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foxgloveinspace · 4 years

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Andrew Minyard is ADHD:

I said I would only really write this if people were interested, but I lied, lol. WAIT One person liked the og post while I was typing this, so there's interest and it’s justified! Lol.

Ok, I’ve seen other posts talking about this, but some of them used some things that I didn’t agree with, so I’m gonna do my own.

I wanna set the preface of, if you see Andrew as ADHD, awesome! If you don’t, that's great too! In reality, this is all speculation, and self projecting, and my desire for actually good representation of ADHD characters that are not stereotypical, so if you see Andrew as something different, that is completely and totally a-okay.

-ADHD has three types, inattentive (formally known as ADD), hyperactive (previously just ADHD) and combined type. Some people prefer calling it Executive Function Disorder (EFD), because Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder describes how it affects people around ADHDers, more than it affects ADHDers. For the sake of this, I’m going to refer to it as ADHD, because it’s more commonly known, and it’s what I call it for myself. I also acknowledge that according to the timeline, Andrew would probably be diagnosed with ADD (if he ever got diagnosed, that is, which I don’t know if he would or not). Please keep all this information in mind.

Things that would be explained if Andrew was ADHD:

Instead of reason’s I think Andrew is adhd in canon, I mostly have thing’s I think could be explained if he was:

-Why he ‘hates’ exy:

This is a big reason in my mind, he is very insistent he doesn’t like exy and I can explain why he actually doesn’t with him being ADHD.

He started playing in juvie, as something to do, it’s a good way to completely clear his mind and concentrate on something that he is actually good at, which is instant gratification, it's something ADHDer’s experience a lot. It’s one of the main reasons ADHDer’s love video games (if your curious there are videos on youtube explaining this. I am ADHD and this is already overwhelming enough for me than trying to explain this as well).

Andrew only tries at exy when he is in the goal, otherwise he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it. He doesn’t care about stats of other teams, or watching other peoples games, it’s only interesting to him when he’s in the goal or when other people make bets/dares with him; “can you shut down the goal?” “pick a number” playing while coming down from his meds for a long period of time, things like that. Making it interesting, keeping himself engaged with it, is a big thing for him. Again, instant gratification. And also an explanation for why outside of the court, when people try to talk to him about the sport, he doesn’t care, he ‘hates’ it. Cause he does. He hates talking about, that doesn’t interest him. It’s boring and not what gives his brain satisfaction within the sport itself.

-Spending habits (TW: Not sure how to tag this tbh, but Andrew being prepared to die? I’ll put it in double parentheses, just incase):

((While I am of the firm belief that the number one reason that Andrew bought the first car is cause he completely wasn't expecting to live through the crash and then had no idea what to do with that amount of money when he wasn't expecting to live)), ADHD would also explain why he buys such expensive stuff. Again, it's instant gratification. It's like trying to tell yourself to wait for something you really want as an award. What's the point when you can have it now? He goes out and buys the most expensive cars he can cause it scratches that itch in his brain.

- Subcategory to spending, Daredevil:

It could also have to do with going fast. Most 'daredevils' are actually ADHDers. Going fast and doing daring things triggers chemicals in our brains, same as hyperfixations and instant gratification. In fact, that could also be a reason for sparing with Renee as well.

-Zoning out:

Ask any ADHDer about maladaptive daydreaming, and dissociating. Andrew has been known in canon to lose himself in thought a lot, and stare out in space for extended periods of time. This is very common with ADHD, and while it’s a small thing, it’s something I think about quite a bit, and so I included it.

-Loud Music:

Another way to drown out your own thoughts is to listen to music, and a lot of ADHDers like loud music. Andrew likes loud music while driving fast. This is very ADHD to me.

-His major:

I think this is something else that can be explained with ADHD, as a hyperfixation. Its not something he wants to do with his life, but it's something his brain lets him concentrate on, and therefore, something to do with his time in college, something he doesn't necessarily want to do, and is doing it out of necessity.

-His memory:

Something about adhd is that it is almost always paired with a different thing. Autism and dyslexia are the two most common. So his perfect memory would be something else neurodivergent that could be paired with his ADHD.

-Attachment issues/RSD:

Andrew keeps everyone at arm's length, and while this can be a part of his past, it can also be combined with RSD, or Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. Which can mean any sort of negative attitude towards you can send you into a spiral. So Aaron not being understanding of their deal/promise and pushing him away would be devastating to him on a whole other level, one that feels right for how he acts in canon. But on the other hand he can't let go of Aaron because he is already attached to him.

Again with Nickey, he's someone that's been in his life for so long it would be devastating for him to just up and leave, especially to an eighteen year old. He would never tell him this, because of RSD, and if Nickey decided to leave despite that, it would have been very devastating to him and Nickey would have never been allowed back into his life, so that would be the number one reason for Andrew to get Nickey into college with him.

ADHDers are also very quick to get attached to people, something we see with Andrew is that once he has decided someone is 'his' he is unshakable in his loyalty.

I hate going into it, but that would be another reason for how he is with Cass, why he is so desperate to stay, despite what is happening in the back ground.

-Emotions:

I know Andrew has reasons for being emotionally distant, but when he feels emotions in canon, anger, he is quick to it, and feels it fully to the point he can't control it. It's very common in ADHD to have no control over how you react to your emotions unless you spend a lot of time doing it, like Andrew has.

-Long Weird Conversations:

The way he talks to Renee, and then Neil, where they jump around from subject to subject, with no discernable connection to the subjects. Like, that's stereotypical ADHD, but one that actually ADHDers relate to.

-Sensory things:

Things in canon that Andrew does/likes that scream sensory issues or stimming:

-Stimming:

Likes extreme foods (sweet and spicy things).

Has comfort objects (arm bands, while I know they were to hide his scars, I feel like the fact that they don't bug him even in extreme weather is a major factor in them being a weighted stim for him).

Smoking (I don't know how to describe how this is a stim for Andrew, but it is?).

-Sensory Issues (I know most of these have canon reasons, but I wanna say they could be heightened by ADHD, so keep that in mind):

Not eating around other people/eating in small bites. (Hating food textures is a common thing for ADHDer’s).

Being a light sleeper/taking forever to fall asleep. (Brain won't shut off/be quiet).

Wanting a routine but simultaneously hating it. (His love/hate relationship with exy. He never complains about getting up for practice, that Neil mentions, but is constantly hating how repetitive it is. Going to Eden's almost every Friday, where it's the same place but different every time without being too different.)

That's all that I can think of right now. I tried to not mention anything that happened while Andrew was on medication, so the whole 'keep my attention' doesn't really count in my opinion.

Thank you for reading, and maybe I might come back to this and add more someday, but for now it's finished.

In conclusion: Andrew being ADHD makes a lot of sense within canon.

#Andrew Minyard #tfc #aftg #adhd stuff #in this essay i will

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Summary: After leaving the Web's domain, Martin and Jon both get a little lost in their own heads. Or: Time to put the apocalypse on hold again for another Web-related navel-gazing session.

This is part of a series, but can be read as a standalone. (Part 1: tumblr // AO3)

Full text & content warnings under the cut.

CW: canon-typical spiders & arachnophobia; substance abuse (cigarette smoking & nicotine dependence); self-loathing re: addiction and obsessive-compulsive behavior; rejection sensitive dysphoria rearing its ugly head; internalized ableism & victim blaming; brief instance of (very passive) suicidal ideation; Web-typical paranoia; spoilers up to and including MAG 172.

“Yeah, screw this place,” Martin says. “Never liked the theatre anyway.”

And with that, he turns and makes a beeline for the nearest exit. Jon stands there for a moment, outstretched hand still lingering where he had offered it to Martin. A familiar gloom settles over him, stealing the air from his lungs – a sharp twinge in his chest, a cold weight dropping into his gut, a hard lump in his throat – all because of the merest hint of rejection.

Don’t take it personally, he scolds himself. Martin probably just… didn’t notice his hand. He was distracted. He's unsettled, he’s frightened, he needs to be away from here. It’s fine. Jon is just being self-centered. Again.

But as he trails Martin, several steps behind, he gets lost in his own head.

It's concerning, this pattern of Jon getting so absorbed in statements that Martin cannot reach him - and it isn't fair to Martin, left adrift and alienated in a nightmare realm that Jon brought into existence, all so Jon can take a moment to bask in the terror. Yes, Jon hates it. He hates how the fear and agony are filtered through him, even though he's become so accustomed to it - so much so that he fears eventually growing numb to it all, losing that last human spark he still curls himself around with possessive, protective fervor. Even more, though, he hates that alien thing in his head that likes it, that forces him to like it, that insists all of this is right and good and natural.

It's destroying him, it's destroying everyone around him, and he wants all of it to just stop. Except, there's a loud part of him that doesn't. He wants nothing more than to choke the life out of it.

He wishes he could go back to a time when he didn't want or need this, when he wasn't comforted by this thing hollowing him out like a tunneling worm. When did things go so wrong? Did it start when he was a child, when he found the book? Was the point of no return much later, when he became the Archivist? Or was he always doomed to be this, born with self-destruction and impulsivity encoded into his DNA, impossible to separate from himself and still remain himself?

Precisely how much of the statement did Martin overhear? Was it enough to draw the parallels that Jon himself is outlining now?

Jon never has time to process a statement while he’s in the midst of recording it. The human part of him is shelved so the Archive can go about its impartial curation without the interference of Jon's feverish running commentary. Once the trance wears off, though, Jon has time to think. To ruminate, as Martin says. To record his supplemental and dutifully file it away in the Archive, because the knowledge is not complete without Jon's lived experience to bring it to life.

FRANCIS: Please. Let me go. Just let me go.

THE SPIDER: Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. I am no more free than you are, little puppet.

Not for the first time, Jon wonders about the significance of the statements he’s been channeling since the end of the world. How does the subject – victim, the still-human part of him admonishes – get selected? Does the Eye direct his focus, like choosing from a menu? Is it the choice of the Entity whose domain they're passing through? Or is it just chance – whatever instance of terror gets Beheld in that fraction of a second before the tape recorder clicks on to demand its offering?

He can’t shake the feeling that the Web did have a hand in selecting the particular show he was set to narrate just now, if only because it felt so perfectly tailored and pointed.

FRANCIS: Please. Please god, not again. I don’t want it to happen again.

THE SPIDER: Then walk away, Francis, just turn and leave. All that is required is a little bit of willpower. You have a little bit of willpower, don’t you?

Free will again, of course. Choice versus control. That thorny, sticky weed of a question that took up residence in his mind and spread its roots through every part of him, feeding and growing and seeding more iterations of itself with every passing moment of doubt. He's been over this, he's been over this; why can't he just let it go?

“Jon, we’ve been over this," Basira told him. "The key is to not force people to feed you their trauma. You know – just don’t do it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No, it is. Or I put you down.”

Jon remembers how, the first time he tried to quit smoking, it was framed in exactly that way: Just stop. At the time, it had seemed so simple that when he found he couldn’t manage it, he felt like an abject failure. Beyond that, though, it was like having a sinkhole open beneath his feet. Long-suppressed doubts about his own will and self-control were dredged up to the surface, where they've stayed front-and-center ever since.

He’s always had an obsessive streak, always had trouble letting go, always had difficulties with impulse control. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when just one cigarette ultimately led to an on-again, off-again addiction that he struggled with right up until the end of the world. Whether it’s nicotine or insatiable curiosity, he’s always been predisposed to fixation, hasn't he? And Beholding, well - it easily overshadowed the rest. It evolved so smoothly from routine to habit to dependence to basic sustenance, and now it’s such an intrinsic part of who he is that he doesn’t know who he would be without it.

