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many-but-one · 2 months

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i dunno if you guys answer asks but what’s the best way to start… remembering? our social worker suggested hypnotherapy but i don’t know if that works well. we’re aware of the possibility of ramcoa trauma happening and have a few memories but we don’t know how to go about piecing things together

We do answer asks! We just forget we have an askbox sometimes. This one caught my attention in particular due to the mention of hypnotherapy and a possibility of RAMCOA trauma.

Obligatory “I’m not a therapist I’m just a random system on tumblr and you should make your own informed decisions on your own mental health.”

So if you suspect RAMCOA trauma in your history I would advise to be extremely careful and/or cautious about pursuing hypnotherapy. We have never done hypnotherapy and never will because hypnosis is a very common mode that programmers will use to create a dissociated state in a child. Hypnosis therefore is extremely triggering to us and if your system has parts who are programmed to run when hypnosis begins, it could cause a risk to your system’s stability.

As for tips on how to remember, all I will say is that you should probably consider the factors that make you unable to remember at this time.

Common reasons why amnesia can be strong/worsen for systems (side note: these are all personal experiences or experiences I’ve heard from other systems):

stress in daily life often causes amnesia barriers to strengthen or worsen

a lot of trauma has already recently come out. Especially in the case of HC-DID or C-DID where higher ups can often control amnesia levels to an extent, your gatekeepers will often increase amnesia levels if trauma has already recently slipped out to avoid even more slipping out

you are still having to consistently interact with someone who was involved in or complicit in your trauma. If you are living with your dad who you think is kind of a dick but not that bad and suddenly get memories that he tortured you, living with that person will become nearly impossible for your wellbeing. Gatekeepers will often keep stuff locked down when you are still having to be in contact with past abusers

you are not in a stable position to begin to receive trauma memories. People with CPTSD, a CDD, etc often report that they function fine enough when they are living in an abusive environment, but once they leave that environment and can truly relax, that’s when memories and flashbacks start hitting them and they become nearly nonfunctional despite being in a significantly calmer and safer environment. That’s your body and mind finally leaving fight or flight mode and when you truly get to relax for the first time it’s going to hit you like a truck.

Take it from a host that dug too much too soon and learned things way too fast: slow the fuck down. /meant gently. Your memories will surface in time. There is no rush to figure everything out. Trust me, the more you start learning the more you will probably be like “damn actually I don’t wanna know any more this is getting pretty bad” and by then your system will be like “WELL THAT’S TOO DAMN BAD.”

I had to get pulled from the host team for nearly a year because of how bad digging for memories fucked me up. Granted, I ended up taking up inner caretaking and inner deprogramming and now that our system is very nearly completely deprogrammed, my inner world job is less necessary so I can return to full time host business. There were several other factors that also led to me being unable to host again for so long, such as programmed parts constantly attacking and harming host team members (couldn’t handle that I am Fragile) and also having a harder time speaking in an American accent and masking my English one due to a series of splits that happened after we got divorced from our ex wife. I can mask my accent better now and my distress tolerance is much higher now due to having worked with programmed parts internally for so long, which makes me able to return to main host stuff and not get absolutely mentally destroyed anytime I experience a flashback or programmed response or an attack from a programmed part anymore.

If you have RAMCOA trauma, no matter if it was stuff from a single parent or a high control group, none of it will be fun to learn. It will be some of the most devastating, heart-wrenching, soul-crushing things you will ever experience, seeing flashbacks of your kid self being harmed in ways no human should be harmed, let alone an innocent kid. And I’m not saying you’re trying to learn for the fun of it, I’m assuming you want to learn for two reasons at least:

1) you’re in denial and need proof

2) you want to help your system heal

What I did to help myself through these two things were this:

When I experienced denial, such as when a part told me something or showed me something, I would just default to believing them no matter if I thought something like that could ever happen. My kid self deserves to have someone believe them. We were never believed as a kid, nobody paid attention, we were ignored. I’m never doing that to myself ever again. If the memory turns out to be a pseudomemory, or you realize maybe this didn’t really happen the way you thought, you’ll figure that out when you get there and that doesn’t mean you were faking it.

As for wanting to help my system heal, I learned I actually didn’t need to know as much info as I thought I needed to know to help my system heal. The extent of what I know now is a few visuals, that’s it. I have seen maybe about a dozen visual memories (not even in their entirety, often just 1 or 2 seconds of something) and the rest is just “this is what happened” as told to me by my parts. It’s like reading a horrible story, I’m incredibly detached from it. But the things I have seen have helped me learn to take my parts seriously when they tell me what happened. I catalogue their triggers, I learn what to avoid, I learn how to positively trigger out other parts who can help, I work on inner communication, etc. I don’t need to know all the details yet, that will come later. For now, I can teach my parts who haven’t seen the light of day for 15 years how to ground in the present and show them healthy coping skills. I can give them the comfort and love they always deserved. I don’t need to know what happened to do that. I can know it’s bad because they got triggered out when I looked in the mirror and they saw my red lipstick and freaked. I can know it’s bad because they internally look like a doll with no limbs or a young girl with no eyes and only a mouth full of teeth. I don’t need to see what made them that way/remember what made them that way to help them.

I hope my answer helped anon! Good luck!

-Dori 🌹(she/he/they)

#dori🌹#dorian🌹#answered asks #anon ask #did alters #did osdd #dissociative identity disorder #manybutone #hcdid #ramcoa #tw ramcoa #tw torture #did denial #coping skills #did amnesia

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rxgueone · 1 year

Text

SEEN

Word count: 4,999

Summary: Austin, who strongly dislikes the oc. Eventually falls for her, and isn’t afraid to admit it.

Warnings: fluff, cursing, enemies to lover trope, arguing, emotional cheating, all I can think of.

Tags: none.

Note: I don’t know what’s been up with Tumblr lately. But this app has been duplicating and deleting paragraphs. So if this story is a bit messed up. I apologize. This is also based off of something that happened to me with the chic I’ve been seeing. We’re about to hit two years so rad. This story is based off of mainly her perspective and to what she’s told me when dealing with her friends who use to constantly judge not only our relationship but as well as me as a person so that’s also rad. But yeah. Story based off of mainly how she sees me and why she loves me etc etc. I love her sm. She’s genuinely perfect. So… I guess you could say this is technically just a super long love letter to my girl. So if she sees this. I love you.

MASTERLIST

—

The blonde sat down in silence. His body hunched over the bench he was sitting, legs crossed, with a pen and sketchbook. He was constantly glancing at the reference photo of Venom that was on his phone. Sketching out some sort of figure of the Marvel Villain.

Behind him was a girl in black pantyhose, a black skirt and black shirt. She had raven colored hair, that was long. However compared to him she was quite little and petite. He hadn’t noticed her presence as he was quietly sketching.

The girl recognized him. He was Austin Butler, the most outspoken guy at the campus. A man who she had hated greatly, and she knew he felt the same way over her. The pair had gotten into several heated debates about controversial topics. He was never afraid to stand up for what he believed in. When she had met him, he was dating a girl named Ana. Who was very short compared to him.

She never understood how Ana could put up with Austin. A brash and blunt man who never seemed to know how to shut up. But, this was the first time he looked at his lonesome. And she watched him draw in his sketchbook.

He never had many friends either. He always looked to be alone ever since he and Ana broke up. He had such a cold expression on his face, he was emotionally unavailable most of the time. And he had changed since the breakup, still outspoken but less or more so.

She cleared her throat, wanting to compliment the drawing. “That’s a nice drawing you got there.”

The pencil stopped moving as he turned to face her. “Oh,” he blankly looked at her. Looking at his drawing again, then at her, “appreciate that. It’s Venom.” He had a simple tone. His voice was raspy, but it had a husky twist to it. Almost seemed unreal how deep someone’s voice really was. She forgot how deep it was in all honesty, even despite of their heated debates.

“Oh… Venom.” She whispered. “Mind if I sit with you to watch?” She asked quietly. She was expecting him to reject the offer, considering their deep dislike towards each other- or, so she thought.

