. 😗😗😗

i’m actually very glad no one Really picked up on this being a Thing when ch07 dropped bc it was supposed to be super subtle (obviously a couple people said 🤨 am i missing something? and we said No 😌) but the reactions we’re getting now have been incredibly fulfilling and have been just what we were hoping to get, which tells us we are writing this story right! sorry for ruining your life and the changeling baby but thank you sooo much for the lovely ask <33

#sorry for the ramble i just have been thinking abt this since i wrote ch07 but obviously couldn’t say anything #and i think this ask just perfectly encapsulated the exact reaction i wanted that reference to elicit #so i’m pumping my fist in the air and jumping up and down #got a good grade in Reference #asks #out of focus eye to eye #acswy spoilers

[tennessoui]

I think I really lose braincells each time you post about couples counselling au - because I have never felt a characterization of Obi-Wan and Anakin fit *so much* to my own headcanon that it drives me crazy. The lack of communication? The desperate need to please (Anakin) the delusion of thinking you're giving someone complete access (Obi-Wan) while keeping them out. It is SO perfect, it's literally my favourite obikin fic, I am so invested in this au. The questions you have them answer at the end. When Obi-Wan said he's "happy to make the list as an obligation" because free time means a lot to an enslaved man. Kit. KIT *stick figure gore of me sinking my talons into your shoulders* When Anakin says he has nothing to hide from Obi-Wan but Obi-Wan never asks and he feels like he's getting away with something each time he learns something while Obi-Wan is like. He can ask me anything. KIT *BLOOD IN MY MOUTH*

ahhh thank you so much!!! i really love writing chapters and answering asks about this fic because i'm really attached to these versions of obi-wan and anakin like. their motivations are so interesting to me, especially at this part of the story, in the beginning, when all they are are motivations

anakin absolutely feels this need to please and be loved and the focus of his master's attentions. he also feels helpless in the face of thinking obi-wan will never let him in like that. he also is unhealthily controlling in small ways (checking and rechecking his closed door, for one, trying to have a say in what he eats out of concerns for his health) but he just loves him so much and he really experienced like.d devastation when obi-wan was temporarily dead that i feel like altered his motivations fundamentally, especially because he restarted his heart so.....probably a tiny part of him....illogically feels as if that's his heart now......

and obi-wan absolutely thinks he is so transparent for anakin!! he has let him in!!! more than he's ever let anyone in at all probably, but it's probably not that much. he's so practiced at keeping him out and hiding his real emotions that that's second nature. not to mention he feels betrayed in his own way at anakin marrying padmé --instead of just having an affair with her-- and he's trying to frantically detach himself before anakin leaves the order because he'll be devastated when that happens. not to mention he can also be shit at respecting boundaries (he reads the messages on anakin's phone when he's asleep)

and it's all just so interesting especially because there's so much narrative bias and just narrative inaccuracies where the narrator/POV character completely reads the other's reactions wrong, which makes the little questionnaire at the end have so much more weight because the counselor is 1000% right when she says that that's what's most important--how they feel about each other and their relationship after honest deliberation and reflection

#asks #couples counseling au #obikin #obviously i could talk about this forever too lmao #it's also been interesting writing so far because i don't want to imply that one character is wrong or not #like obi-wan isn't wrong to not want to share anything #but anakin isn't wrong to want more and to be worried about obi-wan's health #i dont think the projection of the story ends with obi-wan constantly volunteering information without being asked #because that doesn't feel like him #and it's ok to just not be that sort of person #it will involve them opening up clearer communications though #because that's healthy #but it's been a lot of thinking about ok #we don't want to magically change these two characters #or imply that to have a healthy relationship you have to fundamentally change yourself #but more like #if two people really want to be together because they're fucking insane about each other #how can we have that happen in the most healthiest way #etc etc #though to be clear i don't think they'll ever be completely healthy #like that would be a wittle bit boring in the end #but they'll be like. much better #started from the bottom now we're at 68 out of 100 on the healthiness scale #good job boys lets hit the showers

[zerojobprospects]

Brad Huff related thoughts: I don't think them egging his house was about revenge for being bullied, I think it was a wounded ego/pride thing.

A lot of what we hear about him is that he's an asshole, personality wise. He's dickish and entitled. When Andre is mimicking him, he does so by saying "what do you pussies want?" Brad Huff is clearly a shithead, and I'm not disputing this.

However, the other thing we hear a lot about is his car. Not only his car, but his drunk driving issue, and how he never gets his car taken away. In fact, that's mainly what they focus on--how he has this expensive car that he's allowed to keep despite everything--and his car was the initial target of their egging.

But we never hear about him actually bullying Cal and Andre. In fact, we never hear about him interacting with them in any way. In their grievances against him, they don't bring up a single time he's wronged them personally, aside from being generally a jackass.

They are indeed unreliable narrators, so you could say that they didn't bring up any incidents where he had victimized them out of pride, but they don't seem to hesitate mentioning other times they've been bullied. Andre freely talks about the JCPenney thing, Cal talks about that Tomlinson kid, they mention that they've been insulted and etc. They list other wrongs of Brad Huff's. Based on how they talk about people, it seems like if Brad Huff had fucked them over in some way, they'd at least mention it. They wanted people to know on the tapes that they felt personally wronged by people.

Instead, they mainly focus on what he has, and what they feel he doesn't deserve. As Andre says, he's everything they hate: he has what they don't.

#zero day #zero day 2003 #zeroday #cal gabriel #andre kriegman #brad huff #i GUESS #my txt

[nutzworth]

DAY 4: JANUARY 17, 2024 (i um. was a little busy. oops.)

STATS: read for ~2 hrs pages read: 860-1052. 192 pgs. reached pg 1000! wooo!!! slur count: 6 + 2 = 8 (rose narration, john. both r slur) silly count: 10 + 1 = 11 (john about roses building) piss count: 1/3

THOUGHTS: today started with jade's freshjamz!!!!!!!!! I LOVE!!! i mean dave kind of sucks at making music but jade doesnt! i love how homestuck shows the works of the characters. jades music daves blogs caliborns deviantart whatever. it makes them feel so REAL.

figured out the time differences! if we're staying at johns timezone, dave is 2 hrs ahead and rose is 3 hrs ahead. and jade is 4 hrs ahead!!!! when we were dave pov a convo with jade was at 6:30pm but at jade pov it was 12:30pm so you know.

the exiles are FINALLY MEETING UP!!!! PM!!!!!!!!! i looove pm shes what makes me want to be a mailman. what the hell are the snake worm things in pm's like structure? whats it called? with the terminal. theyre awful silly but theyre kind of freaky and i dont know what they are.

john faq i always read the faqs theyre so fun. john try not to mention your friends by irl name on public forum challenge (even if he assumes everyone else is dead lol). i do NOT understand alchemizing mostly cus i dont get binary. but whatever. maybe i will someday

KARKAT VANTAS! i think the first mentions of the trolls are here! yaaay!

dave strife theyre still strifing i didnt get to the end yet. s beatdown or whatever. always interesting to me that dave never gets sliced or anythign even though theyre fighting with ultra sharp swords. how much restraint is bro (strider) showing? the fights ARE intended to be strengthening dave. but they dont. cus hes a kid and hes passive. im a sucker for bro strider i know he sucks but ugh i love dirk too much

mom lalondes lab drives me coocoo crazy. pov youre rose you go under your dead cats big ass mausoleum and find a laboratory your mother uses. theres 1 battery unlocked just for you. theres a giant ass monitor showing sburb sessions and meteors. did your mother know? did your mother know what was going to happen? youre thirteen years old. do you know? theres bright pink kiddy furniture. did your mother use it? when did she get it? it looks pristine. did she sleep in this when she was little? did she sleep in it as an adult? why would she buy herself such a thing at an adult age? youre rose lalonde. youre thirteen and full of hatred. you dont understand anything. you wear your mothers scarf and you pick up a stray mutant cat and name it after a drink your alcoholic mother loves. youre thirteen and full of hatred and you dont understand anything and you want to, so badly. so so badly.

jade is awesome her scampering through the house rocks. i wonder if she actually believes pa harley is talking to her, or if he actually is, or if shes just pretending. it has to be because of trauma, right? is she genuine? she has to be genuine. right? fosmf if you know anything about this let me know

jack noir... midnight crew.... oh how i cant wait for the intermission.

johns various mental breakdowns (over the discovery of his dads room; over betty crocker gushers; over the drawings over his posters) are insane. he lashes out so weirdly. dave said like john never gets mad or frustrated over real big stuff and he instead funnels it into tiny meaningless problems. i wonder what that means. im not into john enough to read into it or know

jade (and dirk by extension) waking up on prospit (or derse) early makes me thiiiink. i wonder if theyd get freaked by regular normal dreams. they god tier and sleep and wake up in a cold sweat Hello? Where am i. Hello? I just slept and nothing was there. Where am i

thinking about rose + jade a lot these first few acts. i looove rose and i looove jade. i focused on jade a lot the first time i read so im trying to focus on rose more because shes AWESOME! and i want to get to know her better. she deserves it. but anyway thats enough for today sorry for taking like a 12 day break lol

#me #nutzworth hs reread #its midnight.... was racing to do this before bed lol. they call me the sleeper

[jacksoldsideblog]

I think if the narrator (and Tyler) went camping it would be quite interesting. Like, if they used some of that insomnia time to go visit beautiful places in nature, something the US is rife with. I think it's pretty notable that the first time the narrator sees Tyler (in the book), it's on a nude beach. For so many reasons, but also just that it's a beach. A lot of mental anguish can be alleviated by being in some trees. On the other hand, I think it's really notable how much ecological anxiety they have, it's a notable focus driving their feelings of impending doom and the need for the collapse of society, and it's easy to fall into the trap of seeing these beautiful places and being obssessed with their disappearance.