Why didn't he see the warning signs? Or did he see them and opt to ignore them, to barrel on ahead through every red flag and concerned intervention attempt in his haste to do, to see, to know, to experience?

THE SPIDER: I want what you want, deep, deep down in the hidden bit of you you’ve tried so hard to kill. You can’t wait for the dance to conclude.

FRANCIS: I don’t want that anymore. It’s different now. I’m different now. I’ve worked so hard.

THE SPIDER: I don’t care.

Jon doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. But he does. But he doesn’t.

It’s complicated.

Jonathan Sims, human, feels nothing but despair and shame. The entire world has become a looping nightmare with no end in sight, and it’s his fault – all because, like a moth to a flame, he’s never known when to just stop. In the back of his mind burns that incessant what-if: Would it have been better had he never woken up from the coma? With his death, the others would have been free to quit; he never would have fed on his victims; he never would have opened the door. How much better would the world have been without him in it?

The Archivist, on the other hand, feels every stab of fear and pain as any human would, but along with that torment comes a perverse satisfaction in it all. Can he legitimately call himself a victim if he himself is complicit in his trauma? A steady diet of terror is what sustains him now, even as it eats away at him from the inside out. He is dependent on that which destroys him, and he hates it, and he likes it, and he needs it, and he dreads it, and he’s tired.

Meanwhile, the Archive feels only detached fascination and a deep conviction that everything is exactly as it should be. This is the role it was born to serve. This is the world in which it was so carefully engineered to thrive. This is the whole of its definition and the whole of its being and the whole of its nature, and it will record and catalog and curate and preserve every single moment for as long as it survives. Nothing lasts forever, but the Archive spares no thought for the inevitable end of its existence. There’s so much to See here, now.

The fear consumes him. The fear feeds him. The fear just is, and the Archive is here to witness and preserve every motion and every perspective and every detail.

“When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?” Helen said with a wicked grin.

“ I have not been taking statements.”

"You’ve sworn off other people’s trauma for now, because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?”

"I… I don’t know.”

Jonathan Sims can kick and scream all he wants, thrashing impotently in the corners of this shared mind. His cries will be drowned out by a cacophonous litany of horror and dread, and the Archive will pay him no mind. It has more interesting things to concern itself with than the useless self-loathing of the original owner of this vessel, still so stubbornly refusing to embrace the role for which he was so carefully groomed.

Jon has always made everything so difficult, hasn't he? Incapable of sitting still, of shutting up, of listening, of just slowing down and stopping for once. Always pushing, pushing, pushing, even when he knew the outcome would only hurt. Anything to keep moving, to secure that heady little rush that rewarded him whenever he happened upon something new and untapped. Voracious for anything to stave off the boredom and channel his restless energy.

He wants to stop. He can't stop. He did stop. He tried. He put so much distance between himself and that toxic thing to which he was beholden, and it found him again anyway. Jonah Magnus -

It does not matter. Jon's consent was never necessary. He will submit regardless. He always has.

FRANCIS only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them…. They don’t want to want it, but…

Pause for laughter.

He doesn’t want it. Except that he does.

He doesn’t want to want it. But he does anyway.

It’s horrible, but it feels right.

“Can the Web control another avatar, one that serves another power?” Jon asked, desperate and ashamed.

Pause for Helen’s laughter.

“Make them do things they don’t want to, make them – feed –”

Pause for Helen’s laughter.

“Oh, perhaps,” Helen said, delighted to watch him squirm. “Perhaps not. Would that make life easier for you? Are you so sure you didn’t want to?”

Pause for Helen’s laughter.

He did want to. Jonathan Sims may not have wanted to, but the Archivist? The Archivist would have continued hunting and preying, and he would have cycled through as many rationalizations as needed to continue the routine. But the Archivist is Jon is the Archivist; there's no use in distancing himself from accountability.

How had Jon lost himself so quickly, so easily?

When he woke up after the Unknowing, he was terrified. He didn’t know what he was becoming versus what he had already become, or the extent to which he was beyond the point of no return. Georgie had been right, when she told him that he needed people in his life to remind him of his humanity – and now he needed that more than ever.

But none of them had wasted any time in labeling him a monster.

Jon doesn’t blame them, of course. Tim was dead, Daisy was gone, Martin was Lonely, Melanie was being consumed by the Slaughter, and Basira had been left to pick up the pieces by herself. Everyone had changed; everyone had been through trauma; everyone was coping alone; everyone was afraid and angry in the face of being trapped and manipulated and exploited.

And so, so much of it was Jon’s fault, all because he couldn't just stop.

“Jon, focus,” Basira said. “Are you getting any sense of anything? Can you See anything?”

“No, I’m just seeing what you’re seeing. Still a bit weak from my trip up north, to be honest.”

“Sorry we couldn’t stop for a snack,” Melanie snapped.

Basira had laughed, then, and Jon had wanted to be angry, but all he felt was icy guilt wrapped in a layer of dull hunger.

Basira valued practicality. She simply didn't have the luxury for anything else. Jon was dangerous, and maybe a day would come when he could no longer be suffered to live, but until then, he could also be an asset. Basira asked him to Know and See when it would help their goals; she prompted him to Ask questions when they needed to interrogate someone; she wanted him at full power whenever they were heading into danger. She, like Tim, thought they would all be better off if Jon acted more like Gertrude – until he did, and they both saw the all-too-human monstrosity inherent in Gertrude’s flavor of utilitarianism.

“She got the job done,” Jon said, “and she didn’t care about the cost.”

“But I thought you did.”

He did, didn't he? When had that changed?

“I had to know, Basira.”

It's a poor excuse.

“It wasn’t right.”

No, it wasn't.

“You could have stopped me. But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?”

She did want to know. Most people did. And that was what he was for, now, wasn’t it? The others could reap whatever benefits Jon could manage to wrest from his new inhuman existence, and all the while they could remain insulated, assured of their own moral high ground and their own humanity when compared to him.

Except that's a cop-out, isn't it? He would have hunted for statements regardless of whether it had any strategic benefit, taken over by instinct and hunger and need. No one is responsible for his actions except for himself.

Jon couldn't blame the others for how they treated him back then. But sometimes, a distant part of his mind would rail against the unfairness of it all, the double standards, the unclear and inconsistent demands. He was expected to be the Archivist - to sacrifice his humanity - whenever it was convenient, and then shamed back into submission the moment that power was no longer of immediate use. Too human and he wasn’t useful enough; too monstrous and he was an unacceptable risk. He was carving off pieces of himself to fit a mold that changed by the hour, until eventually he couldn’t recognize himself anymore.

And always there was that wrenching pang somewhere deep inside him whenever he failed to meet those expectations. It had been there since he was a child, and it had only gotten worse in recent years. He couldn’t justify his continued existence if he couldn’t prove himself useful, and now, being useful meant... well, drowning.

Excuses, excuses. He could have just stopped. He had choices, and at every watershed moment he chose to continue digging. If he had hit rock bottom, would he have stopped? Would he have even noticed?

“You knew, didn’t you? You knew the sorts of things she did, and you let her.”

“No,” Basira said. “Not exactly. I thought… it’s not that simple.”

"It never is. But that doesn’t make it okay.”

“None of us are who we were, Jon.”

It was cruel of him to put her on the spot like that, he knows. Basira had a much deeper bond with Daisy; of course she would be more willing to see and acknowledge the complexities of Daisy’s struggle. It’s… normal, to see the people you love in a rosier light than the people you distrust. Likewise, Martin still holds a grudge against Daisy for how she treated him in her interrogation, for what she did to Jon. Sometimes Martin's fingers will brush against the scar on Jon's throat and just for a moment, Jon will see a quiet, protective fury in Martin's eyes. He cannot understand how almost overnight, Jon came to see Daisy as a friend. Martin wonders sometimes whether it was just another clever way Jon had found to hurt himself, to punish himself, to put himself in danger.

But Martin didn’t get to spend much time with Daisy after the Buried. He didn’t get to see how hard she was trying to get better. Just like Basira didn't get to witness Jon’s efforts.

In fact, come to think of it… back then, Jon and Daisy both hid their weakest moments from everyone except each other, didn’t they? God, he misses her. No one else really understood what it was like to spend every waking moment resisting the call of a thing that could never be vanquished, which is exactly why sometimes Jon felt his hackles raise when they were held to different standards – especially when Daisy herself hated it just as much as he did.

None of that mattered, though. Everyone already thought him a monster, and he agreed with them. What was the point in pretending otherwise? He may as well be the monster, so no one else had to do it. (Excuses, excuses, excuses.) And besides, he liked it, didn’t he? He hated that about himself, but that didn’t make it any less true. So, he would make himself useful. If he got too dangerous, he doubted any of the others would have any qualms about putting him down. It shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was. Somewhere along the line, wanting to live had started to feel selfish. When had that happened?

But then… Martin.

Talk to him, said the note. An outstretched hand in the form of three simple words. A belief that he wasn’t too far gone. No, not just a belief. An expectation. He was more than what he was becoming. Or, he could be.

Martin always saw him, didn’t he? Even when Jon didn’t deserve it –

He doesn’t notice Martin’s abrupt stop until he crashes headlong into him, bouncing off his sturdy frame and onto the dusty ground with a quiet oof.

“Martin?” Jon scrambles upright.

“Yeah, I’m – I’m okay, I’m –”

Martin is standing rigidly, staring off to the side, but Jon can still see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, the slightest sheen of tears there, the way he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Martin?” Jon asks again, more intent this time. Pushing himself to his feet, he reaches out a hand – and then falters halfway, leaves it trembling in the air between them. Martin sways somewhat on his feet. “Martin.”

“I – what?” Martin turns unfocused eyes on him. "Jon?"

“Martin, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s – I’m just – it’s –”

“You’re bleeding,” Jon murmurs, closing the gap between them and reaching up to brush his thumb over Martin’s lip. He half-expects Martin to pull away. When the rejection doesn’t come, Jon is nearly swept away by relief.

“Oh.” Martin looks down and his eyes widen, as though he’s just now seeing Jon.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Jon says evenly, careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. He moves his hand to cradle Martin’s face, and Martin leans into his touch on reflex.

“It’s… I keep thinking.”

“Yes?”

“I… it felt so much like curiosity, Jon.”

“Ah.” Jon thinks he senses where this is going.

“I – I didn’t realize until just now how it – I’m – I’m so sorry.” Martin chokes on the last word and a tear slides down his cheek.

“Come here,” Jon says, lowering himself to the ground again and pulling Martin down after him. Martin sags against him, his breath coming in quiet hiccups, and Jon curls an arm around his shoulders. “Breathe. What are you sorry for?”

“I thought I understood. About the Web.” Martin’s breath hitches. “I used to think it was – maybe exaggerated, how you felt? Or, no, that’s not the right word – I mean –”

“More like a phobia than a rational fear.”

“It’s – not that it isn’t rational, it’s just –”

“Martin, it’s fine,” Jon says, running his fingers through Martin’s hair. “I have a history of paranoia and phobias, and – and I know I obsess, I overthink things. If I was looking at me from the outside, I’d think I was overreacting, too. I probably am sometimes. Which is what the Web wants.”

“I didn’t say you were overreacting, I just thought – I thought maybe the actual threat was…” Martin bites his lip again. “That maybe it wasn’t as imminent as you were afraid it was. Or not as – as pervasive? I figured, if at least some of it was in your own head, I could actually…”

“Actually what?”