“Yeah, go ahead.” He flicked his head, motioning her to the empty spot. She blinked, taken aback by this. But nonetheless, she had offered, he took it, so she should go through. She sat down at his side, close to him to watch the pencil move against the paper.

She said nothing for some time, not wanting to disturb him. During this time, Austin��s eyes would sometimes wonder off to her face. She was prettier than he remembered. In fact, he never thought she was pretty, purely cause they were typically yelling at each other. He figured he’d spark up a conversation. “You know anything about Marvel?”

“No.” She answered, glancing at his face. “I dunno much about Marvel.”

“Me neither,” he admitted casually, “I just like drawing.” Once the sketch was finished. He began to tighten up the drawing so it could look more of an actual figure instead of just circles and messy squiggles. “More of a Star Wars guy.”

“You like Star Wars?” Her eyes were now focused on his face.

“Yes.” His tone remained monotonous.

“I’ve never watched it.”

“Would you like me to tell you about it?”

“Sure. I’d love to hear about it.” She shrugged. Her brown eyes had remained on him. As he continued to sketch Venom, she listened intently to his words as he talked about the love he had for the series. He sounded passionate, and she couldn’t lie, it was interesting and attractive how someone could talk so passionately about something they felt fondly for.

Her head was slightly tilted the whole time as she listened. She couldn’t believe that she was sitting with Austin, casually talking to him. She thought he’d be mean or hostile towards her. But he seemed so casual and chill, like they had never once argued a day in their life. For some reason, this too charmed her.

She blinked, thinking it’d be awkward to mention it. But she decided to anyways. “I thought you’d be meaner.” She said once he finished his monologue about how great Star Wars was. Austin looked at her with half sleepy eyes. His face was unreadable but she assumed he was confused. “Cause well- y’know, you and I use to go at it.” She chuckled nervously.

“Oh.” He looked away for a moment. “Yeah well,” he started, “I know how to properly loathe people. You were debating with me because that’s the whole point of English Literature. You debate about topics and stupid shit like that. You were only doing it to get the A. I was doing the same. Nothin deep about it.” He shrugged it off. “It was professional, not personal.”

She was surprised by his laid back response. “But I mean— I would ignore you and everything too after that.”

“So?” He smirked. “Don’t matter does it? You’re talkin to me now.” This man was full of surprises. He was laid back. Incredibly so that it seemed unreal. But on his face was a smirk, a smirk that showed friendliness. “We’re still friends. You may not consider me one. But I consider you one. So, I’ll wait for you to talk to me. I’m like a dog.”

“You shouldn’t compare yourself to a dog.” She was taken back from how low he saw himself. Never has she seen someone refer to themself as a dog, and for some reason he didn’t seem too bothered by it. He just looked back at the sketchbook.

“It isn’t an insult to myself.” Beginning to shade in the parts of Venom’s body. “It’s not an insult if it’s true. I’m like a dog. I wait and wait. My ex girlfriend ignored me for a total of six months, and I waited for her.”

“Ana?” Scooting closer to him until their knees were touching. He gave a nod. She looked at what he was wearing. Black jeans, a white shirt underneath his Vans hoodie, with a pair of Vans sneakers. “She ignored you for that long?”

“Like I said Lyra,” he looked at her eyes now. She saw nothing but empty gray orbs. As if he was use to being treated that way. With a blank expression, “I’m a dog.” He returned back to sketching. “You hated me. Your friends hated me too. Most people on this campus hated me. Even my girlfriend ignored me. So… y’know you gotta wait till you’re actually used or some shit.”

“But… nobody should be treated that way.” She spoke softly.

“Oh? When I debated with your whole entire friend group. One of your buddies made a whole post about it on Instagram. Then I got attacked for it.” He scoffed, his tone still showing no range of emotion. He didn’t seemed annoyed, he didn’t seem sad, he didn’t show anything.

“We did that?” Not even being able to recall the event. Austin couldn’t help but chuckle when she answered him. He gave a nod once more, his brows raised in amusement. “Oh- I’m sorry about that. That was incredibly immature of us.”

“Yeah. It was.” He began drawing in the background of the sketch. “But I don’t blame you. It was him. Not you.”

“But I’m friends with him?”

“But, you’re not him.” He put the sketchbook away now. Closing it shut to put it beside him with the pencil on top. “So… I look at you differently. Like I said. I know how to loathe people. I never had the privilege to really loathe someone properly.” Their eyes locked with each other. They were sitting incredibly close.

Maybe she didn’t hate him. Now that she was actually talking to him. He seemed chill, interesting with the way he thought. Yeah, maybe she didn’t hate him. Maybe she believed she did because her other friends hated him, but her? No.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.” She murmured, realizing that he was much different than she first perceived. He chuckled lowly once more, shaking his head. “Well- I don’t hate you either.” This caught his attention. Their eyes were still locked with each other. He had been listening to her intently, his arm over the bench, leaning back on it. With her hands underneath her thighs, with their bodies turned towards each other.

“You don’t?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I thought I did honestly. But now that I get to know you… you’re super chill.” Her hands pulled out from underneath her thighs, nervously twiddling with her fingers.

“Then I’ll see you here tomorrow, huh?” As if he was suggesting the idea to become actual friends. She had nodded her head in agreement. Not wanting to treat him like a dog, like the way he saw herself.

From that day on. The pair would meet up with each other on that bench every day. He’d probably bring some snickers, for himself mainly cause she didn’t like chocolate. But they had began to grow closer to each other as the days pressed on.

Lyra’s priority was always her friend group, and Austin wasn’t the priority. She cared more about her friend group than she cared about him. But at times, she would often catch herself talking about him.

“What’re you so focused on?” One of her friends asked. Noticing that she had been on her phone more, as if she was expecting a text message.

“Oh- a text from that guy I was talking about earlier.” She revealed to them. They quirked up their brows, surprised by the answers.

“You seem more interested in him.”

“Oh, well y’know he’s cool.” She brushed it off as if they weren’t even there. They had laughed at her new interest in him, going back to talking about whatever they were talking about. She had known that if they found out if she was talking to Austin Butler they would have made fun of him.

But for some reason, she began to prioritize him slowly. Slowly he was chipping away at her heart. At times when he would meet with her, they would just sit at the bench at talk. Get to know each other more. With his arm around her shoulder, and her leaning against him.

He was learning more about her. And the more he learned. The more he realized she wasn’t really a good girl like the front she put up for the audience. She wasn’t innocent nor pure like the front she put up. She was mean but she was also kind to him, she would listen to him talk about random things he enjoyed, or would vent to her about how the storage room flooded again at work.

She learned that he was a person filled with anger. He grew up in a culture where he was taught to never show emotion. So he was mostly monotonous with everyone he met. The only time he would actually show emotion was when debating with someone, but that emotion was usually annoyance, nothing more, nothing less. She learned he was impulsive and battled with his demons often. That he needed someone stable there to keep him calm, he needed someone who was patient and understanding. He needed that.

She learned that he was also a handyman. For some reason she found him to be the coolest in the room. He had revealed that he could weld, fix motorcycles, he knew how to cook, he had so many things about him that were surprising. Such as how his favorite color was pastel pink. She found this to be especially shocking due to the fact he was such a burly dude. Tall and blunt with no emotion, who really loved puppies and loved the color pink. When she needed him to help her with something, he was there. Always.

She learned that he would cope with himself by writing. His stories were always different in her eyes. With a world filled with nothing but hate, with a world that is constantly tearing itself apart, writing stories can help put it back together. Making up a poem on the dime for her just like that. She had figured that he’d write about her, about their friendship, about everything.

And so, she had came to the realization that she was slowly falling for him. For a man who was blunt, honest, unemotional, but that was fine for her. Due to the reality of him being an immature sweetheart.

—

At the time he had been talking to a girl for awhile. He would often vent to Lyra about the girl. About how she would belittle him and tell him how nobody would love him as much as she did, why Ana left him, why people treat him like a dog, etc etc. she would just go on with belittling him.

It was eventually so bad that Austin simply told Lyra. ‘I just want to be a good man.’ He would whisper in such a weak and soft tone, exposing his vulnerability to her.