And of course, the biggest issue is that the narrator can't drive, and in the US this means he can't actually physically get to any of these locations. But if I remember correctly (for the book, movie is a yes for sure), Tyler is able to drive so maybe he could be convinced the next fight club should happen at 1am in a state park. Then maybe they can touch grass a little. See a spring.

#fight club #the nude beach is also notable for being a very gay place #motherfuckers meeting up at hanlan's point #cruising the woods

[atmosphericradar]

Analyzing the Timeline of the Tenno Schools

-- SPOILERS AHEAD! --

There isn't a lot of concrete information that Digital Extremes has released about the Tenno Schools (or "Ways") in Warframe. Here is what I know so far (as best I can w/ help from the Warframe Wiki):

Tenno Schools are martial arts disciplines. A School instructs a Tenno in a specific style of fighting, focused on harnessing Tenno Void powers in unique ways.

There is no mechanical restriction of Warframes or weapons for any School; a disciple of any Way may use any tools at their disposal.

The five Focus Schools are: Madurai, Vazarin, Naramon, Unairu, and Zenurik. Training in these Ways unlocks new Void abilities for the Tenno, as well as improvements to pre-existing Void powers. This training also unlocks various synergies between the Tenno and their Warframe, allowing each to improve the other.

The Rough Timeline of Events Preceding the Beginning of Warframe (pre-Vor's Prize quest)

Albrecht Entradi creates the Reliquary Drive, enabling spacecraft to make faster-than-light Void Jumps to arbitrary locations in space. The player reveals this history by reaching max rank with the Necraloid Syndicate. The creation of the Reliquary Drive inspires the Orokin Empire to embark on a project to colonize the nearby Tau solar system.

The Orokin Empire send terraforming robots to the Tau System, ahead of their primary human-carrying ark: the Zariman Ten Zero.

The terraforming robots defected while terraforming the Tau System, becoming the Sentients.

The Orokin Empire develop the Warframes using the Infestation. Ballas explains in his Vitruvian records during The Sacrifice quest that he created the Warframes to fight the Sentients, because the Sentients could control the combat robots the Orokin Empire would have otherwise used to fight the Sentient invasion.

The Zariman Ten Zero fails its Void Jump catastrophically. During The War Within quest, the Grineer Queen and the player's Tenno narrate the events of the Zariman Ten Zero incident: the adults were driven violently insane, and the children killed them to survive, ultimately leaving only the children alive on the Zariman. These children, who had been changed by their exposure to the Void, are now known as the Tenno.

Margulis prevents the Orokin Empire from killing the Tenno. In The Apostasy Prologue quest, the Lotus says that Margulis worked with and studied the Tenno (likely healing their trauma from the Zariman Ten Zero incident).

Margulis was killed by Ballas. Her work with the Tenno and their void-based abilities was used to develop the Transference process.

Ballas used the Tenno and Transference to control the Warframes.

The Sentients invade the Origin System. The Tenno, Warframes, and the Lotus fought the Sentient invasion known now as the Old War.

During The Prelude To War quest we see a memory of the Old War, where the Lotus confronts Erra on Lua with six Tenno by her side. At this time, the Tenno can be seen producing Void Beams without Amps. This void attack appears to be the same Void Beam as from Transcendence (the Operator's primary attack pre-The War Within quest).

According to the Shadow Stalker's Codex entry, after the Old War had concluded and the Sentients were defeated, the Orokin Empire held a system-wide victory ceremony in honor of the Tenno. During this ceremony, the Tenno simultaneously assassinated the Orokin leadership across the Origin System, toppling the Empire.

Note that the above timeline intentionally avoids talking about the order of events surrounding the Lotus. I don't believe straightening out her complicated timeline is critically necessary for talking about the Tenno Schools.

Evidence for pre-Old War Tenno Schools

I could not find any clear textual evidence of Tenno Schools existing simultaneously with the Orokin Empire, as of 2023.

It is possible that the five Focus Schools somehow evolved from pre-existing fighting styles which pre-date the existence of the Tenno. The Dax may have a martial tradition involving five methods of combat which was passed down to the Tenno, though there is no evidence to support this. It is also possible that an Orokin-era civilization or society had a spiritual or martial tradition which centered five methods of being, although that is purely speculation.

Evidence for post-Old War Tenno Schools

This is where all of the knowledge of the Tenno Schools in Warframe comes from, as of 2023.

The Tenno Schools become available after The Second Dream quest is completed. This quest reveals that the Tenno are children with Void abilities, Operators of the Warframes and not the Warframes themselves. This revelation opens up the Tenno Schools immediately. It is unclear if the Tenno know the Ways of these Schools innately. There is no direct evidence to suggest the Tenno learn of these Schools through some off-screen method.

A player can switch between the Ways of each School at will. When a Tenno changes Ways, they lose all of the abilities granted to them from their previous Way. The only exception to this is when you "unbind" certain abilities from the School, allowing your Tenno to keep the unbound power regardless of which Way they are currently practicing.

This implies that the Schools are like martial arts schools: only a master of one style of fighting can benefit from trying to mix-and-match with other styles on the fly. That said, there is nothing stopping anyone from practicing many disciplines; just fight with discipline at a time for maximum effectiveness. Note that there is no hard evidence in the game to suggest that Tenno exclusively have Void powers from only one Focus School. It would seem that any Tenno can have powers from any School, so long as they train in the proper Ways.

Tenno Clan Dojos have many tools for combat training, and even a specific room for sparring. It is unknown if the Tenno Dojos act as a major training ground or place of learning for the Tenno Schools in-universe.

I have found no evidence for Tenno-aligned humans without Void powers practicing the Ways of the Focus Schools.

I have found no evidence to suggest that The Man In The Wall has any influence over the existence or Ways of the Tenno Schools, or any influence over the specifics of how Void powers manifest.

Conclusion

Based on the evidence I have gathered, it seems as though the Tenno Schools are a post-Orokin-Empire creation. It is unlikely that the Tenno Schools were adopted from a separate pre-existing culture. Two options for the genesis of the five Focus Schools are supported by the text:

One or several of the earliest Tenno to awaken from cryosleep were the ones responsible for creating the five Focus Schools. The Void powers, abilities, and synergies are split between the Schools because of differences in combat philosophy first and foremost. Secondarily, it may be difficult for an adolescent to manifest or control all of the Void abilities from all of the Schools at once, and separating them into smaller practices keeps things manageable.

Something inherent to the nature of the Void separates the powers and abilities of the Tenno into five groups. The philosophies and combat styles of the schools follow from how the powers cluster, or perhaps the headspace a Tenno needs to be in to access that cluster of abilities.

Nothing about the Tenno Schools prevents their use by Tenno who do not have the ability to perform Transference unassisted. In addition, a Tenno School does not require the use of an Amp. Because of these two factors, Tenno Schools could have been active during the Orokin Empire era. It's possible that the Tenno Schools originate from techniques (therapeutic or supernatural) developed by Margulis during her time working with the children of the Zariman, though there is no evidence to support this theory.

Additional thoughts under the cut!

Non-Focus Tenno Schools

While I posited that such a thing could exist, there isn't a lot of evidence for non-Focus Tenno Schools. Below is a list of things which could be or could have been Tenno Schools separate from a Focus, depending on your interpretation:

"The Old Ways": A mysterious and nondescript collection of Tenno fighting techniques which seem to date back to the time of the Orokin Empire. Teshin is fond of speaking of "the Old Ways" when training Tenno, and is likely trying to impart lost knowledge of those "Ways" onto the Tenno. The flavor text in the Nikana mentions the Old Ways. The flavor text of the Glaive also mentions "dating back to the first Tenno", connecting to the Nightwave mission "The Old Ways".

The Stalker and his Acolytes: Neither the players nor the Stalker himself is sure if the Stalker and/or his Acolytes are Tenno. The Stalker is described in his Codex entry as holding the rank of "Guardian" during the Orokin Empire, and is never identified as a Tenno or even as a Warframe. Although neither the Stalker nor his Acolytes use any void powers, if they are Tenno their general immunity to Warframe abilities and unusual powers could be indicative of a Tenno School unique to them.

Non-School Tenno Organizations

Tenno Schools are fighting disciplines. They characterize what techniques a Tenno uses to fight, but not why they fight or what causes they fight for. A Tenno Clan, for example, is not a Tenno School. The Clan is made up of many Tenno, whom may all individually practice combat styles from one or several Schools. Below is a list of things which very likely aren't Tenno Schools:

The Six Faction Syndicates: Steel Meridian, Arbiters of Hexis, Cephalon Suda, The Perrin Sequence, Red Veil, and New Loka. They may be major political or philosophical groups within modern Tenno society, and they even have their own weapons, but they do not teach combat methodology.

The "exclusive order of Tenno assassins" mentioned in the flavor text of the Karyst.

#warframe #warframe spoilers #my posts #long post #fanon #the deep lore

[ninchen1909]

The Teacher and the Mob Boss -Chapter 7-

Word count: ~1.700

Warnings: mention of suicide and murder

My whole body is tense as I wait for James to start telling me his story. Again and again my gaze glides to our intertwined fingers, the warmth emanating from his hands makes me feel calmer and I have to fight strongly against the urge to rest my head on his shoulder. His tangy, unique scent lulls me to sleep and I close my eyes for a brief moment, hoping that this will help me focus on the important things again. Once again James exerts a light pressure on my fingers, before he begins to tell in an emotionless almost monotone voice.

"My family and the Pierce family came here together from Romania about 20 years ago.  My father grew up together with Alexander Pierce and they were actually friends from childhood. At some point, the two of them decided that we would move here together because we had no future perspectives in Romania. No money, no job, nothing. But even here it was a lot harder than they had imagined, we all still struggled to make a living here and slowly but surely we start to lose hope again. That was until my father and Alexander met Joseph at a bar one evening. They got to talking and when he heard about our fathers' money problems, he offered them a job. I remember my father coming home that night, beaming with joy and telling us, that everything would be better now, that we all would have a great life here. And at first it really seemed like it.