“That I could make it better,” Martin says meekly, a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. “I thought I could do something to protect you for once.”

“You already do that."

"How do you mean?" Martin laughs bitterly. "The only reason I'm still alive is because of you."

"I think I could say the same," Jon says quietly.

"You'd survive just fine on your own."

"I don't want to just survive." It comes out harsher than he intended, and Jon forces gentleness back into his tone. "You are my reason, remember? And... and besides. You do protect me." Martin rolls his eyes, and Jon rallies again. "Yes, fine, there isn't much that could physically harm me here."

Martin nods sullenly, an unspoken I told you so.

"But, I - I'm prone to self-sabotage, if you haven't noticed."

"Yeah." Martin sniffles, averting his eyes.

"You make me want to be better. You... you believe that's possible for me, even when no one else does, even when I don't believe it myself. Even when I don't deserve it." Jon shakes his head, his quiet laugh full of wonder and disbelief. "You see me in a way that I quite honestly don't understand, but it... it makes me want to be that person for you."

"You don't really need me, though."

"I do need you," Jon says fiercely. Then, softer: "And - and even if I didn't, I want you with me." Jon coaxes Martin's chin up to look him in the eye. "I'm quite fond of you, you know."

Martin chuckles half-heartedly and rubs at his eyes.

"There's something else bothering you, I think," Jon says hesitantly. "I - I didn't Know anything, I promise, I just... it seems like there's more?"

"It's fine." Martin clears his throat, and when he continues, it's with a tone that could almost be considered composed if it wasn't for the way he steadfastly avoids eye contact. "Just, you know. The Web."

"I'd like to listen, if you're willing to talk."

"You don't have to -"

"Let me take care of you?"

They've talked about this before. Martin's always been a caretaker. He's compassionate, and Jon will always be in awe of how adept he is at showing he cares with the simplest of gestures. Martin finds it fulfilling, prides himself on putting comfort into the world when it seems like none can exist. But he habitually prioritizes others at the cost of his own well-being, routinely blurs the line between compassion and destructive self-sacrifice. He never learned that cliché tenet of putting on his own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs. He doesn't know how to let himself be cared for, rarely even takes the time for self-care, and usually doesn't believe he deserves it in the first place. He feels an acute need to justify his existence by being useful, and for most of his life, it was the only way he knew to measure his own worth. The same could be said for Jon, really; it just manifested somewhat differently in his case.

But they've discussed it. They've been working on it.

Martin opens his mouth, starts to mouth the reflexive phrase - I'm fine - but capitulates when Jon says again, resolute: "I'd like to take care of you. Please let me."

"Um. I... okay. Okay. I just - give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need," Jon says, and returns to playing with Martin's hair. They're exposed here, but Jon would have ample foreknowledge of any approaching danger. Besides, this is an in-between space between domains, and Jon Knows that few things will go out of their way to seek out a confrontation with the Archive, especially outside of their own turf.

A few minutes pass before Martin begins to speak, starting slow before unraveling into a frantic confession.

“I’ve – I’ve never felt in control of my life, not really, but I’ve also never felt like I was being puppeted. It was just – circumstances outside of my control, or my own shortcomings, not – not some literal other mind pulling the strings.” One of Martin’s hands comes to rest on Jon’s knee, and he grips tightly, as if to remind himself of Jon's physical presence. “And – and if that’s a thing that actually happens, if it might be happening to me, how am I supposed to trust anything I do or think or feel? How do I – how do I know I won’t lose you, or – or betray you, or –”

“You don’t.” Jon gives him a very small smile, a cross between wry and rueful. He shifts his position until he can touch their foreheads together, moving one hand to cup the back of Martin's neck. “We can never know for sure whether we’re being controlled. We could sit here, I suppose – take no action at all, wrap ourselves in doubt and fear.” Jon nudges Martin's nose with his own, urging Martin to meet his eyes. “But then we’ll also have to wonder if that was the Web’s plan all along.”

“Oh, god, I’m dragging you back down the rabbit hole –”

“No, listen. It’s…” Jon gives a considering hum and leans away slightly. “Actually, there’s one part of Annabelle’s statement that sits with me in a good way.”

“What?” Martin says incredulously.

“Just listen. ‘We all have forces that drive us, circumstances that direct us,’” Jon recites from memory, “‘and even if we choose to ignore these and act against all logic, just to prove that we can – is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’”

“And – and what about that do you find comforting?”

“It’s… hmm." Jon takes a beat as he hunts for a way to best convey his meaning. "Do you remember the story I told you, about Mr. Spider?”

“Of course,” Martin says softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Jon’s knee in a soothing, repetitive motion. Jon grounds himself in the touch and takes a deep breath before he continues.

“So - to this day, I still have the sense memory of being a passenger in my body. Like my veins were puppet strings, filled with - with hundreds of thousands of tiny scuttling legs. Like being pulled forward by a thousand minds and none of them my own.” Jon closes his eyes and swallows hard. This next part, he's never spoken aloud. “Worse, though, was the aftermath. I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that maybe they had never left. That maybe they had just let the strings go slack for the time being. I was always waiting for a moment when the threads would be pulled taut, and I would realize that the Spider never actually let go. Sometimes I - I still feel the crawling, the tugging. It's my imagination, I know - just a tactile hallucination - but still, it can be... rather convincing at times.”

“That’s… horrible," Martin says, and he means it, but there's a note of confusion there: he's not entirely sure where Jon is going with this.

“The Web managed to cover a lot of bases when it marked me. Fear of spiders and cobwebs, yes, but deeper than that. That split second before opening a door where my heart stops because I can never really be certain that I know what’s behind it.” Jon realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s ever put words to that fear, let alone admitted it to another person. He shakes his head and forces himself to continue. “Being watched, being manipulated. Being controlled, or being unable to control myself, and being unable to tell the difference between the two. Infectious self-doubt, and the fear that I’ll never be free of it.”

“What does that have to do with –”

“‘Is that not simply allowing the existential terror of our own powerlessness to control us instead?’” Jon repeats, staring ahead into the barren wasteland. “It makes me think… maybe there’s some freedom to be found in giving up the illusion of control.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll always be afraid of the loss of control, whether it comes from the Web or from my own mind. And if I let that fear immobilize me, well… that’s also a loss of control. Same outcome.” He combs his fingers through the soft, curly hair at the base of Martin's skull. “What the Web feeds on is that fear of being manipulated. It doesn’t matter what you think is controlling you or how you react to it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re frozen in place like a fly caught in a web, or if you're unable to stop at all, stuck in a loop of - of obsession or addiction or panic. The Web can feast on all of it equally.”

“You do realize that none of this is especially comforting, right?” Martin says with a nervous, breathless laugh.

“I’m getting there,” Jon promises. “The Web is an unknown variable. That's what makes it so terrifying. The only way I can think to fight back against that sort of power is to just… accept the idea that you’re not always in control, and that you’ll never know for sure the moments when you aren’t. To tolerate the ambiguity, and try to keep moving anyway. It dilutes the fear, somewhat. You aren’t as tasty a meal if you put a name to what scares you and shine a light on it.” Jon smirks. “If nothing else, it’s a ‘screw you’ to the Spider.”

Martin closes his eyes for a long few minutes, and Jon sits with the silence. Finally, Martin looks up and meets Jon's eyes again and gives him a weak smile.

"I know it doesn't solve everything," Jon says. "I still have my regular Web-related, uh... thought spirals, for lack of a better term. But I think it helps, to talk about it. The Web thrives best when its victims isolate themselves, lose themselves in hypotheticals and paranoia until they're paralyzed with doubt. It's harder to manipulate someone when they have someone to untangle them when they get stuck."

"It did help," Martin says after a moment, and Jon is relieved to hear the sincerity underlying the words. "Thank you."

“Well, the only reason I managed to come to any of this in the first place is because you gave me a stick and a dirt canvas and let me rant myself hoarse about it.”

Martin laughs, still sounding just a little raw and tearful. “I guess the conspiracy corkboard idea worked?”

“Yes, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but his demeanor is thoroughly fond. “Though I think blindsiding me with the concept of 'love as a choice we make' is what got me over the line in the end. Very poetic.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like poetry.”

“Speaking of that…" Jon fixes Martin with a look of faux reproach. "Did you really imply that you hate the theatre back there? After giving me so much grief about disliking poetry?”

“I think I did more than imply it,” Martin says, and there’s a goading edge to his tone now.

“That’s…” Jon shakes his head. “Okay. Explain, please.”

“I’ve just never been a fan.” Martin shrugs, but the nonchalance falls apart as Martin tries and fails not to grin at Jon's dismay.

“Theatre is - it's such a broad umbrella, there’s no way you don’t care for all of it –”

“Poetry is a broad umbrella, too.”

“Yes, fine,” Jon says grudgingly. “Shakespeare was a poet, surely you can appreciate some of his contributions to theatre.”

“You’ve spent your whole life hating poetry, Jon. You don’t get to imply that I'm uncultured.”

“I don’t hate all poetry. Just most of it.”

“You still haven’t told me what changed your mind,” Martin says with a teasing smirk. “I wonder. Could it have been –”

“Yes, Martin.” Jon heaves an exaggerated sigh, but doesn’t bother to hide the fondness in his tone. “It was you. Obviously.”

“Just wanted to hear you say it,” Martin replies, absolutely preening at the admission. “I –”

Jon leans in and covers Martin’s lopsided smile with a kiss before he can get another blasphemous word in. The apocalypse can spare them a few more minutes.

End Notes:

Title is from Mitski's "Francis Forever".

Any of the indented bits involving Francis or the Spider are from MAG 172.

The others are from, in order: MAG 148; MAG 152; MAG 146; MAG 147; MAG 141; MAG 155.

And of course the quote from Annabelle's statement is from MAG 147 as well.

#the magnus archives #mag 172 #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers

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cherrincity · 4 years

Text

Cherrin City Soundbytes Casting Call

Hi all! I’m making a new podcast and I’d love to get some voice actors in it! Tag a friend you think would be interested!

Cherrin City Soundbytes is an anthology series about the lives of people living in the world's most prominent city of superheroes. Ranging from annoyingly mundane to cosmically fantastic, these stories try to capture the reality of this world's average. What get to be mundane when a bug alien from outer space saves your life? What is moral when a laid off employee tries to drown only the financial district? Most people are just trying to get by, and this is what we get to hear. As the name implies, these episodes will mostly be short. The show focuses on the humanity of people, despite their fantastical environment. The episodes will tend to be kind of... somber, but not devoid of hope.

Cherrin City Soundbytes is a Piece of Cake Podcasting Network Production! As such, we highly encourage Black, Indigenous and Mixed voice actors, as well as other actors of colour to audition, though others may do so as long as they respect the listed identities of the characters. Again to reiterate: please audition for parts that reflect your identity. For example, if you are not South Asian, do not audition for the specifically South Asian roles. If you are not nonbinary, please do not audition for the specifically nonbinary roles. Alternatively, if a role has its gender listed as open, that means any person of any gender may audition for that role. There are 17 different roles, so please stick to the ones that fit you or can accommodate you! In addition to this, please be 18 years of age or older to audition.

For each audition, you may do up to three takes of each line. Please compile them all into a single .mp3 or .wav file. If you are accepted for this podcast, we will be doing remote recordings with mandatory synchronous table reads. Please audition with the recording space you will use if hired. These roles will be paid $40 CAD over paypal.