Never before had a man expressed such a genuine desire to be good. Was he belittled so much that he genuinely saw himself as a bad person? To this. She would simply answer with: You are a good person.

And he was. He wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could. It was if he was afraid of hurting people. With his background, he didn’t want to hurt anymore people. He would always listen to Lyra, and she could be herself around him. Sometimes she would twirl, with his hand holding hers to help. Something she was embarrassed about but loved doing due to the skirts she wore.

He admitted to liking her skirts. He admitted to liking everything about her. Saying that she was kind and patient, which meant she was perfect to him. But she never believed him, however he believed his words with everything he had. He had fallen for her, and promised to protect her while they were friends. He had vowed his loyalty to her even as friends. So she could tell him anything she couldn’t tell her friends.

One day by the park, they had been sitting beside each other. She was eating ice cream that he bought for her. “You alright?” He asked.

“Yep! Vanilla is an awesome flavor!” She smiled up at him. A crack of a smile plastered on his face as he kept watching her eat quietly.

Austin had gotten a hint that maybe Lyra felt the same way he felt for her. He saw her as the most beautiful woman in the world. She wasn’t what he first thought of her. She wasn’t a bitch. She was kind, gentle, and understanding. She was whiney and bratty, but she cared deeply for him, he knew. She would listen to how he felt. She would listen. Which was all that mattered to him. Nobody, not even the girl he was seeing could even do that for him.

To him, Lyra was the most perfect woman in the universe. The way she would skip or sometimes ramble about stuff was what made her so perfect. The fact that she would comfortably lean on his shoulder without judging him. The fact that she wasn’t shy to smile. The fact that she was able to sit down with him. To look at him. It was all he could ever ask for from her. The way she would just wrap him up in all her love, the way she would touch his hair to make sure it was okay and not messy. Sometimes he’d just walk around in ripped up clothes due to how old they were and the fact he couldn’t afford anything, she never judged him for that.

He wanted to show her the world. He wanted to show her how grateful he was. Even with the girl he had been currently talking with, how he felt miserable. But with Lyra she would make him smile. Cupping his face as she spoke, gathering and stealing all his attention. Twirling to show off her skirts. For a short while, he thought he could never love again, not after that girl he had been actively talking to, not after the girl that made him feel miserable. But then Lyra found him that one faithful evening.

In all his misery, her calm and gentle smile, her soothing voice was there to save him. When he felt the most lost. She was there for him. She was his Juliet to his Romeo.

So on that day when he gathered up all his courage. He figured he would shoot his shot. “Do you like anyone?”

“Huh?” She gulped down, licking her lips. “You asked me this already.” Her tone showed genuine confusion. Puzzled why he would ask her this while she was eating ice cream.

“I was just curious. I hear things.” He shrugged. “So…?”

“I got a crush.” Revealing only that to him. “What about you?”

“Yeah I got a crush too.” Blinking his dazed eyes, she perked up a brow. Austin? Liking somebody? When he was seeing a girl? Of course he likes someone. Maybe he just wants to amuse himself.

She chuckled to herself. “Yeah? Is it the girl you’re seeing?” Continuing off the assumption that he wanted some entertainment.

“No.” With a shake of his head, he hunched forward off the bench. With his elbows on his thighs, pushing his lengthy figure up.

“Oh-“ she blinked, now she was curious. If it wasn’t her. Then who. “Alright then who do you like?”

“You.”

“What?”

“You.” He reiterated. “I like you.” With eyes staring at hers. She had froze in place. She couldn’t believe how casual he was about this. As if confessing wasn’t nerve wrecking. The bastard even had an arrogant smile on his face. Amusing himself with how shy she had evidently gotten. Her face flushed a light shade of pink, her knees rubbed against each other.

Hurriedly eating the rest of the waffle cone. “Well-“ she gulped down the last of it, wiping her lips with a napkin he gave her, “-I admittedly like you too.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “You don’t do a good job at hiding around me.” Leaning back on the bench. He stared into the sky as if this was an average Tuesday.

“How can you be so casual about this?” Lyra had gotten multiple confessions in her life. All of them were hosted with boys who had their heart pumping in their chest.

Austin shrugged, thinking about it. “I guess… because I’ve accepted that if I get rejected then that’s too bad for me.”

Now that she had known Austin returned those feelings. She wanted him. She wanted him all to herself. But, how could she even admit that. How could she even say she wanted him. Austin had let out a sigh, a disappointed sigh. Which then again caught her attention. Now with his body turned to her. “May I kiss you?”

“What-“ she was still having trouble that the man she use to spite was now a man who liked her, and the fact that she even reciprocated those feelings for him was more surprising.

“May I kiss you.” He didn’t lose his calm tone. Knowing that she was incredibly nervous. “I know you just ate ice cream but my heart is about to explode.” Even with half opened eyes and a relaxed tone, he was nervous.

“Okay.” She nodded, and she watched as his face inched closer to hers. Until she felt their breathing against each other.

“Close your eyes.” He instructed. And she did. He smiled a bit. She’s cute. Tilting his head, their lips now against each other. His arms snaked around her hips to bring her closer. Instinctively, she had her arms around his neck. With her hands going up to his hair. It was soft.

Pulling away from her, he pressed his forehead against hers before finally pulling away enough to get a good look at her. She blinked up at him, and for some reason he was reminded of a doe. He couldn’t help but slightly smile at how cute she had looked. As if she was processing she had just kissed him. “Not bad, huh.”

“Yeah…” she admitted. “Not bad at all.” Seeming breathless by him. A low chuckle that resonated deep within his chest was his only response to how breathless she was.

—

However with the girl getting in the way, he and Lyra couldn’t be together. Without Austin’s knowledge, she had been seeing another man, and eventually that man confessed to her. To which, she had accepted his feelings. And when he had found out, he grew furious.

“You’re dating him? Darcel?” He had his arms folded across his chest. Standing in front of her, with his eyes narrowed down to her. “That goober?”

“You did not just say goober, Austin.” She was trying to take him serious but with the word Goober. She couldn’t. She saw him as a childish guy. “Austin, I don’t even know why you care so much! You’ve been refusing to date me for the last two weeks!” She was sitting on the couch in the middle of his living room at his apartment.

“Okay who gives a fuck, Lyra! I want you. Be with me!” He shouted out of frustration. She blinked, surprised by how randomly he had just asked her out. “Just- who gives a fuck about her, yeah? Just be with me.”

“Oh well that’s a bit too late now. I’m not gonna leave Darcel for you.” She was calm, her legs crossed, folded arms.

He sat beside her now, staring at her eyes, frustrated. Gulping down his anger, he inhaled deeply to calm down. “Tell me this honestly. Do you love him?”

“Scuse me?”

“It’s a simple question Lyra, do you love the guy or not.”

“That’s rather rude of you.”

“Why can’t you just answer the question?” He scoffed, leaning back against the couch with his body turned to face hers.

“I-…” she trailed off, twiddling with her fingers again.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “So you’re playing him.” He muttered. Watching her hand reach out for his, he allowed her to hold his hand in hers. She looked down at his piano fingers, playing with them.

“Well y’know…” she began, “I just- I dunno. I love you. Not him.”

“So then be with me. Why play a dude.” He seemed to have calmed down now. She looked up at his gray eyes. Like usual, dazed and half awake. Proving it.

“Well, Austin. There won’t be an us. It’s over, between us.” She clarified for him. Wanting to make sure that he understood she wouldn’t leave Darcel for him.

“Well, might be over for you. But not for me.” He grabbed the remote of the TV on the coffee table, switching the TV on. She looked at him up and down. He’s got balls. She thought to herself. Something that she loved about him.

—

Darcel had seemed to get the idea that Austin had feelings for Lyra. He had spotted Austin standing uncomfortably close to her at a party the three of them had attended. With his head leaned down close to her face, from what Darcel saw. Austin’s eyes were so focused on her face, clearly listening to her words.

He had his hands on her hips to hold her. She seemed to be casually talking to him. Not noticing the gestures. She wasn’t even pushing him away. At one point, Darcel had overheard Austin telling her that he loved her.