In the beginning they worked for him as bouncers or drivers, then at some point they were dealing drugs and guns for him on the street. And during that time things looked really good for our family and for the Pierce's, the money worries were gone, we moved into a house of our own and for a short time it really made it seem like our lives were perfect."

A happy smile spreads across James' face and for a brief moment, he seems truly content with himself and the world, however, this changes abruptly as he begins to continue.

"And then came the evening that brought my father to his doom. You know my father was never violent or anything, I mean he was always strict and wanted my sister and I to do something with our lives, but he would never have thought of hitting or harming us. But that moment must have destroyed a lot in him. I remember when he came home with blood splattered all over his body I heard my mom screaming my sister and I instantly run there, to see what's going on but they sent us  to our rooms right away.

We never talked about that day at first, our parents initially acted as if nothing had ever happened, my father only told me a few years later what happened that night. He drove Joseph to a meeting as he had done so many times before and stayed in the car as usual, only to drive him home again later. It was  summer at that time, which is why my father left the car window open to get some air. Suddenly he heard loud, aggressive voices and then a single gunshot. Therefore, my father quickly grabbed the gun from the glove compartment of the car and, against his better judgment, ran to where the shooting was. He saw  Joseph lying on the ground bleeding and moaning in pain, his blood was already gathering around his body an he started to get limp. my father  saw that the other man was aiming his gun to shoot  again..."

Shortly James breaks off in his narration, with an audible sound, he swallows the lump in his throat down.

"...and to prevent that, my father shot the man, just like that.  He told me how he watched the life disappear from the man's body. And that at that moment he felt nothing but freedom and power.  After that, he took Joseph to a safehouse where they patched him up. From that day on, Joseph blindly trusted my father, he became his closest confidant and his most sought-after advisor. And then when Joseph died, my father took his place and became the boss. Pierce became more and more jealous of my father during that time, so when he became the head, he turned his back on him and started his own organization. And since then, we've been at war with the Pierce family, sometimes more and sometimes less."

Determined, he searches mine with his eyes, unshed tears clearly visible in his sky-blue orbits.

"This position destroyed him. He was hardly ever at home anymore and when he was, he was in a shitty mood, he literally ignored my sister and he became aggressive towards my mother, hardly a day went by when he didn't fuck her up physically or mentally. And when I wanted to do something about it, it only became harder for her because he wanted to "dull" me, as he called it. He didn't perceive me as a son anymore, but as an object of use, he formed me to his successor, whenever I granted myself against it, he threatened to kill my mother and sister. So I played along, resolving never to mix my private life, everything that is important to me, with this life. My mom, sister and Steve helped me not lose myself, so I'm still the same as I was then. At least mostly"

At the mention of his family and best friend, a smile creeps onto his face. Carefully, I begin to stroke the back of his hand with my thumbs.

"Is that also why you started the women's shelter? To help women like your mother?"

Silently, he nods as he follows the movement of my thumb with his eyes.

"Yes. No woman or child deserves to have to live in such circumstances, I wanted to give them the opportunity to escape such a life."

"What happened to your father?"

A contemptuous snort escapes him as he lets his gaze slide to the living room ceiling.

"The asshole apparently couldn't take it anymore and shot himself. My whole life he's been preaching to me that I need to be strong and what does he do? He puts a bullet through his head and leaves his 22 year old son behind to lead a mob and take care of his family. And on the side, I'm supposed to be fighting this pointless war."

A stifling silence falls over us, which I break with a soft voice.

"Thank you for telling me all this and for being honest."

He lovingly strokes a strand of my hair back behind my ear and then lets his hand rest on my cheek. His eyes look at me Sincerely and full of warmth.

"I would tell you anything to keep you in my life. I told you last time in the schoolyard, I want you to know everything about me, even the things I'd rather hide for."

At his words, a smile creeps onto my face, without thinking much about it, I bridge the distance between our bodies and rest my head on his shoulder. Shortly after, I also feel the weight of his chin on my head.

"But and now please don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely against violence, but why don't you just eliminate the family?"

For a short moment I am shocked by myself that these words have now really left my mouth, however, I do not have long time to think about it, because James is quick to answer.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, if I just go after Pierce now, it would start the entire war, which would then not only affect us and Pierce but all the mob families around."

Stunned, I pull my head off his shoulder and look at him with wide eyes. The sight elicits a genuine laugh from him.

"Mob families? I didn't even know there was a a single mob familiy here until a few days ago and now we're suddenly talking plural? How many are there then?"

"You really haven't noticed in all these years that this city is run by mobs?"

"There are still days when I get lost on my way to work and you really think that's when I notice that the mob is here?"

A loud, throaty laugh escapes him, to which I can't help but join in

"It takes you about 10 minutes to get to school, how the hell do you get lost?"

" Easy , just by taking a wrong turn."

Unimpressed, I shrug my shoulders and cross my arms in front of my chest

"You're really special, you know that?"

"Sure I'm completely unique. But now please answer my question, how many mob families are there?"

"So as the two biggest we are Barnes and Pierce, then there's Banner, Romanoff and Maximoff they're all on our side, Hydra is on Pierce's side and then there's Stark."

Abruptly I tear my eyes open and jump off the couch.

"Stark? As in Tony Stark the principal? You can't be serious."

"Calm down princess. Tony isn't involved in the whole thing but he knows all about it, his wife Pepper took over the mob from Tony's father and has been running it in ever since, Tony has never wanted anything to do with it."

"How can a principal be involved with the mob?"

Stunned, I shake my head as the corners of Jaime's mouth twist into an arrogant smile.

"How can an innocent-seeming teacher be involved with the mob?"

He tilts his head slightly, but that arrogant smile doesn't disappear from his face for a second.

"By a totally annoying mobster deciding that she is now the main focus of his life."

James pulls me close before resting his forehead against mine.

"And that's exactly what you are"

#Bucky Barnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #mob au #mob bucky au #MOB BOSS BUCKY #mob bucky x reader #mob bucky barnes #mob bucky fluff

[wastemanjohn]

unfinished boymom!mary fic

hi here are some snippets from a little something i've been working on if you like it give me a boot up the arse to finish it please thanks

Snippet 1:

Dean’s taking the scenic route home in his father's car with the windows rolled all the way down and an AC/DC album at the lowest volume in the tapedeck, chewing a piece of gum to soak up the taste-hangover of tobacco and sweet chemical jungle juice, taking deliberate breaths of liquor-sweet summer night air to help his focus. He's on high alert; trying to look as though he's not. On a night like this, there's a high probability of a bored, jobsworth cop around somewhere, looking to catch a lone kid out.

And it's not that Dean doesn't know better than this. It's definitely not that he didn't have his share of horrific nightmares after that scaremonger video Miss Osterberg made them watch in health class, the one that had kids with burn scars and missing limbs and glass eyes from catastrophic accidents telling horrific stories while a grave voiced narrator spat statistics that sounded made up. Get home alive, was the slogan, flashing up in eerie white text on a black screen. Don’t drink and drive.

And Dean wouldn't. Not usually. He's a good kid. A good kid who graduated high school today with grades well in the upper echelon of his class, a good kid with lots of friends and an abundance of invitations to the various house parties he's been milling between with the guys all night. And Dean’s friends are still at those parties, jumping into backyard pools with their clothes still on, vomiting on each other’s shoes, slurring promises to stay in touch forever, even if they’ll be at colleges eight states apart in a matter of weeks. It’s not like any of them are in a fit state to give Dean a ride home themselves. Hell, not a single friend of his even has home on their minds, not at the pitiful hour of 2am where the biggest night of their lives so far should just be getting started. But Dean doesn't mind needing to leave early. He was getting pretty tired anyway. 

And as he drives, down dead suburban streets with dark, sleeping houses, he's followed only by the shadows of gnomes and hydrangeas and mini wishing wells in tightly maintained front yards. He doesn't see a single soul, a single pair of headlights on the road other than his own. It’s rare, actually, that Dean knows such quiet. Such aloneness. And if there’s something comforting about it - well, it’s been a busy day. Lots of noise. Lots of people. 

In fact, as Dean makes it to his own street - in one tipsy piece and sans new criminal record - he finds himself slowing down. Stopping altogether just on the corner, shifting the handbrake touched thoughtlessly again and again by his father’s hands; and Dean takes a second, just a second, to lean back in the cool old-leather seat he has vague, time-faded memories of Dad occupying, listening to the music he has vague, time-faded memories of Dad playing, if a little distorted now with taperot and age - and he thinks about how driving the Impala is kind of like sitting in a time capsule. Kind of like slipping unnoticed into someone else’s shape, someone else’s imprint on the world; somewhere Dean can quietly belong, in this moment anyway, because Dean’s so entirely, incredibly alone right now, and no one can tell him that he can’t.

And Dean runs his thumbs along that steering wheel - really listens to the music. It's new to him, Dad's old classic rock stuff, but he likes it, he thinks. Stuff Mom can't have on in the house, because it's too painful; stuff that he'd never think to seek out himself anyway. Kids at his school are mostly into Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Tupac, and Dean is into them too by osmosis, because it’s all he ever really gets to listen to. But maybe he too would have liked hair metal and face-melting classic rock, if Dad had lived.

He’s only had Dad’s Impala for a few months. Had no idea Mom planned to give him the keys for his eighteenth birthday; hadn’t ever really thought about it ever coming out of its tarpaulin wrapping in the garage again, like a sheet covering the dead. And Dean had been alone then, too; alone with that moment, as he’d peeled back that sheet with a trembling hand and opened the driver door to find everything exactly as he remembered. 