Content warnings for this year of production include: violence, foul language, body horror, death, kidnapping, manipulation, body dysphoria and large insects. Not all warnings apply for every role; please feel free to send an email to [email protected] for more information or for any other questions you may have. Auditions will be open until October 31st, 2020.

Please note that all auditions must be sent through the google form link below. Any auditions sent to the email will be invalid. Feel free to audition for as many roles as you are able to fulfill, but please submit a new form and audio file for each role you

In summary:

17 roles open for auditions

Only audition for roles that fit your identity or can accommodate you

Be 18 years of age or older

Send us up to 3 takes per each line, all in one file

This podcast will be remotely recorded

These roles will be paid $40 CAD over paypal

Auditions open until October 31st, 2020

Please only send auditions through this link: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSc2kVXIFTY9IOiNvRSQWvIrB8LiIrI46xFOeFtuq2sb6xBlVA/viewform?vc=0&c=0&w=1&flr=0&gxids=7628

Roles

The Cherrin University Radio Host

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: South Asian

Age: Late teens, early twenties

Description: The Cherrin university radio host is an anonymous young woman who feels passionately for under discussed causes. Whether or not she does anything for them outside of ranting on a late night radio show is a bit of a sore spot, but no matter the issue she takes it seriously.

Lines:

It is 2:55 am, which means that it is technically the Cherrin City day of Super Powered Individuals Remembrance. Created by the city about 4 years ago, on paper the day exists to remember every super powered individual who has died. In action, the city uses it to lionize the dead members of their private task force and coerce more people into joining it.

The problem with being perceivable is that people look at you. And when people look at you, and they keep looking at you, you start to get recognized. (long pause) That has not always been a pleasant thing, in my experience.

Solla

Gender: Written as an alien who identifies as Female, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Black

Age: several thousand years old, but doesn't really show it

Description: Solla is a dedicated member to the Cherrin City Starlight Watchers Squad, and is accustomed to working with her team both in bringing down extra terrestrial villains and tackling the enthusiastic and seemingly-ceaseless questions of the Cherrin City press. Polite, patient to a fault and kind of the mom of her group.

Lines:

Yes, I am Solla of the Cherrin City Starlight Watchers Squad. Yes I am an alien, and yes I know English, among several other languages. I appreciate all nice comments, but if you'd like to say something more in depth, you can email the city.

I am so sorry, but I have to go.

Henry Austin Bolte

Gender: Written as a cis man, but trans and nonbinary people comfortable with he/him pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Mid twenties

Description: A gay, recently graduated costume designer trying to make it in Cherrin in the early 2000s. Also recently dumped, and kinda lonely. Very good at what he does, but uncomfortable with discussions of money.

Lines:

(sighs) Look, Vee, I don't care if this is some sex thing or whatever, I just need to know how you intend to use the suit so I can make it appropriately. You don't want some combo of kevlar and body armour if you're trying to fuck someone, right?

You did it. You're the one who did it. Oh my god.

Gender: Nonbinary (using he/they pronouns)

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Mid twenties

Description: An ambitious young person, also recently graduated. He's got big plans for his future and is not above manipulating other people to get what he wants. Hates being called desperate. Out of all the morally gray characters in this casting call, this person is the most 'super villain' out of all of them.

Lines:

I am not desperate. I am not a lucky, hapless fool. I am deliberate and calculating, and clever!

If you do anything to lose that respect... well. I know where to express my concerns.

Devon Milligan

Gender: Written as a cis man, but trans and nonbinary people comfortable with he/him pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Black

Age: Mid teens to early twenties

Description: Devon is a loyal young man part of the Cherrin City East End Exemplars. He has difficulty reacting decisively to surprises and can be slightly stubborn. But he appreciates honesty.

Lines:

How does getting up at 5am help out your scheme?

So you're all about making life better for yourself and no one else?

I-SPI

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Black

Age: late teens to mid twenties. Older than Devon

Description: Less a supervillain and more a regular criminal or henchwoman who happens to have very passive super powers. Skilled and clever, she only feels like opening up when she is most desperate. Extremely cynical.

Lines:

C'mon. You're a superhero, aren't you? Shouldn't you stay in top physical form in case another supervillain wants to fall into your lap?

If that's what it has to be; if that's the only choice I'm offered, then I sure as hell'll take it. Who else is gonna care for me? You?

Bernard North

Gender: Written as a cis man, but trans and nonbinary people comfortable with he/him pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Early thirties

Description: Has had a small taste of power and now refuses to give it up. Has stopped caring about the feelings of others. Please note that this character has only one line.

Line:

Feel free to exhaust yourself, I-SPI. You've already proven yourself incorrigible. But it doesn't matter, now that I have you in my possession. You and I are going to go very far together.

Hannah Nathan

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Late thirties

Description: The host of Musicity, a tv show about local musicians in Cherrin City, Hannah has worked very hard to be in this position. While she carries herself as having seen it all, she still cares about the comfort and state of her guests.

Lines:

Hello everyone! Welcome to another episode of Musiciscity! I'm your host, Hannah Nathan, and today, we here in the studio are joined by Cherrin City's very own, Alta Reyes!

Oh my god, Alta! Alta, are you alright? Can we get a doctor on set?

Alta Reyes

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Latina

Age: Early twenties

Description: The lead singer of Raise The Population, she currently finds herself in the wrong body, and in the wrong world. Despite these strange circumstances, she's doing her best to get her group back home.

Lines:

Me and my band mates, we were just working at getting known and getting better at making music. We crawled our way up from being nobodies begging for views on our music video to finally, actually getting a hit song!

The further I get away from the life I knew, the harder I cling to the things I do know, even as they keep changing. This place honestly feels the closest to home so far.

Brandi

Gender: Trans woman

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Open

Description: The host of Public! This! Closure!, a new radio show about people hashing out their interpersonal problems on the airwaves. She is always very composed and attempts to be impartial. (She also really wants this show to be a success and is always on the lookout for more people to have on it.)

Lines:

Wait, you kissed her?

And it looks like that's all the show we have time for today, folks! Join us again next time, here on Cherrin City's very own c98.7 for more Public! This! Closure!

Virginia 'Gina' Jones

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Mid twenties, early thirties

Description: She went on a lovely date with Josephine, and decided to go on, Public! This! Closure! the new radio show about people hashing out their interpersonal problems on the airwaves. She hopes this show will be able to reconnect her with Josephine and that she can find out why Josephine ghosted her after their date.

Lines:

...So you could remember the show you were watching, but not the woman you went out with?

Well, I hope you do. I mean, I don't know much about you, but even despite that, I... I want to see you again.

Josephine Georges

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Black

Age: Mid twenties, early thirties

Description: Went on a nice date with Gina, but almost immediately afterward, had her whole world upended. Is currently distracted with other pressing matters, but is absolutely willing to continue dating Gina.

Lines:

I've listened to the show before. (sighs) So, who else has beef with me?

And I didn't think I would be meeting a lot of potential Sparker dates on an alien planet!

Gender: Nonbinary (any pronouns, but initially presents as male)

Ethnicity: Open

Age: 15

Description: An orphaned young person looking for his place in the world. Goes on a very emotional journey, but has extremely villanous tendencies. Is very good at using his super power. Kinda lonely.

Lines:

You steal. That's what you do, isn't it? I mean, the only way anyone gets easy money is by stealing it.

I said, are you fucking kidding me? We literally live in a world where people get to call themselves whatever the hell they want, stupid shit like Resolute and Nightlight and SuperStar and you draw the line at The End?

Isabella

Gender: Written as a cis woman, but trans and nonbinary people who are comfortable with she/her pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: 19

Description: An orphan who lived in the same group home as TE but aged out of it. Had a good relationship with TE, sees him as a younger sibling. Is struggling to find satisfaction with her own life, in terms of her (illegal) career, her (nonexistent) love life, and her (nonexistent) social life. Also has a superpower, but it's rather weak.

Lines:

Well, it can get a little more hostile than that, but never more complicated. And you seem pretty capable with your power. We could use someone as capable as you.

Look, I've been tolerating a lot of your... you-ness because I got it, sort of. We lived together, we had the same traumatic experiences... and I care about you, I really do.

Guiltmaster

Gender: Written as a cis man, but trans and nonbinary people comfortable with he/him pronouns may audition

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Late twenties

Description: He's a villain with the power to make people feel extreme amounts of guilt and perhaps other things as well. An intelligent man who has lost interest in trying to make it in life through legal methods, but someone who never lost his deep sense of empathy for others.

Lines:

I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help him at all. So we waited, hoping for someone to find us. But, by the time they finally found us, there was no more us.

What you feel is what you feel. It's real and worthy and you cannot make it stop by assuming that because worse things have happened, what happened to you is not valid.

Pat

Gender: Open

Ethnicity: East Asian

Age: Open

Description: Someone who is going to therapy and trying to get over their guilt. Uncomfortable opening up to others, but is also unwilling to deny strangers' questions.

Lines:

Yeah? Did you ever kill your entire family?

All of them died, because I thought they didn't care about what I cared about.

The Interviewer

Gender: Open

Ethnicity: Open

Age: Open

Description: Despite the fact that filming is all but banned in Cherrin City, this interviewer is an out-of-towner attempting to make a documentary about super powered individuals. They're hoping that a certain real estate agent will be able to provide juicy and shocking details about her super powered clientele.

Lines:

Sounds horrific.

Oh my god, Larry you would not believe the waste of time I just had.

#voiceactor #voice acting #podcasts #audio fiction #audio drama #superheroes #cherrin city #cherrin city soundbytes

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yasumi222 · 5 years

Text

KILLING STALKING ANALYSIS :D PART UNO

Ayz, u ppl r so nice, luvz :D

And I was thinking for some days already, about that bizarre plotline in the recent chapters, so I came up with theory – or more likely a perspective. I love Killing Stalking – but only psychological aspect of it – the part of investigation is… bad. Real bad. Still, plot holes are there to stick a finger in them. And I have a lot blabbering to do, so I suppose I won’t post it all at once XD Still, I’ll make kinda tl;dr to maybe at least announce what I have in mind and we will see how it goes.

So tl;dr – last chapters are (not 100% aware) Sangwoo suicide attempt, he did not “murder” Chief Kwak, he has inner demon fight – inside his head - Seungbae is something – and I will call it a villain.

And for the beginning – I’ll start with the analyse – what made Sangwoo to be in the situation he is right now, and why he called it upon himself. I’m saying that right now XD ill divide part one in two parts, because it will be long ass shit, and I will be crazy surprised if someone read one part in one go.

I will go for the more juicy plot holes later, after I make a point in that suicide of Sangwoo matter – because – in my opinion it is the opus magnum of that story.

PART I – SANGWOO CHARACTER ANALYSIS

Let’s start with Sangwoo. Within chapters in S3 its vivid that he cares no more about his wellbeing, he is not scared of death – he is scared of one particular way of dying – the painful one. Risky way of driving, talking about his crimes out loud, lack of joy in the thing that should provide some sort of warmness inside his broken heart.

I think Sangwoo after such traumas is divided between two personalities. Either it is some strange dissociative identity disorder, where the split is not fully achieved, but its present, or its very severe case of borderline disorder. Either way - I will assume – that indeed – inside his head lives two characters, which are fighting over leadership. And one of them is 90% of the time victorious. Let’s call him KILLER – that crazy, murderous personality, without empathy, full of himself – absolute and terrible monster. That “Killer” is the one who has hallucinations about his mother, that “Killer” believes he killed not only a mother, but a father too. That “KILLER” was created the day – when his mother put a knife in her throat, and is surviving till today. And that KILLER is the schizophrenic one – who hears bangs on the door, who reacts with aggression with every hallucination that appear. I’m pretty convinced that the first killings from Sangwoo – were not committed with the full sanity of the act. They were not accident, of course, but he was killing over and over his mother - then his mind needed to accustom to such horrific act. And the KILLER matured. Killings were most probably soothing shattered mind, he killed hallucination after hallucination – letting himself for a moment of peace – in such horrific manner.