“God Lyra, I love you. Y’know that?” His eyes looked her up and down. She was wearing his flannel jacket, underneath was a black shirt that showed a bit of her cleavage, and a pair of jeans. “You look pretty as hell.” He whispered.

“Yes. I love you too. Now hush down before people hear you.” She hissed.

“Darcel ain’t gonna know.” He shrugged casually. His eyes wandered across the party. Locking with Darcel’s who had been standing there was a cup of beer in his hand. His black hair slicked back. Austin had smirked at Darcel, flicking his head before Lyra had grabbed Austin’s face to force him to look at her, missing his attention.

“What’re you even lookin’ at? You’re making me whine again.”

“Sorry princess.” He wouldn’t kiss her. Even though he wanted to.

Eventually, Darcel and Lyra had gotten into an argument. He had yelled at her to cut Austin off. But due to her love for him, she had rejected the offer to cut Austin off. They would bicker multiple times about it.

He had enough of her now. He had dumped her there and then. “You stay away from him you hear!” He snapped, wanting the last word. “He’s in love with you.” Before slamming the door shut.

She stood there for a moment. Rolling her eyes, she had known that Austin was just a phone call away. To which, she took that phone call.

Just as she wanted. He had came over to her place. They were sitting side by side, her arms had been wrapped around his neck. He had smiled against the kiss, and she had finally understood that he was growing more comfortable with her. So comfortable that he had an actual smile on his face. He loved her. He did.

“So he dumped you.” He wanted to clarify. Even in spite of his blunt tone. She could tell it was a question. “Why?”

“Thought you had feelings for me and didn’t trust me because I refused to dump you.” She shrugged.

“Ah, I see.” He nodded understandably. “Well, guess you’re mine for the taking now.” He leaned down again to kiss her once more. Her hands digging into his blonde hair, with his arms tightly wrapped around her hips.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She smiled.

“How you gonna tell your friends that you’re with me?” Austin had known that Lyra’s friends hated him.

She shrugged. “I’ll figure out a way.”

“Rad.” He grumbled, scratching the back of his head. His brows raised as he sighed.

—

Lyra sat with her friends. All of them surrounded her. The eldest one had glared down at her. “You’re dating Austin Butler? The douche who is opinionated as fuck and doesn’t listen to anybody for shit?”

“You haven’t seen him.” She had a calm tone.

“We all talked with him!”

“Talking isn’t debating.” Not wanting any of this to get to her. She shrugged it off. “You haven’t seen my man.” Looking at them all. “He loves me and I love him, we decided to date. You haven’t seen him. You haven’t seen how he treats me. How he kisses me. How he looks at me.”

She believed that fully. His eyes would always soften when he looked at her. Leaning his head down close, or just leaning in her general direction so he could clearly hear her. The way he’d sometimes crack a smile from something silly she’d do. Or how he would teach her how to dance.

She would step on his Vans, and he’d hold her hand in his, with one hand on her waist. Showing her the steps to a dance.

The way he held her, with his arms propped up on her hips. Sometimes she’d straddle his lap, with her head on his chest. He would keep his arms around her hips, caressing them as he spoke to her in a soft tone. She would lay there, listening to how his heart would race whenever she told him she loved him deeply. But when they laid together. That to her was heavenly.

With her head laid on his chest, her arms around his surprisingly small waist with their legs tangled. She would listen to the beat of his heart, watching as her head would rise then fall in sync with his breathing. How deeply he breathed whenever he was asleep, he had looked like a relaxed baby.

How protective he was over her. How he would always hold the door open for her. Always holding her hand whenever they were out for a stroll around the city. She loved him, and he loved her. He was never afraid to show his love to her, he would sit with her and tell her; I love you, forever and always, with my heart and my soul. You have my heart. I love you Lyra. I love you forever.

None of them had seen her man. None of them had seen him. Seen him for who he truly was. You haven’t seen my man.

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #austin butler angst #austin butler x oc #austin butler fanfic #austin butler fluff

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ollieofthebeholder · 11 days

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 112: May 2018

As flashbacks went, it hadn’t been the worst one Gerry had ever had, Tim thought, gently running his fingers through the white streak that had grown so that his hand just about fit in its span. But it hadn’t exactly been the best, either. And while Gerry’s narration had been as flat and unemotional as ever, the fact that his face was still wet with tears told Tim that the part of him not possessed by the End had been deeply moved.

He could understand that, he supposed. Empirically anyway. He’d grown up surrounded by three generations of DiAngelos and five generations of Stokers who all loved one another dearly, so he certainly didn’t know what it was like to suddenly be given a single, solitary precious memory of someone he didn’t, couldn’t possibly remember. But he at least felt like he had an inkling of understanding about what it must be like.

Unlike Gerry, though, Tim had listened to the entire recitation with bated breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was the first time—or at least the first time since Tim had begun to be present for them—that Gerry had had a flashback of his own from before the age of eleven, let alone before he’d met Martin and Melanie. And considering all the other flashbacks he’d had of their friends when they were that young had involved them being Marked, and that deeply, by one of the Fourteen, Tim had been terrified. Especially when he’d realized just how small Gerry actually was.

Gerry, as usual, had passed out immediately following the cessation of his narration—or, more accurately, drifted off into slumber as his two-year-old self did—but Tim hadn’t been able to sleep himself. Despite the relief of knowing it hadn’t been a situation where Gerry had actually been Marked, his mind was still whirring with information and worry. They’d figured out that, while Gerry’s flashbacks for others usually showed moments where they could have died but were spared somehow, often by one of the other Fears, the ones of his own life tended to be more…watershed moments. Points in time that had led him to the place he was now, moments where possibilities clicked into certainties or even inevitabilities. There had been a lot of firsts in the memory: his first meeting with Martin’s grandfather, his first introduction to art, his first attempt at colored pencils. Maybe there had been some lasts, too—his last outing with his father, his last time trusting that Eric Delano had had a good plan, his last truly carefree moments. Tim didn’t know, and likely wouldn’t until Gerry woke up.

Probably not even then. He’d been two. He wasn’t going to remember much from that point in time.

Tim glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was almost six in the morning. Martin would probably be awake, but…no, he chastised himself, no need for that. Martin hadn’t even been born then, he wouldn’t know anything, and he wasn’t going to ask him to Know. Things were bad enough without pushing him further over the edge.

As if on cue, his phone rang with a few bars of the Toreador’s song from Carmen, which he’d changed it to after Gerry described exactly what was going on in the aria from I Pagliacci he’d used before. While Gerry didn’t seem to notice, Tim decided it would be prudent to answer quickly anyway. “Morning, Marto.”

“Tim. Hey.” Martin exhaled. “Sorry, I…don’t know why I called you.”

Tim glanced down at Gerry’s face, relaxed and . “Since you didn’t apologize for waking me, I’m assuming that by ‘I don’t know why I called you’ you mean ‘something compelled me to call you immediately’ and not ‘I forgot why it was so important I call you and risk getting you out of a sound sleep on what’s theoretically a holiday’. Is everything okay?”

“Maybe?” Martin didn’t sound sure. “I’ve…I dunno. Been up for about half an hour. Just feeling…restless.” He paused. “How’s Gerry?”

“Sleeping. I’m guessing you know he had a flashback last night.”

“I mean, he’s sleeping. Or was a few hours ago. I know that’s the last thing he does before he goes to sleep at night.” Martin paused. “That…sounds harsh. I’m sorry.”

Tim shook his head, even though Martin couldn’t see it. “No, I get what you mean, and you’re right. It’s how I can tell he’s getting tired, he comes over all glazed and starts talking about something horrible or life-changing or both. Last night’s wasn’t…terrible, but…”

“One of his?”

“Yeah. He was two. Apparently his dad took him to visit your grandfather.”

Tim regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and he could almost hear Martin’s desire to push. Finally, he simply asked, “Are either of you coming in today?”

“Probably. I think he’ll want to talk to you all about it,” Tim said, silently relieved. “But if not, I’ll ask him if he’s okay with me explaining further.” He paused as the numbers on the clock rolled over to six. “Are Jon and Daisy up yet?”