Dad had been pretty messy. There was still a half-full cigarette packet on the dashboard, open so Dean could see the speckled beige tips, like Dad had been planning on coming back to them later. Cassette tapes on the passenger's seat, scattered, either stuffed into the wrong jewel cases or missing them entirely. There was a fast food wrapper under a layer of dust in the footwell. And the smell - car oil and blue collar sweat and trace cologne underneath. It kicked Dean square in the chest, that smell; flooded him with fragmented memories of this giant who’d come home in the evenings with dirty hands and pink tired eyes but still scoop Dean up in his arms with a big grin and a hey, buddy , spinning him around in the air until Dean was giddy and squealing, and Dad would be red in the face from laughing; and he’d take him out to the yard to kick a ball around before dinner even though he must’ve been exhausted, then at the weekends he’d ferry Dean down to the park and buy him an ice cream as big as his head with his finger on his grinning lips and a whispered, don’t tell your mother. And Dean had felt these memories like a freight train; climbed into the seat where Dad used to sit, and put his hands on the steering wheel Dad used to touch, and then he’d pushed his head against it too, and, alone and unseen, he broke down into the most violent, pathetic sobs of his life.

It’s hard, in the moment, not to do the same again. Hasn't been easy all day. Turns out there's nothing like graduating high school as the only kid in his grade without a father watching to bring it all back.

When he finally brings himself to stop the tape and get out of the car, he feels a little more sober; he can see a faint light still on in the living room. He breathes in a lungful of cooled but still humid night air, and thinks to himself, not for the first time, that he had absolutely no business going out tonight in the first place. If Dean’s feeling Dad’s absence today then god knows how Mom is feeling. But his friends wanted to party, and they wanted Dean to party with them, and they wanted Dean to drink and dance and hit on girls, and Dean just kind of gets swept up in things that way. He remembered wanting it strongly in the way Dean doesn’t usually want things, to do something normal, something kids his age are meant to do. Feel normal, like everyone else, when he felt anything but.

He opens the front door quietly. Sam will be asleep, or maybe awake with his headphones on and a book open under torchlight covers, but either way Dean doesn’t want to disturb him. Sam isn’t speaking to him at the moment. He’s not really speaking to Mom either, but that's just par for the course these days. He's fourteen and he’s sullen and he's angry. Mom says he's going through a phase. 

The light is coming from that gothic looking lamp on the side table. There's a near full bottle of white wine next to it, accompanied by a glass with just dregs left inside. Mom is on the couch, in her silk white night slip, sitting with her bare legs crossed underneath her. Her shoulders rise as Dean comes in,  but she doesn't look up. 

“Mom?”

She runs a hand through her hair, scraped back off her face in the remnants of that pretty updo she spent an hour on before the ceremony, now a little unravelled and wild. 

"Mom?” He tries a smile. “I'm home."

Her arms gather at her waist. She doesn't answer.

From her side profile, Dean can tell enough; her eyes are bleary, bloodshot, from the wine, sure, but Dean knows from the puffiness underneath and the mascara smears on her cheeks that she's been crying. Shit.

"I… I lost track of time. Didn't - uh, I didn't realize how late it was."

"Do you have any idea what's been going through my head, Dean?"

She still doesn't look at him. Like she can't bring herself to. The thought pierces Dean. He hovers, awkward hands by his side. “I'm -”

"I was about to pick up the phone and report you missing. Or dead, maybe. Not like I had any damn way of knowing."

That pit grows; he's never seen Mary this upset.

"Guess it would have killed you to answer your phone, huh? Guess a little courtesy call to let me know you weren't lying dead in a wreck somewhere was too much to ask."

"I - Mom, it won't happen again, I swear. I was - I was with the guys, and -"

“The guys. Sure.” Mary snatches up that wine glass. “But screw me, right? I’m only your mother.”

“Mom, don't - come on. It wasn’t like that.”

Except; it kind of was like that. It kind of was like Dean ignoring the vibrations of his phone, letting her calls go to voicemail unanswered. It was letting the texts that said things like Call me I’m worried and Baby come home its late barely read and unanswered. It took five missed calls in quick succession and a message reading Dean I really need you for Dean to get his ass in the car and drive back. To stop leaving his mother to rot. His loving, doting, widowed mother.

There are often nights like this, with Mom, where she gets all upset. Where Dean has to prise that wine bottle out of her hand and use every one of his learned tricks to get her to go to bed. But Dean doesn’t remember ever being the cause of her misery.

His mother drains the dregs in her glass in one angry gulp. Ignoring Dean. She’s never ignored Dean before. And it's like the world tilts the wrong way. Dean feels panicked, sick.

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

Snippet 2:

“Anyway,” Mary says, “I wanna hear more about the party.”

Dean isn't sure there's much to tell. He spent most of it a few stone’s throws away from the center of the action. He watched dance-offs. He returned hugs from drunk girls and listened to their stories about how Mr Clement is such an asshole and how could he only give me a B?, making consoling noises in the right places. He remembers making himself very, very scarce when a game of seven minutes in heaven broke out. 

Dean asks, “What do you want to know?”

Mary picks up the wine bottle again. “You know, I loved partying when I was your age. It’s so fun, isn’t it? You’re young. You’re excited. All you wanna do is have a good time.”

Theres a smile on her face, but Dean can't quite place it. “I didn't know you used to party.”

Again, probably not the kind of thing a mother shares with her son either. But glimpses of Mary's life before, before Dad, before him and Sammy, are scarcely given, no matter what they look like, and Dean can't help but be obsessed with them when they arise.

“Oh, yeah.” Dean watches her top up her wine; fill the glass almost to the brim. “I went through that phase, honey. Drinking, boys. Sneaking out of the house.”

“Really? You did?”

Dean's half surprised; half thinking about how that's another thing. Sneaking out of the house - from who? From Dean's grandparents? Mom never really talks about them, either. Aside from things like this, as part of something else, a vague implication of their existence; not that they exist anymore, anyway. They died years before Dean was born.

“It's an exciting time,” Mary says. “You've got your whole lives ahead of you. You're at that age where you really believe you're gonna change the world.”

“It's too late to get philosophical, Mom,” Dean says, with a laugh. An apprehensive one.

Mary isn't quite looking at him. “Who was at the party, Dean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean says. “Everyone, I guess.”

“Everyone,” Mary repeats, with this look on her face that Dean can’t quite translate. “Who’s everyone?”

“I don't know. Just - everyone.” Dean laughs a little. Feels like he’s answering the question wrong.

That look doesn’t wane. “You're being very vague, Dean.”

“I'm - not really sure what you want from me here.”

Mary's lips irk up in something that isn't quite a smile. “Were there girls, Dean?”

“Yeah, Mom, of course there were girls. Everyone in our grade was out.” 

“Dean. What I’m getting at - is there a girl?”

A girl. Singular. And Dean guesses there was a girl. Kind of, depending on how you translate these things. He spent about five minutes in the blue part of the evening making out with Lara Stamp tonight; lovely Lara, with her pretty face and her wealthy Dad and her celebrity status popularity, her cheerleading tricks and her hair extensions and her designer perfume, her acrylic nails that kept catching on loose threads in Dean’s shirt when her hands wandered over his body, braver and more unrestrained than Dean’s. They'd been in Isaac Jones’ parents’ bedroom, the lights off, and Dean had tried to finger her a little, but she'd kept mewling and complaining he was hurting her - god, haven't you done this before? - and eventually she'd batted his hand away and she'd seemed annoyed when she'd kissed him again, and it was dry and awkward that time, the fire-fervor burned out. And Dean still doesn’t really know what he did wrong - why she muttered its like you’re somewhere else, Dean, its like youre always somewhere else - why she'd got up without a word and done her bra up again with her back to him, and then she'd said see you around and left, and Dean hadn’t seen her around at all, he hadn't seen her again all night. And Dean remembers going to look for another beer, unable to stop thinking about how strange her pussy had felt around his fingers, the first he’d ever touched, hot and squishy and somehow not like he expected; and he felt like an idiot, and a child, and a disappointment. 

Yeah - after tonight, there’s definitely no girl. 

“There’s no girl, Mom,” Dean confirms, aloud. Well aware of the pause he left before answering.

A faint smile passes Mary’s lips. “I’m not stupid, honey.”

“Mom -”

“Home so late? Didn't hear your phone?"

Mary looks towards her lap; she really thinks she's right, Dean realizes. He wonders if the tears and texts make more sense now. How strange it is that that would cross his mind at all.

"It’s only natural at your age, honey. I thought we don't keep.secrets from each other?”

Dean thinks back to those bank statements. “There’s no girl,” Dean says again. “I'd tell you, Mom, I swear.” 

“Hmm,” Mary drags it out, like she doesn’t quite believe him. That smile gets a little sharper. “Well. I’ve got my eye on you, Dean Winchester.”

“Mom,” Dean tuts. 

But Mary laughs, and takes such a long gulp of her wine that Dean feels a little sick by proxy. “Your father never strayed, Dean. Not once.”

“That's - good.” But of course Dad would never do something like that.

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

Snippet 3

“This is all I always wanted, you know, To have things like this to worry about,”

She says it like she had worse to worry about once. Dean can feel those ceramic angels’ eyes staring into the back of his head from the cabinet, silent and knowing.

Mary’s lip quivers again, and when she takes Dean’s hand, the inside of her palm feels condensation cold. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head a little; a watery smile bursts through. “Nothing, honey. I just keep thinking about you up there today. How grown up and handsome you looked.”

Dean scoffs a bit. Handsome is Brad Pitt  or salt-and-pepper bearded guys, not an awkward kid graduating high school, walking across a rickety stage in ill-fitting hire robes. Fighting the urge to hide his face for his mother's ear splitting cheering, louder than anyone else's. He shouldn’t be embarrassed. He has no reason to be embarrassed.

“I looked like an idiot,” he mumbles.

Mary narrows her eyes. Makes this deep furrow in her brow. “This is what I’m talking about, Dean. You just don’t see what everyone else sees.”

Dean finds himself thinking of the time his homeroom teacher waved him over before first period and handed him a flyer for some after school programme, Self Esteem and Me, telling him quietly that he should think about attending. He’d promptly thrown it in the trash on the way to first period and tried to forget about it. 