And Bum was the one, who managed to snap the KILLER out of his mania – with very simple words. I love you. Because if mother of the KILLER was indeed loving him, even after rape, she wouldn’t die. She wouldn’t get the knife inside her throat. She wouldn’t reject him in such disgusting act. She hated him so much, she preferred death over letting herself love him. She would be still alive, alas KILLER wouldn’t be born.

And the KILLER stops. Bum survives.

But stopping the KILLER is way different story than overcoming him. He is pushing every way possible – to force Bum to hate him – testing him, trying him – and still like a child, who kicks his dog – he still expect that the dog will come back – lick his face, wiggle tail in happiness. It’s not logical. But Sangwoo expect absolute love – even in the face of true terror.

Maybe because he regrets, he didn’t show his love to his mother – even during the most disgusting act – because he loved her unconditionally, and maybe – maybe if he didn’t complain – she would not reject him.

And KILLER is angry when Bum rejects him. But then, try after try, when our fucked up in the head Bum manage to still show his attachment to Sangwoo – the KILLER starts to shine less, and something old – something long forgotten is starting to look at Bum with different eyes. The moment of Bum attempted suicide is crucial moment, when the KILLER is for the moment gone. Hidden. Bum is trying to get rid of himself – not because he do not love Sangwoo – but because Sangwoo is not loving him. And Sangwoo see for the first time – himself in small figure of Bum, he sees that rejected, scared boy, who cries his out eyes, and who is ready to give up his life – not for him, but as an act of rejection of the world without him. Sangwoo for the first time believes Bum – because there is no lie in the blood. There is no lie in the tears.

Sangwoo hurt him. And he is aware of that.

And that Sangwoo – of that moment – is the man who will sustain on doing any harm to his beloved Bum. That is the second persona, who will lose again and again in the battle with the KILLER. But it’s the persona that I love. The persona who tries, and tries. But that persona needs help, needs constant sustain, needs the directions – to learn again how to behave, how to notice others. When I’m in pain – for example – having an headache – I’m really focused about my wellbeing. It’s easier to get upset over someone, because during pain I’m more self-centered. And Sangwoo agony is going on and on and on and on, without any pauses. And him trying to see through his trauma other person is almost impossible – and yet – he tries. Not as a hero, he won’t get any applause for doing that. And – even during tries – he is fully aware he will fail. Again. And again. Victory was never an option.

And we can all agree – KILLING STALKING – shouldn’t have a happy ending. And there was never an intention of getting one - as Koogi showed us. Sangwoo is suicidal. He was, he is and he will be. But there was one thing – the most painful death – that he feared with all his mind, wholesome of his heart. The lonely, painful death. And it was a curse placed upon him. The dagger poking his neck. And he was well aware it will never go away. Then – he asked the only person – which reached his softer, calmer persona for one thing. To die with him. To be with him – even in the most scary moment – to be with him – and in that way – even if he was devoured alive but monsters, drenched in the well, crushed to the bones – he would not die the most painful way. He needed Bum to protect him from alone, dark and scary death. And in that way he would – no matter what – be protected from the curse, that his mother placed upon him.

Still – the perspective of death was not so… vivid back then. It was in front of him, but not clear, close but not too close yet. They were drown in the ceremony of their own bonding, their honeymoon before actual wedding. And I truly believe – he wanted to cherish those moment, but his broken mind was not able to fulfill any boxes of happiness. Dysphoria. Sangwoo lost an ability to feel actual happiness, but still – seeing such joy in the eyes of Bum – forced his own mind to borrow a little of that light. And that was the moment I truly loved Bum. That was his strength that Sangwoo lacked, the ability to still light that fire. Joy. Happiness. Love.

But I can only imagine what an actual feeling that was for Sangwoo. The realization of the hollowness of your own being.

And he was shattering.

And I’d like to think that – the murder of the lady during ski trip – was an actual parallel to the first time – when Sangwoo killed someone. Haunted with the pictures of his mother, with trembling hands, and tears in his eyes – it was not a KILLER who killed her. It wasn’t thought through, it wasn’t calm and ironic. It was madness, absolutely terrifying madness.

And Sangwoo ran. Shattering more and more of the defenses he set years ago. He was naked in his own filthy, murderous self, in his own disgusting, horrid trauma, and drowned in the fear of dying – most painful, most painful, most painful… way…

And he ran to Bum. He cried next to Bum. Even if he didn’t expect him to answer, his presence was his safe place. He believed he won’t be rejected, or maybe at least hoped so. Even if he expected silence – it was the first time – when he – in very clumsy way – reached to Bum for help. Dependence was set hard in the stone. For the first time – Sangwoo was really vulnerable – and in the future – that vulnerability will only grow stronger.

Thank you if you reached the bottom of that mindsea :) I hope, even if it’s some rambling of anon in the internet – maybe a tiny bit of it was entertaining for you; as it is part one ill try to post second asap :D even if only for myself :’D cheers!

#killing stalking #sangwoo #Ilovesangwoo #verylongasspost #analyse #ilovemydogandisayhitohim #ks #ks spoilers #oh sangwoo

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xenowlsome · 5 years

Note

Pick an oc and do all the even numbers!

Asdhbasjdnjihqsd thank you for enabling me

(I’m doing this for Teru btw)

Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect?

She doesn’t, but she would collect fancy weaponry if she had the money for it. Or more realistically, embroidered daenggi (a type of Korean hair ribbon)

What kind of clothing does your OC wear?

Shinobi uniform mostly; very thick, very big knit sweaters in her free time because Kiri is damp and cold. (She does not have a preference re: masculine versus feminine clothing, but she would rather go barefoot than wear shoes that are even mildly uncomfortable (since this includes high heels it sometimes becomes a problem)

What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite?

Teru likes cats (and her “grandparents” have one so she’s in luck) and Kiri’s giant otters (picture Amazonian giant otters but with thicker fur) and like most people in Joson she distrusts dogs, but otherwise has no particular feelings

What is your OC’s theme song?

I have a whole playlist for particular story points but two songs that are like, Teru Mood™ are

Or (which is more like her childhood’s genin team song but anyway)

What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods?

She’s not picky bc in Kiri you eat what you get but she loves bibimbap bc that was the best treat for her as a kid

What does your OC smell like?

“Blood”, says Kisame not of anything specific normally? It’s not like shinobi use perfume when the mission doesn’t require it probably

What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths?

Fears: disappointing someone, being betrayed, losing control of her life

Weaknesses: arrogant and perfectionistic at the same time, oversensitive to criticism, does not value her life or others’, holds grudges

Strengths: responsible, calm under pressure, direct, orderly, pragmatic

If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do?

She’d be so hyped about guns... and not so hyped about surveillance (but also, it seems like a good challenge)

What kind of student were they/would they be in high school?

The quiet studious straight-A student who would rat you out to the teacher; or if we’re going with her canon backstory, basically in the local delinquent gang

What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living?

She uh... kind of meh about life because it has never been particularly kind to her. She’s ready to sacrifice her life for the village, even when it was not perhaps the only course of action.

Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why?)

The most important right now is probably Mei because in the absence of true faith in her village, faith in her is the only thing Teru has left. The least important but still impacting is Raizō Ōmiya, a frequent bully in their academy days and accidentally the father of one of Teru’s students.

What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions?

She’s very rigidly policing her outward behavior I think whatever habits she might have had, she had trained out of herself. She smokes and drinks occasionally, but usually while in company and no more than is socially acceptable.

Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why?

Teru does not intend to get married because honestly, what for? Nor does she want to have children (despite some pressure that all shinobi experience). Her own childhood was bad enough and she’s not about to be responsible for someone else’s.

If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be?

The first impulse would be to have her parents back.

What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually?

She has very few friends (basically only two at the start of The Story). She’s usually the follower, not the leader, but she will expect that people would defer to her on certain subjects/matters.

What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain?

Approval, I should think, in things small and large. (That’s me, projecting my rejection sensitive dysphoria right here).

What would your character do with a million dollars?

(she’d make tiny paper shuriken out of the banknotes)

Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with?

If it’s outside a mission, it’s some seedy pub (there’s no other kind of establishments in Kiri), she’s with Mei and she’s wearing the same sweater she wore to get water in the morning. If it’s on a mission, the scale could be from some really fancy bar spying on some foreign diplomat to a roadside tavern posing as a peasant.

Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from?

Teru has fewer scars than most of her peers because her job is less front-line. Some cuts on hands and shins, usual for shinobi. Among old scars that didn’t fade are the one from the Academy graduation exam (on her throat) and a big one on her stomach from the 3rd Shinobi World War (that she basically had to fix herself while on the battlefield because Kiri doesn’t have a medical devision).

How does your character react/ accept criticism?

Not too well, really. If it’s from her superiors or trusted friends, she’d grit her teeth and bear it (but may or may not take it to heart). Others get an arrogant glare and passive-aggressive remarks.

Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works?

Try and drown it to see what happens

(Don’t worry, she can hold her breath for a long time)

What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult?

Her parents already had a kid and didn’t particularly want the second one because the political/ideological situation in Kirigakure was changing for the worse. They were executed when Teru was around two and she is still affected by their death emotionally as well as socially.

If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count?

She’d proceed as usual, except possibly warning those closest to her (though equally possibly not, to spare their feelings).

#asks #naruto #naruto oc #kirigakure #oc: teru ikeda #story: teru teru bōzu #oc meme #long post

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skunts-own-truth · 5 years

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Hey, I wanna talk about the internet a little, so buckle up.