“They weren’t a few minutes ago, but Daisy probably will be soon. She—hold on.” There was a rustling sound, and Martin’s voice got quieter, as if he was holding the phone away from his face. “Hey. You okay?”

There was a muffled response Tim couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like a female voice, so either Melanie and Sasha had come in early—unlikely—or Daisy was up after all. Martin’s reply to whatever it was sounded apologetic. “No, just me. On the phone with Tim.” He paused, as if listening to a response. “Be careful. I haven’t seen anything lately, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Another rustle, and then he came through more clearly. “Sorry about that. Apparently it’s ‘soon.’”

“Daisy, huh?” Tim managed a smile. “Well, at least you’re not alone there. I know you hate that.”

“Yeah. Might be why I called you.” Martin sighed. “I don’t like to wake Jon, he doesn’t sleep well as it is, but yeah, the more time I spend on my own the harder it is to fight. I think that’s part of the reason Daisy gets up when she does. It’s a lot harder to resist feeding the Eye when I don’t have someone holding me accountable, and I imagine she’s the same way with the Hunt. I’m just glad I’ve got all of you for support. I can’t imagine what it would be like to try to do this if nobody cared whether I did or not.”

Tim didn’t reply. He had nightmares sometimes, full of screaming and fire and all kinds of pain, nightmares where Gerry hadn’t saved Sasha and Martin hadn’t saved Jon and Tim hadn’t walked out of the Unknowing and everybody hated everyone else, and while it was most likely just his brain throwing up worst-case scenarios in an “aren’t you glad things never got this bad” way, they never fully left him. And as bad as the gulf separating Daisy and Basira was, the idea of it being between Jon and Martin somehow hurt worse than anything else.

After several heartbeats, Martin took a deep breath. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be dumping everything on you this early in the morning. Anyway, I’d better, um…have breakfast, I guess, before anyone decides to come in.”

“Have—oh.” Tim glanced down at Gerry and wondered how Martin’s sense of taste was these days. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll probably be in a bit early today.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m awake. Gerry’ll probably be up in a bit, so once he’s up and ready to go—or to let me go, whichever comes first—I’ll start that way.”

“Be careful.”

“Always. See you soon, Freckles.” Tim ended the call and sat back against the headboard with a sigh. Martin was definitely going to need all hands on deck today; it was the early May bank holiday, so the Institute was—nominally anyway—closed. On the other hand, there would be a lot of people out and about, and both Martin and Daisy would, if they set foot outside the Institute, be tempted to go after someone who didn’t deserve it. Or someone who did, but…no, there was nobody who deserved trauma, not really. Jon was better than he’d been, especially since Melanie had discovered how deeply he’d started to fall into the Web’s clutches, but there was always a risk he’d somehow maneuver them into going after someone he didn’t like. Not likely, but possible. Anyway, since the rest of the Institute would be empty, having all of them around would also help keep the Lonely at bay.

The bed jostled slightly as Umberto leaped onto it and strode his way up to Tim’s side. He sniffed at Gerry’s hair, sneezed into it, and then somehow squeezed his enormous, leonine body into the extremely small space between Gerry’s head and Tim’s abdomen.

“I’m convinced you’re even more liquid than most cats,” Tim told him, scratching his cheek. He was rewarded with purrs so loud they made the bed rumble. “Don’t suffocate him. I don’t even know if he really has to breathe anymore, but let’s not test that.”

“’M f’n.” Gerry turned his head, clearly meaning to snuggle closer to Tim, then suddenly jerked back and sat up, spitting cat hair out of his mouth. “Jesus. Pfft. How did he—pfft—fit there?”

“He is the Cat Who Walks By Himself, and all places are alike to him.” Tim kissed Gerry’s cheek. “Morning. Go take a shower and brush your teeth. I’ll feed the dust mop and get breakfast for us going, unless you’d rather pick something up on the way to the Institute.”

“Let’s pick something up. I’m betting nobody went shopping this weekend, and Martin’s probably forgotten Jon needs actual food.” Gerry gave Tim a quick kiss and headed towards the bathroom, leaving him alone with that oh so pleasant reminder.

Martin had not, as it turned out, forgotten Jon needed food, nor had Daisy, but there was still a three-way argument going on when Tim and Gerry arrived because Jon was reluctant to eat without them. Well. Reluctant was a mild term. Jon was outright fucking furious and—in Tim’s expert opinion—more than a little heartbroken that not only did Martin and Daisy no longer seem to need human food, they were willing, even insistent that he not share with them, that he needed all his strength and should eat what there was without worrying about them.

The pastries and sausage rolls helped.

Melanie and Sasha arrived with trays of coffee, fortunately before all the food was eaten—although, Tim admitted privately to himself, he and Jon were the only two who were properly hungry, so there wasn’t much risk of that. His worries about Martin sprang back to life, fully formed, when he accepted one of the coffees from Sasha without so much as a murmur. He wasn’t surprised when Melanie looked into her own cup and smacked her forehead. “Fuck—I meant to get you a hot cocoa, not another coffee. Sorry, Martin, I can go make tea or—”

“I’m fine, Neens, but thanks.” Martin took a sip of the coffee.

Melanie stared up at him. “You never drink coffee. The last time you tried it you ended up with a migraine.”

“I had a migraine because the caffeine made me very aware of everything and I was fighting to keep the Ceaseless Watcher from showing me the traces of every single Fear that had even so much as passed over an area, so I had to lie down in a dark room until it shut up. I’m already in that state pretty much all the time now.”

“You realize that is doing the opposite of making me want to let you keep drinking that, right? This is just going to make that worse.”

Martin shrugged. He looked, in contrast to how he sounded, extremely tired. “Good, maybe it’ll overload whatever blocks I have keeping me from Looking or, o-or Knowing things and I can get past whatever the fuck is going on with that tape.”

Tim blinked. “Wait, what tape?”

Martin pointed to the desk furthest from where he stood. Right on the very edge was a cassette tape, unlabeled, just sitting and waiting. No case, no player, nothing. Just…a tape.

Sasha picked it up and turned it over, frowning. “Where did it come from?”

The hopeful look on Daisy’s face was a bit pathetic and a bit heartbreaking; Tim had to look away. Martin rubbed his nose, looking uncomfortable. “El—Peter’s office. I, I don’t know what’s on it.”

“Peter’s office. You mean Bas—someone left it for you?” Sasha looked a bit guilty.

Martin shook his head. “Uh-uh. I went up and…lock’s still broken, you know? I’ve gone up a couple of times, pulled a couple tapes to listen to. I figured there was a chance they were statements Gertrude took live and they’d be a bit more…substantial than the written ones, but less likely to give me dreams than ones I take in person. Let’s face it, people don’t survive giving their statements very long. Comparatively.”

“So you were drawn to pick it up?” Tim took the tape from Sasha and studied it. There was nothing particularly appealing about it, at least not to his eyes, but then again it wasn’t like he could pick out a good fish if it wasn’t frozen and clearly labeled. Martin was the one who lived on these things, he knew what a ripe or juicy statement looked like, and God he hated thinking like that.

“No,” Martin said, surprising him—and, from the way everyone else stared at him, the rest of the crew as well. “The opposite, actually. I had a very strong feeling that I should leave it alone. That there was nothing on there I needed to know, that whatever’s on there would…that I should just leave it alone. There were a few others I just wanted to throw away, but this one…I dropped it twice just trying to pick it up. Probably should have left it, but…I don’t know. Curious, I guess.” He stared at the tape in Tim’s hand. “I’m the avatar of awful knowledge and revealed secrets. What does it not want me to know?”

When he put it like that, Tim could understand both why he had brought it down and why he had left it where he had. He couldn’t risk leaving it where it might fall into the wrong hands, after all. It was almost certainly something that would put the rest of them in danger, he mused; that would be why the Ceaseless Watcher wouldn’t want Martin to look at it. Or why it would tell him not to look at it. He still cared, in a way few other avatars did, about what happened to his people, and the Eye had to know that if anything happened to them, it would likely lose Martin. One way or another. And Tim could see just how painful it was for him to even look at the thing with his regular sight. Trying to actually play it would definitely hurt.