And anyway, there’s this way Mary looks at him sometimes, when she’s had too much wine and too much to think; a look that’s unplaceable to anything Dean’s ever experienced. He thinks he knows what it is though; he thinks it’s a mother’s love. Mary says it’s the most powerful thing on the planet. And Dean knows he’s lucky to have it. There aren't many things in life that Dean feels good about, not really, overwhelmingly happy-good anyway. But that? That makes him feel amazing.

Mary touches his hair, gentle as when he was a little kid; runs her hands through it. He leans up into it like a dog, because her love really does feel so good . Like a warm blanket, or a hard drug.  “You know what your father used to say, Dean?”

The mention of Dad is kind of jarring. As felt as he’s been all day, he’s remained unspoken, like he always does on big occasions. Like he always does unless Mary brings him up first. You keep Dad to yourself; you keep him in your head, ignore the elephant, no matter how violently it swings its trunk around. You never know how Mary will react.

Mary doesn't wait for Dean to respond. “He used to watch you for hours. Couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Playing with your toys, reading your books. You used to sound out the letters. Did you know that you taught yourself to read?”

Mary tells him these things sometimes. If you listen to Mary, Dean could tell the time at the ripe old age of eighteen months as well. He scoffs; “Yeah, Mom, sure. I was one of those Hemingway toddlers.” 

“Dean. Listen.”

Dean listens.

“And do you know what he’d say?” Mary’s voice catches a little; her fingers get a bit more insistent in Dean’s hair. “He’d say, look at him. This kid is special. And I know all parents think their kid is special. But we didn’t just think it. We knew it. And - ”

Dean doesn’t hear most of those words. “Dad really used to say that?”

“Yeah,” Mary smiles, watery and weak. “He loved you so much, Dean.”

Dean can see tears crystallizing in her eyes again. He squeezes her hand, harder than he means to, but Mary doesn’t flinch.

“I  only wish he could’ve seen you today. He’d be so damn proud of you.”

“Mom,” Dean whispers. He means to add, don’t cry . Or maybe just, don’t.

Would Dad have yelled the place down too? Would Dad have clapped him on the back and brought him home for a quick illegal beer and told Dean with tears in his eyes, son, I’m so proud of you ? Would Dad remember that time Dean sat in his lap looking at a space book, astronaut, with love in his voice, you work hard, kiddo, and you can be whatever you wanna be. You’re gonna make me so proud of you some day.

“Me and your father,” Mary says, with trembling lips, “we made your bones.”

Mary always says this. Dean doesn’t know exactly what it means, but sometimes it’s just better to let her talk.

“You,” she whispers, “You - you’re all I have left of him.”

“Don’t say that, Mom.” But Dean can see how it’s true. What else is there?

“It’s not fair,” Mary whispers. “It’s just - it’s so damn unfair .”

It is. Unfairness has been a curse on this house, their lives, and as Mary’s voice cracks on the word, Dean feels that like a knife, this blunt, breath-snatching agony in the center of his chest; he hides it from Mom though, because seeing Dean sad only ever upsets her even more. She doesn’t need that tonight; so Dean shoves it down, as Mary lays her head against his, one of her ways of seeking comfort. On his shoulder.

Dean gives it by laying a steadying arm around her. the way he envisioned Dad might do if he were to comfort her, if he had to be strong for her. He feels that delicate warmth under his palm, the way her chest is heaving a little, and he wishes with everything inside him that he knew how to take her pain away. But he can’t.

Dean isn't good at many things in life. But he's good at giving comfort.

He listens to Mary draw a breath. Feels it himself, like the wind. “But hey, Dean. It’s our lot in life, right?”

She calls it that a lot, our lot in life. And Dean thinks about it often; sounds like something you were given, something you can’t help, something you cant change even if you wanted to. That lack of control is terrifying, but there’s something oddly comforting about it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Snippet 4:

They sit there like that for a while. Close, quiet. Dean thumbing away the tears on his mother’s cheeks. Her forehead sticky against his. Her hand gripping his so tight that it smarts, but Dean can handle it. There’s not a sound from upstairs, from outside. Suburban quiet, peaceful and dead still, enough that Dean can hear his breaths, hear Mary’s, out of sync with each other. Dean can feel Dad alright. Billowing around the room like smoke. Multiple sets of his eyes looking out at them from the photographs lining sideboards, cabinets, staring out into this beautiful suburban living room that should’ve been his home forever.

Sometimes it niggles at Dean, that he doesn’t know entirely what happened. When he got a little older, old enough to understand things a little better, he was told Dad died in an accident at work, with the kind of sparse details that hinted he really didn’t want to know them. But Dean has this vague memory, before that, maybe not long after it happened; he was small enough to sit in his mother’s lap still, and he wasn’t speaking, he remembers that; he didn’t speak for a whole year after it happened. But he remembered Mom holding onto him a little bit like now, crying a lot like now, and holding Dean so close his little ribs felt like they’d snap, and she kept whispering over and over, it got him, baby. The demon got him.

And as he’s gotten older Dean has thought back to that moment and how he must be misremembering. How Mom must have said demons plural. As in Dad’s demons got him; that maybe Dad made the accident happen, on purpose, to pulverize those demons along with his body.  He wonders though; what those demons were. He knows Dad was a veteran. Mary keeps his dog tags on the shelf with his photos. Could be something to do with that, maybe. 

Or something different entirely. Dean remembers Mom and Dad fighting sometimes. He remembers it getting worse after Sammy was born. He remembers being woken up by the sound of Sammy’s fitful newborn cries, underpinned by stage whispers, clearly not for his ears, but Dean could hear them, harsh and venomous, and then the whispers would stop altogether and there’d be yelling, there’d be words that Dean knew were curse words, then a door would slam and Dean would hear the Impala starting up in the driveway, and then he’d hear a rattle, like Mom was kicking or punching something, and he’d clutch his tatty blue teddybear close to his chest and not be able to sleep until he heard Dad come back again. He remembers this fear, this loud, cold fear, that Dad might not come back at all. 

It happened.

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

Snippet 5:

“Please, Dean?” A wan, slightly pleading smile. “I don’t wanna be alone right now. Can we just stay up and talk or something?”

Her voice cracks, and Dean can’t bear it. And besides; he knows his mother is incredibly, desperately lonely. The air in the room is warm, musky, balmy air filtering in through the open window. Smells fresh, intertwines with the Fresh Linen and Orange Blossom reed diffusers Mary has on her shelves. The traces of Diorella perfume on Mary’s body, all she’ll ever wear, because Dad loved the smell. It’s so - it’s all so comforting to Dean. All he’s ever known.

He smooths her hair out of her face; “Alright, Mom. I’ll - we can talk. Sure.”

There’s a new flush of life on her face, like she’s reanimated. “Lay down with me, Dean?”

Dean can’t explain his hesitation to himself. The words hitting him wrong again. It won’t be the first time he’s had to sleep next to her. Making sure she doesn’t aspirate on her own vomit, if she’s been throwing up for reasons she attributes to anything but alcohol or medication, or when he hears her having one of her nightmares, the really bad kind where she cries out in her sleep. And as Mary hoists herself up on the bed, shifts over clumsily to make room for Dean, he thinks about Sam - it’s weird, the two of you are weird, and no, we’re not , he snaps back at him in his mind. Sam just doesn’t understand, doesn’t even know he’s fucking born.

And with that in mind, Dean shrugs it off and carries on taking care of his mother. Climbs up onto the bed, with its Febreze locked into the fibres, the smell of Mary’s citrus shampoo on the pillows; and Mary’s facing him and leaning on an elbow, and she shifts a little closer on the mattress, until her bare calves are brushing against Dean’s.

Everything is very, very quiet. So quiet that Dean can hear the blood go solid in his veins. Dad’s blood. Dad’s bones. We made your bones.

So quiet that he can hear the elevation in Mary’s breath. Hear the whisper of his shirt under Mary’s fingers as she runs them down his chest. There’s a different quality to her wine-spaced eyes, a quality Dean recognizes; the way Lara Stamp looked at him earlier before he let her down. Adjacent to the feeling stirring the hairs on the back of his neck when he’d sense his gym coach staring at him sometimes. Maybe not the first time Mary has looked at him that way, if Dean is really honest with himself, especially not on nights like this; there’s an amnesia block on that look , whenever it isnt happening.

But this is different. This is the first time Dean can really see the shiver rolling through his mother’s body.

Mom’s lips part. “Promise that no matter what - you’d never leave me?”

“I’m - Mom, are you with me? You know I’m -”

Not Dad dies on his tongue. Mary is with him alright.

There’s a strangeness to it that makes the world feel off kilter, upside down, and entirely changed in just a second; and he watches Mary’s lips flutter. “Can I show you something, Dean?”

She cups Dean’s face in her hand and leans in close, so close; and she doesn’t wait for an answer. Mary’s lips taste like ethanol and sugar, and her little gasp snags on the corner of Dean’s mouth; and her tongue is - god - Mary’s tongue is on his, plush wet and insistent; and there’s this heat-rush in Dean’s blood, this sense of the body he feels indifferent to and disconnected from most of the time switching on in a way it never has before.

He makes a choked sound. He might actually be choking. It’s panic; it’s something more complicated. And Mary draws back immediately, and her face is burst capillary flushed and her breaths are rough and she looks so pretty and fragile and she’s everything, she’s everything to Dean, and he’d do anything for her, and he’s mixed up and sick with it, and maybe that’s why he’s shaking, an earthquake in his bones -

“It’s okay,” Mary whispers, hands running manically through his hair. “Don’t be scared, baby. It’s okay.”

She whispers it over and over, like a prayer, like a mantra; hooks a leg over his waist, presses her chest up to his, and Dean can feel the press of her tits, her crotch. Her - her cunt .