I think I would enjoy the internet a bit more on a whole if folks didn’t treat Tumblr, Twitter, Reddit, 4chan, online personas, interactions with total strangers, and fiction as more personal and real than the real world itself. I’m really tired of seeing losers sending angry messages and death threats to people over anon because of “spoiler culture,” I’m tired of folks being outraged and crushed by something a god damn stranger you’ll never meet said about you or about some fiction, it’s exhausting to see folks take everything so seriously online and I’m about done with it. It’s disgusting to me that people get into such heated arguments over likes and dislikes in fiction, or hell, this weird ass phenomenon of fools acting superior to others because they value corporate-made-entertainment like Star Wars, the Harry Potter movies, or the Avengers movies more than their actual life. Even in the fandoms I’m in, man, it sickens me to see folks calling each other shitty names because someone likes one faction or another in Warhammer. Chill. That’s all I ask of everyone; just chill a little. You don’t gotta take everything so seriously, ya feel me? Shit ain’t real. I’m getting to this point in my old age of 26 where I’m starting to be ashamed again for liking nerdy things. Not because of the material, not because I feel bad for enjoying something like rolling dice or reading comics; nah, that shit’s fine. I love doing that, and reading/watching the material! I’m starting to be ashamed of you weird ass goobers screaming at each other, and just downright shattering over the fact that someone dislikes your favorite character, or says your ship is bad, or whatever. There’s this buckwild thing that keeps happening on the internet for me, where someone in my feed radar acts like a god damn child over some goofy-ass stuff, and... man I always think they’re 16 or so because of their behavior, but they always turn out to be in their early to mid 30s. I can shrug off a kid acting like a demon over fiction, but god damn, folks. Grow a backbone. A criticism against something you like ain’t a criticism of you; I love a TON of bad shit that no one enjoys. No skin off my bones if someone shit-talks Warhammer, or the Burning Wheel RPG, like homie, why would I be mad at that? And this one’s gonna come out of left field, but while I’m saying shit; you don’t get a pass to be a terrible nightmare asshole because you were abused. You need to check yourself, hold yourself accountable for your own actions, and face your mental issues like the god damn human being you are. Listen, I’ve struggled with that my whole life; I got my damn dick skin peeled off in a nasty rape, I’ve had personality issues, dysphoria, depression, and you know what? I hold myself accountable and responsible when my god damn mental illnesses affect other people. It is not other folks job to keep you grounded; friends absolutely do not have to be of use to you to be friends, and if you believe that- if you think that a friend is someone who you can use as a crutch for your mental illness without giving anything back to them no questions asked? You’re a shit friend, and it’s not their fault. It is yours. So, check yourself, do everything you can to rage against your own brain, and never stop fighting. Get professional help, get drugs, do whatever you can to battle your mind back into some semblance of normalcy- or, I guess drown in it, but do NOT expect others to take care of you, and do NOT judge others for not being there for you when you’re not even attempting to be there for yourself. That’s not the job of a friend, that’s the job of a therapist. Also, god damn, I will be all day at this but True Gamer culture is vile and sickening, and this isn’t something I have to see often but... man, you’re not better than anyone because you press keys on your computer and move a dude on a screen. That’s not a shot at Esports or whatever, that’s a shot at people who look down on others because they think playing a game on hard mode is an actual achievement to be proud of. Which, you know what? Maybe it can be, but it sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to make fun of your mom because she plays Candy Crush, you sick little dweeb. Hey, come sit with me here for a second. Pull up a chair, I’d like to tell you something. Now, I know I’m sitting here telling people not to be angry at each other over multimedia, and to not take strangers seriously; and I do mean that. That sounds a bit like what I’m doing, right? Eh, maybe. Could be, but at least I’m not running an actress off of Twitter with hate mail because your cheese-ball sci-fi movie didn’t live up to expectations. That’s the difference to me, at the very least; me being sickened by the state of pissbabies online, rather than me going online and telling someone to kill themselves because they let everyone know Tony Stark dies in Endgame. Hey, you know you may not see that as a different thing, but I do. I can say for sure I ain’t losing any sleep over it, though, honey. Not really looking for a discussion here either, I just wanted to get out some thoughts that have brewing in the dome all day about how weirdly religiously fanatic a lot of nasty internet behavior is, and just how deeply offputting it all is to me. Not looking for your hot takes, nor am I looking to piss anyone off, just blasting some steam out from the dome, you feel?

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bitsyparker · 7 years

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Peter Parker is a trans boy :)

This was made because @chase-is-not-crash made a wonderful post that made me ( someone who is really confused about their gender and struggles constantly ) feel a whole lot better about who I am and made me less anxious. Thank you Chase.

So here is a little fic for all the transphobes out there,

Ned was the first person Peter told.

“I don’t think I’m a girl,” Peter mumbled over a glass of milkshakes at age ten.

“That’s chill, thats completely fine, do you want another name?” Ned asks casually.

“Peter”

“I like that, Peter sounds wicked!” Ned exclaimed.

Peter laughs and feels lighter.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben are the second.

“I think that I’m a boy.” Peter had told his aunt and uncle at age twelve.

“Okay sweetheart. What… what does that mean for you? Aunt May had asked gently.

“Uhh, it means, well. It means that I was born in a girl’s body, but, I’m a boy. I am, I’m Peter, is that okay?” he explained slightly frightened, becoming really quiet towards the end of the sentence.

May and Ben got up without question and hugged Peter tight and kissed his head while Ben said,”Of course it’s okay my sweet boy, we love you Peter, and we always will.”

Soon Peter was Peter to everyone and whether they accepted it or not Peter slowly started to feel like he was becoming who he was supposed to be, that was until Ben died and the spider bite happened. Now everything was just hard and confusing all over again.

Peter lies in bed staring at the ceiling emotionlessly. Everything around him meant nothing in this moment when his mind could only stay on the one subject his mind constantly brought him back to. Some days weren't as bad as others and he'd just forget about it, but when it was bad it really was one of the worst feelings he had ever experienced.

Peter found himself staring at the ceiling, a common occurrence now that Peter thought about it.

Whenever Peter was having a bad day, he found himself staring up at the ceiling.

Peter took a deep breath as he shifted in bed, curling up into himself as he pulled the covers over his head. He took a few breaths, let the air under the covers become warm and unbearable before pulling the covers down just enough to poke his head out to breathe.

Dysphoria sucked.

Peter really hated going to school sometimes.

“I’m not a girl! I’m a man! I’m a male!” Peter had reminded Flash after the one-hundredth time he'd been misgendered by him.

“Of course you are penis Parker.” Flash had sneered

Peter really had to keep himself from decking Flash right in the face.

Peter tugged on his sleeves and walked away. He hated Flash. He hated how ironic it was that Flash loved Spider-Man so much because wouldn’t Flash just lose it if he knew his number one guy was trans, but at least when Flash talked about Spider-Man, Flash called him something that he actually was.

Transphobes suck too.

After Germany Tony kept randomly showing up in Peter’s life, which was fine except for the fact that Tony didn’t know that Peter was trans.

Peter was flipping through the air, throwing out an arm to shoot a web to the next building down the street, he felt the burn as he swung as fast as his enhanced musculature could carry him. A low swing took him down into traffic, and he shouted out apologies as drivers and pedestrians alike made angry noises and honked at him.

Peter was swinging across town, casually stopping purse snatchers, when he caught sight of some enhanced villain wrecking Time Square engaging in some usual villainy.

Sometime during Peter’s process of driving the masked man away from Time Square, planning on bringing him down to the water and away from people, Tony arrived on the scene. Peter was actually relieved to see him.

The villain however was not the least bit happy about the development. “I’ll get him to the water!” Peter shouted over the roaring at them. He was pounding on the villain with random stuff he’d picked up in a bundle of webbing, swinging it around on the end of a webline to keep his distance.

Once he was weakened Peter used pressurized webbing which exploding around him creating plenty of time to get better containment arranged.

Maybe Peter was being overconfident with the webbing, or maybe he was distracted by something but whatever happened, allowed the enhanced villain to get a good hit in. One moment he was saying something witty, and the next he was flying through the air and across the water. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and his head cracked into the side of dock. After that, things went dark.

When Peter came to, someone was frantically checking Peter’s pulse. Peter coughed, sputtering and swatting at the hands touching him. He was fine now, geez!

“Spidey! Spidey, buddy, are you with me?”

Peter blinked and looked up into the worried face of Tony Stark. His face burned as he realized what had happened. How embarrassing is it to be pummeled out of commission by some D-list villain?

“I’m alive,” Peter said.

Peter tried to stand up, but was hit by a wave of vertigo and sat back down immediately. He put a hand to his head and looked around to get his bearings. They were on a rooftop near the river, which was blessedly free of bystanders. At least no one had seen that.

With smartphones in everybody’s pocket, there would have been photos plastered all over the internet within minutes of Spider-Man being thrown for miles. That would have been a great boost to his reputation.

“Where’s the guy?”

“He got away.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “He got away?”

“You weren’t coming out of the water! I couldn’t just leave you there.” Tony said still looking panicked.

Peter put a hand on his sore ribs and made to get up again.

“Alright, let’s go track him down.”

“No. You look awful. And you almost drowned,” Tony said. “Plus I checked you over and there are things that are broken, buddy.”

Alarm bells. Panic. Checking him over meant a scan. A scan meant his anatomy was on display. Peter didn’t know what to do. Tony knew now. He didn’t want Tony treating him differently, he didn’t want Tony changing his behavior because he knew Peter was trans.

“No, no, no I…Mr.Stark I can explain”

“Explain what Spidey? You got thrown like a football and smacked right into a boat dock, I was checking you.”

“Tony don’t play dumb you know that I’m trans.” Peter said voice cracking.

Peter was mortified.

He scrambled to his feet, steading himself against the wave of vertigo. Without another word to Tony, he leaped off the building and headed off towards home. Tony could have followed him without any effort, but he didn’t.

At the hiding spot where he’d stashed his regular non-spider clothes, Peter changed out of his costume as fast as he could.

There was no way was he swinging all the way home in wet spandex. Not to mention that his binder was soaked, and in his haste and frustration to get out of it he accidentally ripped it in half. Hot tears tracked down his cheeks as he dug his extra sports bras out of the bottom of his backpack. That had been his favorite binder.

Tony found him before he made it home.

“Tony stop following me!”

“Listen Pete please stop running from me and let me speak to you.”

Peter stopped.

Tony breathed heavily and then spoke, “Do you want to know why I called myself Iron-man? I did it because they can't misgender you if they are always calling you a man.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open for the second time that day. “You’re not cisgender?”

“Peter, buddy I’m trans too.”

Peter felt weak at the knees and almost started sobbing, “You are….oh my god.”

“ Yes I am Peter and let me tell you that I know what it’s like to be afraid of someone not wanting to be around you anymore because of it, but Peter I am always here for you whenever you need it and I am not going anywhere.”

Peter began testosterone after that, thanks to his favorite trans person and now mentor Tony Stark.

Aunt may gave him the go ahead but she felt horribly guilty when Tony said he wanted to pay and oversee his transition and needless to say Peter felt twice as guilty.

“Mr. Stark that is really kind but I can’t accept that, it is asking way to much of you.” Peter had said.

“No, I am doing this Peter, I am helping you, and you can do me the favor of living your life being who you want to be.”

‘Thank you Tony this means the world.”

When Peter was sixteen Spider-man flew through the streets of New York with a transgender pride flag tied around his neck.

#Trans Peter Parker #My writing

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omgilostmyshoe · 5 years

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Writing Challenge Day 4: mirror

TW: not very detailed, but still a description of body dysphoria.

Gods, why it had to be so cold all the time? I really needed to invest in some sweaters, and warm socks, and probably a fluffiest, thickest coat I could find. On second thought, no fluff, it's probably made of actual animals here, and that if I was lucky those animals didn't talk at some point in time.

And I really needed to get up off the ice cold floor. "All very good points, darling, I would give you a pat on the head for them, but that would look weird and we have rather unpleasant company at the moment", - and as if heard Leanan, the creepiest laugh of all the laughs rattled around me, bouncing off the walls in sinister echo. Definitely a good queue to get moving and not being a glaringly helpless danger bait, chilling on the... literal ice?

No wonder that the floor felt so cold I mused, catching my reflection in glassy surface stretching as far as I could see. Which was not very far, room I woke up in was barely three meters from wall to wall. And those were also made of shiny reflective ice, making me think of the disturbing - and frigid - labyrinths of warped mirrors that were popular in fairs and amusement parks. "Your people go to them for fun? Truly? I will never understand humans..." - said Leanan, emphasizing his bewilderment with a dramatic sigh, but I just snorted, not even thinking of arguing. "You and me both, buddy, you and me both... This one though is especially creepy. Let's find what we need and get out. Fast."

That was obviously easier said than done. My first guess about a labyrinth was unhelpfully accurate one, and with no real way to tell one corridor from the other with them being virtually identical I just knew I was getting horribly lost. On occasion that sinister laughter echoed again, sometimes closer or further away, taunting me, but otherwise there was no sound, no reply to my calls for the twins or our new companions.