Gerry suddenly inhaled sharply and yanked the tape out of Tim’s hand. Before Tim could even wrap his lips around a hey, he had snatched up a recorder, popped the tape in, and pressed PLAY. Then he stepped back, found Tim’s hand, and clutched it tightly before reaching for Melanie with the other.

There was a sharp sigh from the tape, and then Gertrude Robinson’s dry, reedy voice began speaking. “Right. No use putting it off further.”

It only took the rustle of paper and the first few words before realization struck Tim with the force of a hammer’s blow, and he wrapped himself around Gerry from behind, holding him tightly. Gerry had, as usual, made the connection between his flashback of the night before and the tape Martin didn’t want to hear far faster than Tim had, but now Tim realized what the reasoning probably was. I think I found a way.

“And so Eric Delano ended.”

Melanie made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and Tim noticed her hand tighten around Gerry’s; he tightened it in return. Martin was staring at the tape recorder, his eyes glowing as usual, his face paper white, and Tim saw, rather distantly, Jon wrap himself around Martin the same way he was clinging to Gerry. Then he forgot about everyone else as the conversation began.

Eric Delano sounded a lot like his son, but far more jaded and bitter. Tim found himself wondering what Gerry would have sounded like if he hadn’t grown up with Martin and Melanie, if he’d died alone and thinking he was unloved. If he’d never come back. He tucked his chin over Gerry’s shoulder and listened as he talked to Gertrude. The description of what being bound to the Book felt like hit Tim in a place he’d never expected, and he hugged Gerry a little tighter. Gerry had suffered like that, had known he was nothing more than a memory and pain…but he wasn’t, he was still Gerry, he was solid and real and alive and there and Tim loved him in a way he’d never expected to love anyone, and he had to know that.

But it didn’t erase what he’d suffered, no matter how much Tim wished it had. And now he had to listen to the father he could barely remember describe the same agony.

A lot of the initial conversation was painful, and part of Tim would really rather not have heard it. But he supposed it was stuff he needed to know. Hard to get old in this business. You either die, or you, uh, stay young. Well…that was accurate. Despite the white hair, Gerry still seemed young enough, and Tim found himself wondering if he would continue to age or if, someday down the line, he’d be an old man of seventy getting funny looks for walking out with this young-looking thirtysomething thing. Or maybe they’d both die young, or relatively young anyway. No way to know for sure, except to wait.

Gertrude had gotten old, despite being…more or less what Martin was. That had to be comforting.

Right?

Someone—Tim wasn’t sure who—inhaled sharply when Eric informed Gertrude that he’d figured out a way to quit, but he wasn’t surprised. Gerry’s flashback had ended right before he found out what his dad was planning…Alastair Koskiewicz had known, but nobody else had. And the Eye didn’t want Martin to know about this any more than it had—probably—wanted Gertrude to know. Of course that would be what was on the tape. Eric’s concern for Gerry made him smile, at least a little, but Gertrude’s remarks about him made him want to dig up what the Stranger had left of her and kill her a third time.

And then Eric began his statement.

“Subject is Eric Delano, recorded twenty-first of July, 2008, regarding...”

“What else? Me, Mary, and the Archives.”

2008…Tim tried to slot this into his mental timeline. It was ten years after Martin’s grandfather died, twenty years after Martin and Jon and Melanie were born, the same year that Mary had bound herself into the Book and Gerry had been accused of her murder, the same year Gerry and his siblings had started burning Leitners. It was closing in on ten years ago now. And, Tim realized belatedly, it was exactly twenty years after Eric had—presumably—given the same explanation of his plan to quit to Martin’s grandfather.

He sounded so bitter, but also…resigned. It was like he knew, even at the beginning, that he wasn’t going to get anything out of this other than an opportunity to talk, that it wouldn’t do any good to him or Gertrude. But he kept talking. Tim got that. It was hard to stop talking to the Archivist once you started, and while he knew Martin hated it, he didn’t think Gertrude minded. Not in this instance, anyway. Certainly she didn’t seem particularly sympathetic when Eric got to the end, only insisting that he keep up his end of the bargain and tell her how he’d quit.

And when he did, the answer took Tim’s breath away.

Of course. Eric was right—it was so simple, and so extreme at the same time. But it made sense. After all, they called it the Eye. What else could it possibly use? Martin’s connection got stronger when he took off his glasses, there was so much about Seeing…

Click. The tape recorder sounded almost preternaturally loud as it shut itself off. For long moments, none of them spoke.

Sasha was the one to finally break the silence, with a single word that fell into the center of the room with all the weight and subtlety of a cinder brick dropped from a third story window. “Fuck.”

“God.” Gerry reached up and wiped at his face with a shaky hand; Tim wasn’t surprised to realize he was crying again. “I—I remember him just sitting there, but…fucking hell, I didn’t realize he did that.”

“Bit drastic, but necessary,” Martin said, his voice flat and unemotional but unusually quiet.

Daisy strode around the desk, nudged a chair over with a scrape that made Martin flinch ever so slightly, and then grabbed his arm and half guided, half dragged him to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Jon, looking extremely shaken, kissed Martin’s forehead lightly. “I’ll—I’ll go get you some tea and—”

“No, I’m all right. I’m all right,” Martin repeated. Tim didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know he was lying. He was paper white under the freckles and scars, and there was a dull, blank look in his eyes that said he was more than half blind with actual, physical pain. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple. “Christ. Gerry, are—are you…?”

“Better than you are,” Gerry said, a bit pointedly. “I had—that was my flashback last night. Dad took me to see Alastair—it must’ve been a month, maybe, before you were born—and that, he’d figured out how to quit. I must’ve fallen asleep before he told him, but…well, I guess I knew that was coming.” He swallowed. “I just…didn’t expect to hear his voice.”

There was another long silence as they all sat down, in chairs or on the edges of desks or, in Jon’s case, on the floor next to Martin’s chair, resting his cheek against Martin’s thigh. Martin absently began stroking his hair, ever so gently, but his eyes were still fixed on the tape recorder, or at least in its direction.

This time, Tim decided to break the silence, because he had to ask. “So. Is anyone going to try that?”

Sasha looked up at him in obvious surprise. Martin blinked, hard, and looked around the room. “It’s a fair question,” he agreed slowly. “I—I wouldn’t blame any of you for trying.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Jon said, looking up at him. “If you quit, I’ll go with you. If you stay, I stay.”

“Yeah, same,” Melanie said. “Promised you that fifteen years ago, I’m not changing that now.”

“I can’t,” Daisy said in a low voice. “Think the Eye’s the only thing keeping me from either giving into the Hunt or starving to death right now. I won’t survive severing that connection.”

Tim glanced at Sasha, who bit her lip in obvious indecision. “I—I don’t know. I have to think about it. I don’t want to abandon you all, but…” She looked over at Tim. “What about you?”

Part of Tim was tempted. He’d got revenge for Danny, after all; the world was safe from the Unknowing, and they didn’t really need him for the other rituals. Gerry wouldn’t abandon him if he was blind and helpless, and really he wouldn’t be helpless. There was nothing keeping him here anymore.

Nothing except his family.

“Not until we figure out exactly what Peter Lukas is up to, anyway,” he said finally. “Not while you’re all here. What about you, Martin? I notice you said you wouldn’t blame any of us, but I didn’t hear anything out of you about quitting.”

“I—” Martin hesitated. Anguish flashed across his face. “I…don’t think I can. I-I mean, I could. Physically. Wouldn’t even take much effort to do it. The problem is…I’m, I’m really wound up in it. It’s had a hold on me since I was seven, and it’s only got worse in the last few years. And with the state I’m in…I’m pretty sure trying to sever that connection would actually kill me at this point. I don’t think I can survive without the Eye. And as tempted as I am to try…” He closed his eyes, but not before Tim had seen the glint of tears in them. “I don’t want to risk leaving you all.”

“Getting free of this isn’t worth losing you,” Jon said softly. “Not to me.”

“Or me,” Melanie added.