His head is spinning. It’s moving fast, fast . Mary rolls her hips, slow, shudders through her lips; insistent press into Dean’s dick, rush of cotton-denim friction -

“Dean,” Mary sighs, eyes devil dark, both hands on his face, “Have you ever fucked a girl before, Dean?”

“N-no,” Dean stutters out. 

It’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud; and he’s sure the shame of that shows on his face, but Mary would never judge him, never think less of him for anything; and Mary just lets out this long breath and says, “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll show you.”

It occurs to Dean that maybe Mary seems more sober than she did just now; and he lets her take his hand, he lets her, Dean lets her; he watches her parted lips brush over his fingers like they aren’t his.

“I’ll show you,” Mary says again, breathless. “Just relax. Let Mommy show you, okay?”

“O-okay,” Dean chokes again as Mary’s lips close around his fingertips, and she holds his gaze as she suckles around them gently; her mouth feels soft and hot, and the sensation is new to Dean, alien, and he can’t decide what he feels for it. Mary gasps; and Dean watches, watches the glisten of saliva that isn’t his on his fingers, watches Mary move his hand between her legs. Beneath her white slip, she’s been wearing white all day; she's not wearing panties.

Mary’s eyes roll. “You feel that?” 

Dean does. Silk heat, wiry hair. Wet. She feels different to Lara. 

A sound catches in his throat.

“Touch me,” she breathes out, millimetres from his lips. “It’s okay. I want you to.”

“Mom,” Dean stutters back, and no, and don't just won’t quite follow; and Mary catches it on her mouth, and her kiss is so rough this time that Dean’s blood hums and his hips jerk; and he can feel Mary’s hands, on his shoulders, on his chest, hear her moan dragging against his teeth, and then heat-air hits his chest, she’s getting his shirt open; and Dean’s supposed to be touching , so that’s what he does. Blindly drags his saliva-wet fingers across Mary’s folds, her gasp like an electric shock; lips going slack against his as he cautiously pushes one inside. Silk soft clutch, and Dean isn’t sure what to do, whether he’s supposed to move it or what; but then Mary growls, fists his half-open shirt, and Dean’s breath catches for the drag of teeth against his lower lip.

“God, now,” she mutters. “Dean, I need you now.”

And it happens fast, it happens so so fucking fast ; Dean’s body is stiff and puppet-like all at once, and the light in the room is too bright, those laundry-perfume scents in his throat, and he’s staring up at Mary, straddling his hips, her eyes closed as she tugs at his belt buckle, the zipper on his jeans; the hiss of it hits Dean’s back teeth. And something washes over him, then; like a feverish waking dream. Looming vivid images of himself loading up the Impala at the quiet crack of dawn, filling the trunk, backseats, with labelled cardboard boxes, a college acceptance letter in the glove compartment on top of the photograph of his family and his enrolment paperwork. Parties, people from different states and countries, coffee shops and lecture halls; and Dean would change, he’d grow, he’d find himself , that’s what his teachers kept saying about college, that you find yourself there; and maybe Dean would meet a beautiful girl who was studying law or medicine or something, and on graduation day he’d propose to her and give a spiel about her being the love of his life, down on one knee outside the lecture hall where they first met, and she’d cry and jump and say yes, yes , and there’d be a beautiful wedding and Dean would get onto a graduate scheme and go to work in a suit and they’d go for fancy dinners and they’d travel, they’d live the kind of life his friends want. Although it wouldn’t even need to be that fancy; Dean could stay in Lawrence, he could move out now, he could get a job as a bartender or a bricklayer and rent a shitty apartment, he could run into Lara Stamp at the mall or the gas station one day on accident and end up reconnecting, and she’d give him another chance, and he’d blink and he’d be married, and her rich Daddy would buy them a beautiful house in an upmarket neighbourhood, and they’d have three beautiful babies who’d go to private school and go on to do great things, and Dean would be stable, life would be stable, and Lara would age beautifully and he’d be the kind and steady glue man-of-the-house holding it all together, and it would be a damn fucking good apple pie life.

But that’s not Dean’s life, because his father is dead, and his home is sad and broken, and his baby brother’s got the devil in him these days, and his mother needs him louder than the oxygen in her blood. And Dean thinks back to that drink-drive video Miss Osterberg showed, the deaths, the injuries, the statistics. Thinks about what it would be like if Dean became one of them, if he’d given into careless driving and veered off the road and if his car had rolled over three times and caught fire, and it’d be gruesome and bloody, and god, what would happen if Dean never made it home at all -

But he did, and now this is happening. His dick is bare, it’s hard and his mother’s hand is on it, her other hand on his chest, and she’s bared over him, bracing herself, and her hair is in his face, and this is fucking happening ; and Dean’s panting and still, and Mary’s face is close to his, and she’s panting too; and if Dean is crying a little, no one seems willing to point it out, least of all himself.

“I love you,” she whispers, tender like a promise, gut-suck horrifying; “I love you so much, my sweet baby boy.”

And Dean clings to that. Clings to Mary, to her hips, unsure what to do with his hands, as she sinks down onto his cock, silk-hot-clutch, god, brand new sensation, scrambles Dean’s head, he’s never felt anything like it; and Mary’s eyes flutter closed, she moans, pitchy-loud, a sound Dean should never know. But it can’t hurt when you’re nothing, and you don’t know what you want.

“Love you,” she gasps again, head tilting back, “fuck, love you so much.”

Dean can feel himself getting harder. Feel his body taking over, pushing him deeper inside himself, building a wall between him and how fucking good his mother feels inside. Her head tilting back like an exorcism, her mouth open, as she rocks on top of him, her hands grabbing, up in his shirt, his hair, her mouth open; and those cries are words sometimes, they’re cries of fuck and Dean and sometimes they’re cries of John , they blur up, and Dean feels heavy and far away; and it doesn’t matter who Mary’s calling for anyway, because Dean is both blank canvas and magic mirror, he’s made of fragments that don’t make a whole, and it just doesn’t matter. It’s his lot in life.

#deanmary #mary live john dies au #unedited #preseries #butterfly effect #tw non con

[give-soup-please]

So... why do you like the narrator so much?

oh- oh bud, you've opened a can of worms here.

first, his ego. i dunno how it was accomplished, but somehow he comes off as charming more than anyone else. he boasts about how great his own work is, and instead of being repulsed or rolling my eyes (which is usually what happens when i run across egotistical characters) i am thinking to myself, 'yeah! praise your own work! you deserve it!' dude's got an ego the size of a planet, and it's hilarious.

secondly, his earnestness. he wants more than anything else, to pull of a successful story and receive adoration from an audience. if you mess around in the expo long enough he'll talk about how he has so many things he wants to show 'you' (interpretation is in the air on whether or not he's talking to stanley, or us. or both?) he wants this story of his to work so bad, and at his more tender moments (like the memory zone pre... horrors... he genuinely wants to make his audience happy. and speaking of tenderness-

third, that secret hidden side of him. now, this is open to interpretation more than anything else, but there are moments- very small and easily missable moments- that proves this guy has a heart of some kind. when he talks about being happy during the zending, him letting us into an area- THAT HE HID FROM THE DEVELOPERS!!!!!- the fucking french song about the memory zone?????? there is something honest to god tender in him that makes me go feral. i always wonder how he'd operate as a friend to someone outside the context of the parable, which is one of the focus points of the longfic of mine.

fourth, his voice. Kevan Brighting really knocked the performance out of the park, and his range is undeniable. they found a VA who can be sweet, manipulative, malicious, and snarky without overdoing it. he has the range, darling. and uh- y'know,,, i've always loved someone who can rock a nice baritone. goddamn. zoo wee, his voice is lovely, and i could listen to it all day. not everyone liked ultra deluxe for one reason or another, but i was just overjoyed to get more dialogue from him. i think there's two, maybe three hours of extra content, and oooooogh, it really filled a need.

fifth, his snark and sarcasm. i could talk at length all day about this aspect of him. he's so goddamn funny. the way he repeatedly roasts us is fantastic, and driving him off script again and again is a never ending source of entertainment for someone who tends to overreact to characters getting 'burned'. you should have seen me the first time i read pride and prejudice, there are some delicious moments of snark that i used to shout about.

sixth, he's a fucking dork with a poor understanding of humanity. from the uranium line in the demo to the guitar song when you fall out of a window, this dude is a dramatic dork, and i love him for it. this goes hand in hand with his people pleasing tendencies, and i just wanna hug him so bad.

seventh, his relatability. i write a lot, and some struggles are universal among writers. his desire for praise, his frustrations when a script doesn't go to plan, and at the end of the figurine ending, when he talks about his need for companionship and loneliness? as someone who doesn't socialize IRL that often, and who has used fictional characters as both a means of escape and as company during rough times in my life, i've never felt a click that strong with a character before. i felt like i understood him so well in that moment.

eighth, (8!) i just empathize with him so much. the poor bastard is stuck in an eternal loop, doomed by the narrative that he himself constructed. this dude desires freedom so much but can never quite have it due to the structure of his story and his own flaws of being unable to let go- (both his story and negative feedback)- he's an utterly tragic character which is why my fic focuses on giving him an actual happy ending.

anyway, there's eight reasons for you. give me a few hours and i'm sure i could come up with eight more.

someone needs to give this dude a blanket and a hot drink. he's been through too much. and truth be told, besides his overly antagonistic side which crops up in a few endings, i don't think there's a single aspect of him i don't like. i dunno man, i'm pretty soft hearted, and there are days i just want to give him a hug and say, 'you are so loved, you have no idea. you have millions of fans, and i'm one of your biggest'

he's my blorbo, my scrungly, my scrimblo, my beloved, my anchor. 10/10, best boy.

#tsp #the stanley parable #narrator #tsp narrator

[shadowthief78]

Thoughts about Ego’s Backstory

Warnings for manga spoilers for Blue Lock below the cut!