The chill coming from the walls and the floor in waves seemed to seep right into my bones and thoughts, and probably fogging my eyesight or maybe the mirrors themselves, because I kept catching something wrong in the reflections more and more with everyone I passed. My hair, or height, or figure, my posture, or walk... It was distorting and swaying, and there it is, that damned laugh again!

"Oh, would you come out already?! What's so fucking funny?!"

I snapped and Leanan tsked disapprovingly, but at least that frankly terrifying cackling stopped, almost as if clipped, it was so sudden. Instead, insinuating but somehow off-putting voice from behind ringed out, startling me, - "You, of course, little one. You are funny."

I swirled to see, to fight, but there was only my reflection, or, well, reflections - multiple, but one of them, at the corner of my eye smiled at me, vicious and hateful only to melt to my frightened expression the second I turned to it fully. And then it was like the witch decided to crank this twisted game up a notch or more like eleven notches, and everywhere I looked, but always just out of reach, my own face kept smirking at me, or laughing, or sneering in disgust. And sometimes it wasn't even my face I kept seeing.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire...." - the voice sing-songed, but this time it was not the voice of the witch. It was female still, but the sound of it cut deeper than any insult she could've ever thrown at me. Because that voice was mine. It was weird, listening it from outside perspective, like in the echo on the phone or a recording, but it was even worse because of it - disconnected and wrong and embarrassing. "You're so funny, little girl, thinking you're fooling anybody with your lies."

This time I caught the source of the sound, caught the reflection... Mine. Of course it was mine, there was nobody else here, nobody beside me, as always, and... "Hey, there, darling, let's not panic too much, shall we? I am still here and definitely not a nobody".

But Leanan's words quickly got drowned by the rush of blood in my ears, and even more so when I took in the sight in the next mirror I stumbled to on shaking legs. No. No. No, no, no...

It was beating in my head on repeat, but the reflection did not lie, it couldn't, right? It was true, just as it was all the years before. There I was, looking at myself with terror-stricken face, which was just like it always was. All narrow and elegant and female. I could see the little wrinkles on my eyelids - the first ones to appear, and that disgustingly boring hair color again, and marks on the cheeks that never healed properly, and my body was...

There was a chocked sobbing sound and I realized it was me making it, but the reflection didn't show fear anymore, it formed in disinterested examination, only to switch again - disgusted smirk now.

So I ran. It was pure instinct - and where it came down to it, I always chose flight instead of fight, every single time. Running from my problems, from my parents, from my friends and school, from myself... Always easier than to face it, is it, no matter how much it hurt in the end. Because it did, but right now, the taunting, distorting visions still beckoning me from every mirror hurt so much more. I couldn't breathe, couldn't cry, only run and run and run in futile hope to find an end to this nightmare, or at least a moment of quiet, to reassure myself it wasn't true, I was still how I was supposed to be, and not how I had a misfortune of being born.

Truthfully, it was a miracle I made it this far without slipping, when my trembling legs finally gave out on me and I crumpled on the floor in a sobbing heap. I didn't care, didn't even really registered the sharp pain in my wrists when I landed, just wanted the tormenting me voices to stop their incessant attacks. "Stop, please stop!.." - I begged and begged, but there was only more insults, how I'm a liar, a pretender, out for attention, weak and pathetic, aren't worse the air I breath, and... - "STOP!"

My voice ringed out with desperate power and suddenly there was only blissful, sweet silence. It enveloped me like a safe blanket - warm and comforting, drawing more shuddering breath out of me, while I tried to collect my scattering thoughts. As if through some thick fog I heard Leanan, panicked and almost yelling by the time I was able to acknowledge him again. "Oh, thank Spirits! Don't speak, darling. Just concentrate on breathing for now. I tried snapping you out of it, but the enchantment is too strong for me, I'm sorry. Even your rather ingenious silence bubble or whatever you wish to call it will not last long, you'll have to get out of here quickly."

With every second passing, my panicked frenzy slowly abated, revealing more and more pain and strains my body sustained. A rather pitiful and unsuccessful attempt at moving my right wrist made me almost certain it was broken - it felt like somebody was ripping it off when I tried to change positions. However the silence was still there and it was more now, not just calming, but... energizing. An unfamiliar, indescribable sensation of something flowing through me, in me, reassuring and empowering, enough for a shaky and sluggish, but a assent nonetheless.

The countless jabs and insults were still fresh in my memory, but relentless encouraging banter from Leanan was going and going and kept it at bay, at least for now, and also thankfully prevented me from walking into walls with timely directions. Apparently the whole horror show was an elaborate security enchantment, meant to drive intruders insane with their worst fears projected through mirrors - an ingenious idea for sure, one I would be even more impressed by if it wasn't just used on me. "Silence bubble" - totally coming up with a better name for it when I have the time - was currently shielding me from the worst of it, effectively cutting off, no, devouring even all the sounds around me. Keeping eyes closed on the other hand canceled out the visual component. "Our only grace in all of this is the fact, that such powerful magics require immense amounts of power, so nobody can keep it up for long, and once broken, they take time to regenerate. And while you were... distracted, I was able to map out our corner of this wretched place. A little further and we should either get out entirely or find another section."

Leanan kept chatting, now, that I was a little more sane switching to more pressing issues. Like finding our friends and hopefully saving them before they lose their minds completely. "That is the plan, darling, so keep walking. I really hate to harry you right now, but the time is of the essence..." - it was like accursed spell has heard him, because there it was again - a barely there murmur in my ear, indecipherable for now, but gaining in volume. The cold, that I almost forgot at this point was returning along with it, but I refused to slow my steps, jogging with eyes shut tight, praying that the only voice I wanted to hear right now - my resident ghost' one - will not lead me astray...

And then it was suddenly gone - the pressure in my head, the freezing chill, the tormenting whispers - all of it. Almost like a string snapping the enchantment was clearly gone, and with it went my barely holding bubble. But now it would have been more of hindrance than anything, I needed to hear to find my friends. I had to be there for them, to manage it somehow - through the fear still thundering in my veins, through the pain and anxiety. Just this ones... I had to fight.

#writing #snippets #t.o.d.#my writing

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chris-rant-blog · 7 years

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Hi world

Hi, I'm Chris. I'm 18, nonbinary, and in college. There's a lot going on with my life. I'm having to juggle a lot of things, like: academics mental health physical health social life gender dsyphoria

So, yeah, it's a lot. And I'm not really doing a good job at it.

Let me give you the rundown on the different parts.

Academics: Struggling in my classes. Part of it is difficulties with paying attention, and part of it is heavily procrastinating.

Mental Health: Anxiety disorders are not fun. And yet I get really lonely quickly. So I can't really win there. I also have intrusive thoughts about harming people (including myself) and things. I listen to lots of music to drown out those thoughts, and sometimes that doesn't work.

Physical Health: I'm barely eating enough to not lose weight, and I'm not even quite sure on that. I should be exercising, but I'm worried I will not increase my caloric intake to match.

Social Life: I have about 5 people on campus who I'd consider friends. And even then, I don't really trust them as friends yet. There's people from home that I talk on the phone with, but it hurts not having the sense of presence when interacting with them.

Gender Dysphoria: I don't like being seen as my assigned gender. That just doesn't work for me. The dysphoria itself seems to change intensity in context. Around some people, depending on the current activities, I may feel better or worse. Not only does it have context othe current moment, it also seems to have a short term memory, where it acts as a rolling average of the past 12 hours. I don't know if I want to fully transition, though I want to go on hormones, and I know that it is all-or-nothing.

There's some conversations I need to have. I need to talk to my parents about both my desire for going on hormones, and my struggles in my classes. I need to talk with my therapist about the intrusive thoughts.

I think that the gender dysphoria is the root of most of my current problems, but it's so hard to actually take care of that.

#lgbtq #nonbinary #cry for help #first post #social anxiety

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wellmeaningshutin · 7 years

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Short Story #76: Shortcut.

Written: 3/26/2017

Ever since Camilla was young, as far back as she could remember, she always wanted to be a girl. Thirty years had been trapped inside the body of some horrible man named Conrad, who had a bland accounting job that he had fallen into in the course of his life, and never really did anything that he wanted to do, never took chances. She never liked to think about those years, which she always considered as her past life, because she had finally decided to make sure that she could finally become who she was inside, even if she was extremely impatient. Hormones, surgery, makeup, tucking, vocal practice, electrolysis, all of that just seemed so boring to her, and would cause her journey to be very similar to her past life, which was just full of bland moments and a whole lot of waiting.

Waiting was something she couldn’t afford to do anymore, because dysphoria had been coming in, full force, and every day was full of anger, hatred, and despair, like her life was some sort of melodrama that she wouldn’t even have the patience to keep watching. Money was tight, too, since she had to keep buying replacements for all of her possessions, which kept breaking during fits of intense anger, where she would grab the closest thing and make sure that it resembled how she felt inside, and then the realization of what she did would cause her to cry, she didn’t used to be this way, then the light crying would turn into full force sobbing, which would lead to despair that would cause her to go into her bathroom, with a knife to her throat or a plastic bag over her head, and a belt around her neck, but the sight of herself in the mirror would just make her angry at herself, angry at the world for having fucked up her birth, angry at herself for feeling so fucked up, and then she would go off and break something else, and the cycle would continue onwards until she fell asleep, which would usually happen during one of her crying sessions.

When one of the neighbors had dialed 911, thinking that some sort of domestic dispute was in progress, and police showed up at Camilla’s door, where they saw that the man and his house looked like they had a run in with the KGB, she knew that she had to make some changes. Therapy was considered, but she realized that she couldn’t handle to go only once a week, and couldn’t afford to do more than that, so, like many people who are desperate, and need easy solutions, she turned to the shadier regions of the internet, looking for information on black magic, an alternative that she never would have considered in her past life, when she was devoted to the teachings of the Catholic church.

However, it seemed like a lot of information online was contradictory, not very informative, unrealistic (later, she would realize that this was a strange criteria to have for magic), or seemingly made up, like the large numbers of sources that she found, boasting about the magical properties of crystals. What confused her the most, out of all of the information that she found online, was a website that claimed to sell crystals that would increase one’s luck and make them wealthier, but why would somebody sell them for $50 each? If they had so many of these magical crystals, wouldn’t they have enough money to give them away? Or did they work on a multi-level marketing system, where you had to sell crystals to get more money, but how would that work? And how could magic effect wealth anyways, since money is just a concept created by people and is really just an abstract concept more than anything. After a very long, and very confused email was sent to the store owner, she fell asleep at her desk, the first calm night’s sleep in the past month.

She never realized why she was able to sleep easy that night, even if the reason was pretty simple. In her past life, she was the type of person who had nothing better to do than to write long letters to politicians, corporations, television channels, local businesses, etc, that needed to clear up a large amount of meaningless questions, complaints, or both, and could spend entire evenings complaining about typos, or asking her mayor what his dental hygiene routine was, just because she was curious of how people in power took care of themselves. The reasons that she was placated by this was the same reason that many people go shoplifting, commit sex crimes, write hateful and anonymous comments online, because it was able to give her a sense of power that she was sorely missing in her life.

When she woke up, she found a response to her email, which only said, “If I gave them away for free, then nobody would want them.”