Gerry raised his head and looked at Martin. The temperature dropped several degrees, and his eyes turned pure white, as did his hair, and there was the whoosh of wind Tim was familiar with now. It only lasted a second, and then it was gone and Gerry was back to normal, though incredibly sad.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It would kill you. And it wouldn’t let you go easily. You’d…suffer.”

“I’d do it if I thought it would do any good,” Martin said. “I just…don’t know that it would.”

“It wouldn’t,” Jon said fiercely. He got up, took Martin’s face in his hands, and kissed him, deeply and thoroughly. Martin’s hands came up to hold onto Jon’s elbows, and Tim could see the tears rolling down his cheeks.

He wrapped his arms around Gerry again and pulled him close, feeling the tears in his own eyes. He understood. He understood all too well.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tim stoker #gerard keay #martin blackwood #daisy tonner #jonathan sims #sasha james #melanie king #grief #anxiety #restlessness #slight misuse of Beholding powers #threats #mention of self-injury #mention of death

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justjstuff · 1 year

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Babes. I really appreciate all the asks about Daughter of Fire! It makes me happy to see that people love it as much as I do, I just gotta ask something of y’all. Please leave a review before sending an ask here! I noticed a lot of you don’t do that (not to mention the anon asks that I can’t possibly know if they did comment or not) and I just wanna explain a bit why it matters. I don’t know if u guys have been around here for as long as I have but the fandom culture changed a lot over the years, not all of it for the better. Five, ten years ago, it used to be the norm to comment on almost every single fic you read, in every chapter. There used to be discussions in the comment section, readers answering readers and sparking conversation… just genuinely a lot more interaction than nowadays. I’ve mentioned this before but I felt like writing another post about it.

Please notice that I’m not saying “don’t ever send me an ask about DoF again” or “you should be giving me comments NOW!!!”. I’ve just been scrolling through my endless unanswered asks and noticed that there were a lot like those I mentioned.

Now, I know sometimes it’s hard to send a review. I, myself, sometimes get so anxious just by the thought of writing a comment that I just don’t even read the fic/chapter. But notice how this is aimed towards the people who already took the time off their day to sit down on Tumblr and send me an ask. It would take the same amount of time to drop a review! And you can even do it anonymously too!

Anyways, this isn’t a complaint, I’m just always a bit sad to see that this is the way we led fandom culture? I know it might seem a bit disingenuous to be saying that when DoF has the reach it has but keep in mind that I also write other fics and most of them only get a little bit of engagement. It’s honestly disheartening because while I don’t write fanfiction for the comments, I do share it for them. I could just write them and satisfy that need and keep it to myself, never putting myself out there so others might judge me but I do because I love the fanfiction community and I love interacting with it.

I also noticed that authors who don’t have their social media linked tend to have more engagement in the comment section and that’s kinda what this post is about. Although we don’t comment as much as we did back in the days, it’s still the way some people choose to give fics their time of day, they see if there’s a lot of hits/kudos/comments before even giving it a try. So it does matter in a way that the engagement gets through other media only like some of the asks here! I’m not saying stop interacting with me here and keep only to the comment section, even because I chose to link all my social media because I love interacting w y’all in a deeper level here and on twt and other platforms but like. If you do choose to reach out to me, don’t forget to leave a review!

As I’m writing this I’m already regretting it lmao I don’t want to seem ungrateful and nitpicky but in the end I’m forcing myself to post this because it might spark some conversation and I do know a lot of authors feel like I do. We’re seeing how much writing isn’t being valued in our society and that’s kind of the same in fandom culture imo and I dunno. What do y’all think?

Love u to bits and I’ll see you soon 🖤

Oh, btw! Regarding the next DoF update!!! I can’t, and really it’s more like I don’t want to, give you guys a precise date. I struggled for quite some time with feeling like DoF was a chore, a job I had to keep up otherwise I would let everyone down and that (and some other stuff) led me to the biggest writer’s block I’ve ever had in my life. I’m just now trying to reconnect with that part of me that loves writing and finds actual enjoyment in tackling this huge and complex fic (and any and all writing tbh), so I don’t want to slip back into that same pattern I had before. I don’t like the term hiatus for fanfiction because it gives me this notion that the author is obligated to go back to the fic when in fact they’re not (unless the fic has a set update schedule and the author is letting u know when they’ll be back). No one is getting paid for this and most of us study and work full time jobs before coming and sharing something that can be really personal with strangers on the internet. If an author wants to drop their fic and never come back to fandom life than that’s their prerogative. We as fanfic readers kinda sign that unwritten contract that when we start reading an unfinished fic we might never get to see the end of it. However, I like the term hiatus because it illustrates my point with this which is: I’m not done with Daughter of Fire. I just don’t know when I’ll update next. Rest assured that if I ever decided to let it go, I would let everyone know. I would release all the chapters I have written, I would give y’all all of my notes and unfinished drafts and lone scenes, I would give you the document where I tell you step by step what would happen until the very end of the fic (and the sequel I have planed for it 👀). And I would also leave it open to anyone who wants to continue it to pick it up and give it a try. As it stands, I’m nowhere near done with Daughter of Fire 🖤

#daughter of fire #dof #kakasaku #fandom #fandom life #fandom culture #fanfic culture #fanfic #fanfiction #just me being silly #and talking mostly at myself lol #i love y’all

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kjack89 · 1 year

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A Continual State of Ambivalence

For @handahbear, for my 10 year anniversary/4k followers giveaway, who requested a sequel to my kinda-sorta Mrs. Maisel/Lenny Bruce AU, The Only Honest Art Form (tumblr | AO3). Hope you enjoy!

1950s comedian AU, E/R, developing relationship.

If there was one thing that Enjolras was known for, it was his tenacity.

Which was why he found himself yet again making his way down the few stairs that led to probably the most unexpected of his recent haunts: the comedy club where Grantaire performed.

This time, though, he came prepared, a dollar-fifty already in his hand and a tight smile already on his face as he pushed the door open. But while he was again greeted by the pile of coats and unlit cigar that made up Grantaire’s manager, Éponine, there was no sight of the man himself, an unfamiliar, and distinctly less funny, comedian on stage.

“A buck fifty—” Éponine started, breaking off when she saw it was Enjolras. “Oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Enjolras confirmed.

“Back again.”

Enjolras frowned. He hardly thought that the two times he’d been to the club since his first visit merited the tone she used when she said ‘again’. “Yes,” he said, with slight impatience.

She didn’t seem to notice though, just chewing on her cigar almost contemplatively. “He’s not on tonight,” she offered finally, and it took a lot of effort for Enjolras to not roll his eyes.

“I kind of put that together myself, thanks,” he said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

Evidently not very successfully, since Éponine took the cigar out of her mouth to remark coolly, “Yeah, yet you still show up here to sit on that barstool and order two beers that you don’t drink in hopes that he might pop up.”

Enjolras felt himself flush, just slightly. “So?”

“So,” Éponine said, stressing the single syllable, “there’s an easier way.”

“Like what?”

Éponine gave him an almost pitying look. “Like asking me when the next time is that he’s performing here.”

Enjolras’s flush deepened. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Éponine echoed, with just a slight mocking bite. “Which won’t be for awhile, by the way.” Enjolras felt inexplicably stricken by that, and something of that must have shown on his face, as Éponine added, “He’s on the road. Performing in Florida at the moment.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Florida?” he repeated.

Éponine arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, state at the southern end of the country, juts out into the ocean? Smart kid like you, figured you might have heard of it.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “I’ve heard of it, thanks,” he said shortly. “I just can’t imagine Grantaire in Florida.”

“You met him once and you think you’ve got him all figured out?” Éponine asked with dry amusement.

Enjolras wasn’t entirely convinced that anyone had Grantaire figured out, and shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Good,” she said. “Because he’d hate to think he was without an air of mystery.

Well, that Enjolras had at least figured out after only one meeting. He chose not to mention that, though, instead asking, “So when is he back?”

Éponine shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “Depends on how well the tour goes.”

Enjolras hadn’t expected much more than that, and so jerked a nod even as he started turning back towards the door. “Ok, well—”

“You got a number?” Éponine asked abruptly, and Enjolras paused.