So Ego is obviously one of the driving forces behind Blue Lock: he’s the organizer, the head coach, and I’m willing to bet he probably designed a good portion of the building/Blue Lock holograms/etc as well. But for such a majorly impactful character, we really don’t know much about him.

What we do know is:

He had a restricted diet sometime in the past

He has some kind of old friendship with Noel Noa

He used to have a job that required a special diet (possibly an athlete)

Above: Proof that Ego had some kind of career in the past that restricted his diet so he couldn’t eat instant ramen.

Above: Proof that Noa and Ego knew each other before Blue Lock.

I would like to put forth the consideration that his backstory went something like this:

Very talented athlete, went overseas because Japan was too small for him (much like Sae Itoshi), met Noel Noa along the way, failed to score a winning/somehow very important goal, returned to Japan and faded into obscurity until Anri hired him for the Blue Lock Project.

Here’s why I think that, and also take this with salt because it’s really mostly circumstansial evidence.

Firstly, in chapter one. The imagination story that Ego gives: pass or not at the World Cup? Maybe he’s just being imaginative but from what has been shown, Ego isn’t the kind of person to tell stories for the sake of stories. They’re always an allegory, like the famous “luck is bird shit” one. Is Ego drawing form parsonal experience?

Now, I’m not necessarily sure that he’s played in the World Cup. It might have been another game. But the possibility is there.

I also find the following page intersting: even though Isagi is speaking/narrating the “nameless striker” part, Ego is the focus of that panel. Heck, Isagi hardly earns a spot this page! This might be me just not noticing a lot of things, but it seems odd that Isagi referring to himself is superimposed over Ego and not, say, a picture of Isagi having lost. So, is/was Ego also some “nameless striker”?

What really made me consider all this was the panel below, from ch56, when Ego is explaining to the JFA why Blue Lock is necessary instead of just natural talent growth. Again, this might be a strech, but I don’t think it’s too far off to say that Ego might have experienced something very similar.

Afew pages after, we get this shot: Buratsuta saying failure isn’t allowed and Ego without a snarky comaback, for once? I do think this speaks to Ego having some failure in his past that impacted his philosophy of Blue Lock today.

And finally, Ego is so careless about his life after Blue Lock. Take a look at these three pages in Ch 131:

Ego doesn’t care! He’s giving up! He’s completely abandoning the one single thing he’s spent months or possibly even years building and defending!

Why?

What could have possibly affecte him to the point of willingly and knowingly giving up on something he’s spent countless hours designing the best possible training regimen for?

Listen, I really think Ego wants to help the Blue Lock participants succeed where he couldn’t. That’s why he calls them “lumps of talent,” “diamonds in the rough,” etc. Yeah, he does it kind of insultingly, but those things... they aren’t bad at all?

And it’s also worth mentioning that in the three panels, he’s basically lying. Not about the end of Blue Lock, I do think he was genuine about that part, but about the whole premise fo Blue Lock. He said right at the beginning that 299 out of 300 would die (more or less as a metaphor but, still...) but here he’s planned for the future of the remaining Blue Lock members. I don’t know if this was a lie all along or he planned it this way, but his promise of making a single #1 striker would have been broken here had Isagi not refused to accept this future.

Anyways. Ego is such an enigma and I really want more of his backstory. Maybe someone smarter than me has said this all before and I’ve just given an incomplete summary. My brain is shot after all this.

#puffin says stuff #blue lock #ego jinpachi #bllk

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia,

Behind-the-scenes-fic-ask, number 21 and falling falling stars please ❤️

21. What is something you didn't expect people to notice or gravitate towards in this fic?

Ooooo, okay, actually quite a few things!

So the biggest one is that I just never expected to have Dr Gary be anything more than an extremely minor character that Efnisien mostly reflected on. I never planned to write whole sessions, and the first one was only a section of a chapter rather than a whole chapter, because I thought readers would hate it.

I actually really hate reading a lot of fictional therapy sessions, especially when that's not the focus of the fic. Most fictional therapy sessions read like 'therapist is narrating pop psychology and telling this character everything they want to hear and they're subbing in for a kind parental figure' at best.

There are exceptions to that, but for the most part, I find that boring - it feels like a kind of writing that is not quite lazy, but a bit 'there are other more interesting ways to share this.' Therapists don't feel like real people in those circumstances, with their own motives, thoughts, intentions and drives. They feel like an extended part of the character's brain, or they feel like an empty function.

But Dr Gary was like, was a hit. I was getting a lot of asks about him, a lot of interest about him in the comments, and in the first few chapters, me and my beta actually kind of shipped him and Efnisien together before he met Arden (that's how we ended up with Underline the Black lol).

So yeah, that's the biggest one!!! And that one is a pretty big one. :D

Otherwise, I was also surprised by (but maybe shouldn't have been) how many Kadek/Efnisien shippers there are and Kadek/Efnisien/Arden shippers. I was like...hmm...how can I put this - Kadek has darker brown skin, and in those cases some readers don't really go for that chemistry. He's also 20~ years older than Efnisien, though he doesn't act like it, lol. Like, I personally shipped them even though I wasn't going to write them into the main story, but I was very reserved/aware that people might not want that. Especially with how confrontational and sometimes even mean Kadek can be.

Honestly that was like, probably the nicest surprise. It wasn't that I expected people to be awful, often I try and go in with fairly open expectations, it was more like I was prepared for people to not feel/see what I was feeling/seeing about a character. And I was okay with that, because he's a side character. But we got way, way more scenes with Kadek because of how people responded to him.

This story really couldn't have been what it became without the readers! The best part about not planning a story is I can follow the kind of momentum of readers. I don't believe in caving to fanservicey stuff, but I do believe in 'oh you're open to this? I can give you more of this!' or 'oh you like him!!! Yay!! I do too! Let's experiment with a whole therapy session chapter and see how y'all feel about it.'

:D That's my favourite part of writing, honestly. I actually kind of feel bad for the people who don't read fics as they go like this, and just read it all when it's completed at the end. Because they miss this kind of alive creation of this ongoing story, and they miss being a part of it. And obviously they also miss the agony of waiting for chapters, but as someone who reads WIPs myself, idk there's something very cool about seeing something come to life - especially like, if say early on you are like 'I love this character so much' and then a bunch of other people say it, and then the author is like 'well this character can make the story stronger so good news everyone, I'm putting him in more because you all love him so much.'

That's... like... *chef's kiss*

~

From this meme!

#asks and answers #memey goodness #falling falling stars #dr gary konowalous #kadek setiawan #initially kadek was quite a lazy character for me in that #he was very loosely based on a good friend of mine #and then it was like oh let's... #let's really do this #efnisien would never have gotten that piano as a gift from kadek #if it wasn't for y'all and i appreciate that

[tinylongwing]

I hope it's okay to ask Lord Huron questions on this blog.

Is Buck the narrator for all three most recent "lore albums" or something? I don't know how Lonesome Dreams fits into the storyline, but I might be wrong, and I'm pretty sure the movie soundtrack doesn't. I'm pretty sure he's the narrator for at least Vide Noir, but I'm not sure how he fits in with Long Lost.

If Buck is Strange Trails' narrator, he's not the only one, because Hurricane is from Johnnie's, and The World Ender is from Cobb Avery's. The Yawning Grave seems to be told by some malevolent, omniscient, ancient entity I don't really have a name for, but seems an awful lot like whatever Ender was summoned in Secrets of Life. It's almost like a camera pan effect with the transition to Frozen Pines, almost as if the focus is being shifted to a different character. I'm not entirely sure who that character is, and I'm not all up to date on the lore yet.

There's such a heavy focus on darkness being bad in Strange Trails, and then as far as I know, Vide Noir(the album) is about a guy, Buck Vernon, abusing a substance literally named Black Void, and trying to find his fiancee. Frozen Pines feels like Buck coming back to himself after taking Vide Noir, it basically references the Emerald Star without actually referencing it. It's like Buck talking to Lee; he'll be waiting for her, he's gonna look for her everywhere, etc.

Relistening to Strange Trails specifically looking for Vide Noir references, after Meet Me in the Woods there is SUCH a tone shift, and it starts referencing how he can't go back from the darkness, or how everything she touches turns to back.

This whole exposition has morphed into me actually asking if Vide Noir and Strange Trails are the same story from different perspectives or in different settings. Apologies for the rambling.

It is very okay! It is more than okay, it's great and I would answer Lord Huron questions every day all day if more people did this. ;)

I'm impressed with how much of this you've worked through pretty damn close to accurately without having checked the wiki or watched the movie, haha. I definitely recommend doing both as most of your questions here, the ones we have answers to anyway, will get answered.

But in short, without rewriting the entire wiki for you:

Strange Trails, Vide Noir, and Long Lost are all in the same universe with shared characters that weave in and out of those albums and there are many narrators among them. Buck Vernon is probably the closest thing to a main protagonist since his narration features heavily in Strange Trails and Vide Noir, but he's absent from Long Lost (well, as far as anyone can tell anyway).

Strange Trails is sort of like a loose connection of stories that establish a lot of the strange things and the characters in that universe and start us off learning about Buck and Lee and their relationship, but we also get a lot from Frankie Lou, the World Enders, and a handful of others. Some of the songs narrated by one character about their life in-universe tell stories that are shared in common with other characters (and the music video for The Night We Met in particular shows us this well - that song is by Frankie Lou and appears to be describing her doomed relationship with Z'Oiseau, but the video primarily focuses on Buck on his drive west toward California to find Lee).

Vide Noir is slightly more linear and slightly more focused on Buck specifically, except for where it's nonlinear and also has a whole bunch of World Enders/Phantom Riders narration which probably is doing the dual purpose thing again, describing what they're up to while also "coincidentally" helping describe Buck's confusion, anger, and anguish as he searches for Lee, gets black-brained and survives, and finds Lee only to learn that yes she did mean to leave him and she doesn't love him.