As she made herself a bowl of oatmeal, and slowly ate it on her couch, staring off at a distant wall, not wanting to see her reflection in the television screen, she came to the conclusion that she didn’t want to waste any more time on the internet, so she would have to go out into the world and find people who were actually knowledgeable in the occult. Yet she couldn’t really afford to leave her city, so she would have to find a local, but she had no clue where those sorts of people would congregate. Deciding that magic seemed like a more foreign thing, she figured that Chinatown would probably be her best bet, so that’s where she went.

That day was spent wandering around the streets, asking people if they knew how to perform magical rituals, making her generally feel like an asshole, she was way out of her league. On her way home, as she felt like a complete and utter failure, she decided that the internet would probably be her best bet, she just needed to hang in there, needed to stop being so pathetic. However, this idea went out the window when she drove by a palm reader’s store, did a highly illegal u-turn, parked in front of the building, and quickly made her way inside, where she found a man in a turtle neck, sitting at a table with a crystal ball on top of it, focused on a television in the corner of the room that was displaying a hockey match, or maybe it was a riot, it was hard to tell. When the psychic noticed Camilla standing there, he put a finger to his head and acted like he muted the television with his mind, but really just used the remote that was hidden in his hand that was in his lap, obscured by the table. “Welcome!” he announced.

“Hey there.”

“Well, sir, would you like to have a palm reading? I can tell your future, I can help you find true love,” swirling his hands over the plastic, crystal ball, “Or, if you are interested, I can tell you how you die.”

Pointing to the chair that was opposite of the man, “Can I?”

“Yes yes, sit down. I knew you were going to ask that. Now, what do you wish to know, I can tell you all, for a price.”

“Oh, I wasn’t looking for very much of that, I’m not interested in palm readings and could care less about who I love, or how I die. I just was wondering if you knew anybody else in the magic community, I need to find somebody who could perform a ritual for me.”

“What? A ritual?”

“Yeah, you know,” tracing a pentagram with her finger, “Black magic and all of that. I need to find somebody who can help turn me into a woman, or at least just my body.”

Worried, “I, I don’t know anybody who can do anything like that.”

“Is there at leas some sort of,” shrug, “occultists union or something like that? Do you people have conventions or something? I just want-”

“Look, pal, if you want to turn your body into a woman, then why don’t you go to therapy or something? Shoot a bunch of estrogen into your dick before you cut it off, or whatever the hell you people do. Why do you want to fuck around with black magic and all of that?”

“Well, I thought about that, but I figured it would be a lot easier to kill a goat, or whatever,” waving that idea away, “and have a real womans body, instead of going through pain and procedures for like two years just for a woman’s body that nobody treats as authentic anyways. I don’t have anything to lose, I’m okay with taking short cuts or whatever.”

Getting a little tense, a little aggressive, “Well, I don’t know anything about black magic, so you’re barking up the wrong tree here, pal.”

“What do you mean you don’t know anything about it? You have to know somebody, have to have some leads.”

Shouting, “I don’t know nothing about black magic,” and then a fist slamming down onto the table, hard, that caused the clear plastic ball to start to roll off, before the palm reader caught it and fixed it back onto its stand.

“What do you,” suddenly, a false understanding of the situation, “Ohh, okay. I get you. Nobody here knows anything about black magic,” a wink, then leaning in and whispering, “If you’re being bugged, then I can-”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Standing up, appalled, “Fine, whatever, screw you! I bet you don’t even know the first thing about magic anyways, you’re just a fucking scam artist.”

Shouting, and standing up to stare down Camilla, “Scam artist? You think I’m some kind of scam artist?”

“Yeah, that’s right, you might as well claim that you’re a Nigerian prince.”

“Well, hows this for a scam,” reaching out and snatching Camilla’s hand before she could react, then waving his free hand over it, “You’re going to drown in a pool of your own blood, that’s how you will fucking die.”

In a mix of anger, fear, and confusion, Camilla jerked her hand away from the man who smelt overwhelmingly of cigarettes and olives, then stomped out of the building, making sure to slam the door as hard as she could on her way out. “What a lousy, no good, son of a bitch”, she muttered to herself as she got back into her old car, with its peeling paint, and cigarette burns in the seats from the previous owner. Before she backed out, and decided to drive home, she sat there, trying to figure out if the man was trying to scare or threaten her. After a little while she didn’t care, and was already planning out her formal complaint in her head as she backed out and began the drive home. As she was mulling over the third paragraph of the inevitable letter, she noticed a sign of a chain coffee shop up ahead, and figured that it would probably be best to get some caffeine in her now for the long night ahead, especially since she had shattered her coffee pot.

Inside she heard lackluster acoustic covers of already lackluster songs, and decided that it would probably be best to just order her drink and leave as soon as she could, but as she waited the atmosphere of the place seemed to take control of her, allowed her to feel relaxed. As she tapped her foot to the casually predictable tune of the music, she never noticed the woman who had sat next to her, and was surprised when she had spoke, “You are in great distress, aren’t you?” The voice was aged, but youthful, and when she turned to look at the woman she could see no face, only a black veil.

“Uh, yeah, you could say that.”

“You are troubled on how to find a cure, you are desperate to try anything, even what most people would be afraid of.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You-”

The barista at the counter called out, “Madame? Your blended white chocolate, raspberry coffee is ready.”

Holding up a finger, “One second,” then getting up and getting the drink, and returning to her seat, “Okay, so you want answers to your problem?”

Camilla nodded, “Of course.”

“Well, I can provide you with a solution. I can help you transform into who you really are inside, I can make you whole.”

“What’s the price? What do you want from me?”

“Don’t worry about that now, when I want the favor to be returned then I will ask, all I need you to do is to promise that you will be willing to do whatever I ask of you when I call in this favor.”

“You’re sounding like a mobster.”

“Black magic, the mafia, these are both groups that have to exist in the underground, so it should be no surprise that we share some similarities.”

“When can the whole, you know,” tracing a pentagram with her finger for the second time that day, realizing that the motion was very pleasing to her, “happen?”

“Allow me into your car, go where I tell you to go, and we could perform it tonight.”

“Why me? Why would you be willing to do this for me?”

“I’ve been meaning to perform this ritual for quite some time, but I have had nobody who would be willing to undergo the process. That’s one thing that is required of it, the target must be willing. When I saw you come in here, you aura was just right, I knew you would be perfect.”

After Camilla’s drink was served, they got into her beat up car, and she drove where the veiled woman, who only went by the name Madame, instructed her to drive. When she started the car, Camilla expected to be taken to the woods somewhere, where a goat would be slaughtered, they would dance naked in the moonlight, owls would flutter around everywhere, but instead Madame had led her to some run down dance studio, deep in the downtown area. Before they got out of the car, Madame handed Camilla a business car, and she had to ask, “What is this?”

“Its a therapist, I recommend all of my clients to her.”

“If you’re going to be able to help me,” trying to hand it back, “then I don’t think I’ll have any more problems.”

“Just hold onto it.” They made their way into the studio, which was filled with darkness that Camilla could not see through, even though Madame kept walking as if it wasn’t something she had noticed, so the driver had to pause to turn on her phone’s flashlight, which didn’t seem to do a very good job of clearing the dark, but, unsteadily, she attempted to move onwards. It seemed like the place had been uninhabited for some time, there was a worrying amount of roaches, spiders, and rats, but there was also the occasional discarded needle, condom wrapper, doll appendage, or faded remnants of graffiti. Her guide had never looked back, and she struggled to catch up, worried that would become lost in the building, worried about what she may have gotten herself into, but she was lucky that the building wasn’t very large, and it only took her four minutes to find the main dance area, with hardwood floors, walls lined with mirrors, and a circle of candles in the center of the room, but her guide was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello?”

Moving closer and closer to the illuminated circle.

“Hello?”

When she reached the center of the circle, she could see that Madame was not too far off, blending into the shadows, lying on her back with her knees up, and her veiled head pointing at Camilla. They stared at each other for quite some time, then the guide finally spoke, “I am synchronizing my menstrual cycles to the lunar cycles, you will know when the ritual has begun. Please,” gesturing towards the circle, “take a seat.” Camilla sat and waited for some time, watching as the woman lay there, pointing her vagina towards the moon, unmoving, waiting.

After ten minutes, she noticed that blood began to pour out from the woman, and not just a trickle, but large amounts of blood began to pool out and slowly crept towards Camilla, who was starting to become worried, but decided that it would be best to repress any sense of worry, fear, or hesitation, knowing that no matter how bad this would get, it would be better than spending another day inside of a male body. It would be better than having to shave every day, to have to look in the mirror and see how freakishly masculine she was, to have to hear her deep voice, to constantly feel the discomfort of her dick, which always seemed to be uncomfortable and in the way, no matter how much she shifted it around, to never be able to wear feminine clothes, or makeup, because she would know how ridiculous it would look on her, causing hope to turn into hatred. Anything would be better than having to live like that.

So, when Madame instructed her to strip, she stood up and began to remove her clothes, then tossed them outside the ring. Then, following instructions, she stood as the menstrual blood had pooled around her feet, and when she had to she sat in it, dipped her hands into it and smeared it all over her face, placed her face into it and drank it, rolled around in it, made sure that it touched as much as her body as she could, and when she had to chant she chanted. When the blood flow ceased, Madame stood up and walked into the darkness, and Camilla remained in the circle, lying on her back, getting colder and colder as the thick substance seemed to move around her, seemed to vibrate.

Madame returned, this time carrying something bundled inside of a pink cloth, which she held up, let out an awful wail, and then brought down and held it forward so that Camilla could watch as she unwrapped it, revealing a mangled fetus, some infant in the making that had been cast out of its mother before it could even become a person, before it was even close to developing any form of thought, before it could come alive. She held up the the pre-person that had never lived, high above Camilla, and she made sure to twist and tear it in half, causing it to be a bigger mess that it already was, then she leaned down and smeared the things over the prone guy’s face, genitals, and chest, the whole time making some strange moaning noise, or at least that is what it seemed like at first. It took her a while to realize, but Madame had never made a sound since she told Camilla to sit down. However, the transitioning girl could not complain, or get worried about that, at least not in the moment, since her immediate situation was alarming enough.

The remains of the creature that was born before it could live, unable to die, into the darkness, and there was no sound to announce its landing against the hardwood, only a shriek after it had been consumed by the dark. Madame then reached inside of her jacket, and produced a large knife that she placed against Camilla’s flesh, and cut and cut and cut, as if she were giving the desperate girl a c-section, and that was the point where Camilla blacked out. She wasn’t sure if she was conscious during the whole ordeal and was just repressing it, or if she really passed out, but when she came to inside of the abandoned dance studio, freezing, completely naked, surveying the area that was now filling in with morning light, she looked inside of the mirror and was happy to see that she was what she had always known herself to be.

It was surprising that there had been no trace of blood, candles, salt, or anything related to the events of the previous night, and it was a little annoying that her old clothes now felt way too big on her, she was happy that she could live life the way she had wanted to. However, as she exited the abandoned studio, she saw the lights of a police cruiser, and to officers talking with a tow truck driver, who was placing the hook onto her car. “Wait!” she called and ran towards them, “That’s my car! Wait, stop, no, please don’t tow it, I’m here, I can just move it.”

The officers gave her a look, one she didn’t like, and one of them spoke up, “Ma’am, what were you doing inside of that studio?”

“I was just… just..”

“Can’t even think of an excuse?”

Their partner pitched in, “Maybe she’s still high.”

“Alright, I’m going to need to see your ID.” Camilla nodded, reached into her wallet, and removed her drivers license, but when the officers took it they just shared frustrated glances. “You think we’re going to buy this shit? Do you think we’re fucking stupid?”

#Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Gender Dysphoria #Transgender

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