But you're absolutely right to dive back in to Strange Trails and look for references to vide noir because they're everywhere - Meet Me in the Woods is a great example of this, though it's primarily describing Frankie's experience with the drug in that case.

The Strange Trails album liner notes were very specific about which songs were performed by which characters and who the narration is supposed to be, so I recommend checking that out in the wiki as a starting point. Vide Noir didn't give us that so it has mostly been a matter of interpretation (though it's easy-ish to sort out which are performed by the Buck Vernon Band and which are performed by the Phantom Riders - but if there are other narrators in there it's still not totally clear and Moonbeam is sort of an odd track out in particular).

Long Lost mostly has told us which characters performed which songs again, which is nice and helpful! And the music/lyric videos have been a big help yet again, as has Alive from Whispering Pines, which obviously also deserves a watch if you haven't seen that series yet.

Anyway, hope this helps - I know some of it boils down to "time to read the wiki" but it just saves me from having to re-type the wiki, haha.

#lord huron #hey folks do you need a christmas gift idea for me? #just send asks my way #I won't divert to the wiki every time I promise #I still wish I had the time and energy to essay about the world enders #instead of keeping it all in my head where it only escapes in little doodles

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Story Theory: Detail v. Description

So yes, it varies worldwide and by different contexts.

I first posted this on Nanowrimo, which then got used on Writing Excuses by Brandon Sanderson. So I think it's fair to steal it back. As I said, I LOVE extended analogies and at the time no one was making a distinction and a lot of people don't.

Up front: Neither are evil. They are both tools in the toolbox, and how you use them is important. Yes, it varies by context, country, etc. So yes, there are judgment calls.

Definitions

Description is a long introductory paragraph which might carry an emotion, but often doesn't really have the character in it.

Detail is integrated bits of stick-out information.

Analogy

If you have a car, you don't need to know exactly how the carburetor works, what the model of the engine is, what color the exhaust pipe is. But you might want to know that it is red and has flame decals, especially, say if it's a mystery and that's a KEY bit of information to crack the case. If you describe the car, then you're getting every last bit about the make model, the carburetor, etc. That's a description.

But if you're getting the detail, then that's the flame decals.

Theories on how to apply these tools and when to cut.

Description is usually used for slow action, taking a breath, discovery, to slow action down, and generally to set up scenery. Sometimes it's used to set up a character that's new to the narrating character. The key here is that the character must be new to the narrating character, not to the reader.

You cut it when it's the opposite. You want to speed up the action. You don't want to take a breath. It's all action, morality, or conflict. And you aren't setting up scenery/scenery is not key yet.

Detail is a quick in and out of something that is DIFFERENT or STICKS OUT.

Hey, your friend is wearing is bright green sweater, you're going to notice that.

Why cut it all out?

The person has a sensory disability. (I'd urge you to up the other information the character does have in this case)

The person isn't very self aware of anything.

The character narrating isn't very observant, or only observant in certain situations (ADHD and hyper focus can be played with this way)

The character is super self-absorbed

Likewise, if the character is observant, very self-aware, very tuned into others, then these things should increase, BUT when you pick it out, make sure it has purpose. Like the little bit of cereal on his collar and baby food on his shirt pocket tells you he's struggling with his baby.

Examples

Description:

MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies’ eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde’s Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof. --Anne of Green Gables, opening line.

This also characterizes Mrs. Lynde.

Detail:

And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there? --Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery

The bolded bits are details, because they stick out to the narrating character, Mrs Lynde.

What should description and detail include?

It's best to include these with an emotion attached, instead of listing them off.

So it's not chocolate chip cookies.

It's grandmother's chocolate chip cookies she made every Sunday without fail. Eating the gooey center made me cry as I stared at the recipe again in her dusty recipe box.

Aim the detail/description at an emotion, or at least towards your story driver. You can see that in even the Anne of Green Gables passage. There is a non-stated emotion in the first paragraph.

With emotion, BTW, doesn't mean writing the previous as,

I ate grandmother's chocolate chip cookies and I felt sad. I looked at the dusty recipe box.

No. Don't tell the emotion. Show the unique way your character has it. Because another character Might face a similar situation and sniff bravely.

Sensory information:

Sight

Color, texture, props, items.

Taste

salty, umame, sweet, aromas, bitter, etc.

C'mon leverage your literary super power as a novel writer.

Hearing

This is often good to combine with sight. For example, the creak of the wooden wheels ad the gravel crunched below in the grand courtyard.

Smell

People who don't go outside forget the smell of everything except food. People *smell*. Flowers smell like things. Smells are carried on the wind. You can't do this in movies, but you can in books. Make your character have this experience.

Touch

Smooth, rough, velvety? Up this for books. Make those screenwriters hate you.

Interoception- sensations from inside the body Belly grumbled with hunger. So tired. Headache.

Vestibular sense (balance) Is the character balanced all of the time?

Time information

What time of day is it? What time of year is it?

Place information

I'm guilty of forgetting to include the setting. But also, you should include where your character is in space. If you're lost, then draw a map with an x and colored pencils every time you move the character.

I also cheat by using programs like Sketch up, the Sims, etc. Make sure your characters don't jump in space. Color code as needed.

If they are up a mountain, down a mountain, about to cross a river, all of these should have a cascading effect on the character and the interactions. Don't forget that the place information should influence how the dialogue is said.

Weather. Don't forget what season it is. If it's sunny all of the time, I'm suspicious, especially if you've set it in England. WTH. Make sure your weather patterns match.

Dreary rain. Sunny. Snowing.

What do characters look like? What are their expressions?

Don't tell what the emotions are. Talk me through how they usually are when they are sad, or playing more than one emotion at a time. If you're limited on time, push it through dialogue.

What does the clothing, food, or customs look like?

The white shirt up there, for example is fast.

So across cultures this varies a bit.

Long descriptions of scenery is more Chinese, as well as describing the characters who usually get long info. Tone set up is usually done by description in traditional Zuni tales.

In Korean, there might be a setting set up with tone and theme attached.

Descriptions might be longer in Japanese works to set up a certain mood.

But I think it's worth it to look at those cultures and how they are pulling it off and what techniques you can learn from them doing it that way. What does the story gain, what does it communicate, how do you feel? How do people of that culture feel about the work? If you're a writer you need to be concerned about more than yourself when it comes to techniques.

Generally, when you're faced with a work that's unfamiliar, try to feel out what it's trying to accomplish by doing it that way and you learn much more than by rejecting it.

But imagine you could be masterful enough to have a scenery description that could set up mood, tone, voice of the story, and the theme all at once because you combed through other people's techniques to arrive there. Wouldn't you feel smug especially if you managed to do all of that in 40 words or less? (English, granted). I think I would.

#story theory #writing advice #writing

[strawbrygashez]

hii! if tyler and the narrator went on vacation where do you think they would go? and how do you think they would act? eg the narrator stressing about making sure he has packed everything etc (hope your doing okay!!)

Thank u!!! I’ll probably feel better later on 🥲🥲I just need to focus on other stuff so I don’t think too hard about what happened lolll SO ANYWAYS

I THINK… they wouldn’t have any places shared they’d wanna go in mind. What I mean by that is like Tyler wants to go to small towns and random states for no particular place to see or stay, while the narrator would wanna go to the places that are advertised as ur usual ideal vacation spots.

Not that narrator wants to feel like he’s living lavishly again (tho he lowkey likes taking small breaks from their house that’s falling apart) but he does wanna treat Tyler to amazing views, places and luxury even tho Tyler would ‘hate’ hearing that lol. So like Tyler would say he wants to go to texas while the narrator would say he wants to go Hawaii.

-

•Jack would definitely get stressed a bit about making sure they both have packed everything.. but I feel like at least once Tyler has told him to “stop worrying man! Just live!!!” And Jack listened.. and that happened to be the trip where they both left a bunch of important things at home. Plus I think Jack would pack Tylers bag for him because Tyler ‘doesn’t care’.. so Tyler is without clean socks, boxers and his small amount of self care products. Which would probably earn Jack a smack on the back of his head and Tyler acting cold to him for a bit smh 🤦‍♀️

•Tyler would wanna take a lot of pictures!!! Of himself, Jack, them together, weird shit they see, and etc. he probably took pictures that don’t even make any sense too like a zoom in of one of Jacks eyes 🤨 He really loves filming and taking pictures I think!!!!!!! Maybe that’s part of the reason he works in a movie theater…he’d wanna do something where he could film/take pictures as a job but just never really went out of his way to go down that path for some reason. (Sorry im getting off track & rambling lol)

Anyways he has a picture binder thing he stole that he keeps all the pictures in! And will talk about them all & show them off to anyone even if they don’t care lol.

•Jack would take a little souvenir if he could. Like the stuff you buy. But Tyler wouldn’t like that so Narrator just takes like a small rock off the ground somewhere and maybe hides that he did from him 💀 bc Tyler and his rants about possessions.

Tyler allowed himself ONCE to get one of those keychain things that has random names on it because he found one that said Tyler that was hot pink and glittery.

•Tyler loves to try new food from different places! Jack sticks to things that are familiar to him bc autism but Tyler loves ordering just anything that sounds interesting or new (also bc Tyler has AUTISM! He likes to seek out new sensory stuff while Jack likes to stay with what he knows)

•Assuming if they just drove somewhere together, Tyler is obviously the one driving while Jack is doing everything else. Passing him snacks (and probably feeding him), reading directions, changing the music, ‘keeping him awake’ by uh… being a little handsy and uhh uhm I won’t say what else 👀👀 BUT YEAH he’s doing everything while Tyler drives.

Tyler honestly gets kinda mad that Jack doesn’t trust him driving.. he only crashed a car once on purpose… Jeez 🙄

#asks #sorry if this doesn’t make sense or reads weird I’m kinda all jumbled up in my head rn 🥲🥲 #and it’s kinda short.. I might talk more about this kinda a stuff later!