“Sorry?”

“A phone number,” Éponine said. “You are familiar with the concept of a phone, right?”

Enjolras turned back to fully face her. “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

For the first time all night, Éponine grinned. “I think you’d have to be to keep trying to get Grantaire to come to one of your little activist meetings,” she said, and Enjolras blinked, surprised that Grantaire had told her what they had briefly discussed during their first, and thus far only, meeting. “But all things considered, no, if anything you’re smarter than most of the idiots who try to meet up with Grantaire after a show.”

Enjolras was so taken aback by the unexpected almost-compliment that he just stared at her blankly for a moment before she cleared her throat and said pointedly, “So about that phone number…”

“Right,” Enjolras said quickly, flushing again, and he patted his pockets for a pen. Éponine let him flounder for a moment before holding out one for him, and he grabbed it, now performing the same search for a piece of paper. “And you’ll call when he’s back in town?”

“Something like that, anyway,” Éponine said, saving him once again by handing him a matchbook, and, when he looked confused, flipping the cover open to indicate he should write his number inside. “Listen, can I offer you some free advice?”

It was Enjolras’s turn to give her a bemused look. “Free?” he repeated, with mock-incredulity.

She smirked. “Fine, let’s say buck-fifty advice and your cover paid for it.” Then her smile faded. “Look, I’ve known Grantaire for years and I love him like a brother.”

“I sense a but coming.”

Éponine just shook her head. “But a clean-cut kid like you—”

“I can take care of myself,” Enjolras interrupted. “And besides, it isn’t like that.”

She didn’t look remotely convinced. “Uh-huh,” she said, sounding even less convinced than she looked. “Just – don’t give me your number if you’re not sure.”

“I’m sure,” Enjolras said firmly, handing the matchbook back to her. “I look forward to your call.”

She pocketed it, a troubled look on her face, and Enjolras offered a small nod before finally turning and leaving, taking the steps two at a time up to the street, and feeling more determined than ever.

After all, what could possibly go wrong?

— — — — —

Of course, two weeks without a phone call from Éponine began testing the limits of even Enjolras’s tenacity, and it was on a particularly morose Thursday afternoon as Enjolras sat brooding on the couch in his parents’ apartment on the Upper East Side that the phone rang.

And just as he had for the past two weeks, Enjolras instantly straightened, craning his neck to see his mother hurry to the phone, frowning slightly as she did. “Enjolras residence,” she answered in her usual clipped tone. Her frown deepened. “I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”

Enjolras was on his feet in an instant, something like panic running through him as his mother said impatiently, “We’re all named Enjolras, you’ll need to be more specific.”

He practically sprinted to his mother’s side. “It’s for me,” he hissed, but she just tried to shoo him off.

“If you don’t know his first name, I’m not certain I should pass you over to him,” she said snippily.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Mother!”

His mother hmphed, but finally said, “Fine, fine, here,” before passing the phone over to him.

Enjolras glared at her until she retreated out of the room, though he was pretty sure she just went to pick up the extension. “Éponine?” he said into the phone, trying not to sound as breathless as he, rather inexplicably, felt.

His question was met with a familiar, low laugh, and Enjolras’s heart did a somersault in his chest. “No,” Grantaire said, “but, uh, I can get her if you’d rather talk to her.”

Enjolras grinned. “That’s ok, thanks,” he said. “I think she’s tired of talking to me.”

“Her loss,” Grantaire said. Then, “You go by your last name?”

“Long story,” Enjolras said shortly. He paused before saying pointedly, “Look, we don’t exactly have a lot of time since I’m pretty sure my mother’s listening in, so, uh…”

“In that case, let me cut to the chase,” Grantaire said. “I’ll be up in your neck of the woods this evening. Want to get dinner?”

Enjolras blinked. “With you?” he blurted stupidly.

“No, with Éponine,” Grantaire said dryly, and Enjolras barked a laugh. “Donohue’s, tonight at 8?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, still a little breathless. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

“See you there – Apollo.”

Enjolras hung up and had to resist the urge to lean against the wall and grin like an idiot. Thankfully, that urge passed quickly, especially as his mother reemerged from the direction of her bedroom, only confirming Enjolras’s suspicion that she’d been listening in. “Who was that?” she asked.

“No one,” Enjolras said, more from instinct than anything else, and when she just gave him a look, he sighed and amended, “A friend.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Your friends don’t usually call here.”

“Because they usually know better,” Enjolras muttered. “This is a, uh, new friend.”

“Hmm,” his mother said, looking unconvinced. “He sounds coarse, dear. Be careful with that one.”

He was strangely reminded of Éponine’s words of warning, which really only went to show that neither knew him well at all. Warning Enjolras away from something, or someone, was the surest way to get every rebellious bone in his body all the more convinced.

So he just gave his mother a tight smile. “I always am.”

— — — — —

Enjolras nervously smoothed a hand down the front of his jacket as he approached the maître d' stand. “Hi,” he said, his voice squeaking, just slightly. “I, um, I’m meeting someone—”

“Of course,” the maître d' said smoothly. “We’ve been told you’d be joining us. Please follow me.”

He led a somewhat-baffled Enjolras back into the restaurant, and Enjolras relaxed when he saw Grantaire lounging in his seat at a prime table in the corner of the restaurant, a cigarette in one hand and a half-drunk martini in the other. He looked as rumpled as Enjolras remembered, and even more tired, but he still broke into a grin that made Enjolras’s heart pound in his chest when he looked up at him.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d' said, pulling out Enjolras’s chair for him.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow at Grantaire as he sat. “Looks like you’re better known than I gave you credit for,” he said.

Grantaire laughed lightly. “I don’t think you can make the police blotter as many times as I have without gaining at least a little notoriety,” he said dismissively. He handed the menu in front of him to Enjolras. “Here. Order whatever you want, it’s on me.”

“You don’t have to—” Enjolras started, but Grantaire waved him off.

“It’s a policy of mine not to make someone else pay for my drinking habit.”

Enjolras was fully prepared to argue further but the waiter chose that moment to arrive, first offering Enjolras a cocktail, which he declined, before taking their order. “Um, I’ll have the lamb chops,” Enjolras said.

The waiter nodded and looked expectantly at Grantaire, who just tapped his martini. “Another of these,” he said, “and keep ‘em coming.” He took a long drag on his cigarette before glancing at Enjolras. “What?”

“I thought you invited me for dinner,” Enjolras said.

“I did.”

Enjolras frowned. “Doesn’t dinner normally imply some kind of food?” he said, trying not to sound disapproving.

Grantaire just shrugged languidly. “For you, maybe,” he said. “I prefer a liquid diet.”

Enjolras pursed his lips slightly. “You look like you could use some real food,” he said, mainly because Grantaire did, looking even more wan up close than he had when Enjolras had first seen him.

“Strange,” Grantaire remarked, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray and fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case.

“What?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire lit another cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, mumbling around it to tell Enjolras, “Your mouth is moving and yet it’s my mother’s voice I hear.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Hilarious.”

“That is, rather literally, my occupation,” Grantaire reminded him wryly. “In what few venues will have me, at least.”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Do you think the, uh, subject matter of your last few shows has anything to do with that?” he asked carefully, trying not to allude too openly to Grantaire’s comments on homosexuality while they were in public.

Grantaire took a contemplative drag on his cigarette before shaking his head. “No.“

“Really?” Enjolras said, surprised.

“I only started openly talking about certain…lavender subjects, shall we say, when most places refused to book me,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “Figured I couldn’t do any more damage to my reputation than I already had.” Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure that was the case, but he didn’t get a chance to make that argument one way or another before Grantaire forced a smile and leaned forward. “But enough about me. Tell me about you.”

“About me?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Yeah. Seeing as how the only thing I know about you is you're hopelessly naïve and live with your parents.”

Enjolras felt himself flush. “I– It's temporary,” he muttered, certain his cheeks were burning red.

Judging by the way Grantaire smirked, he was right. “Which part? The living with your parents or the hopeless naïveté?”

“I don't agree with the supposition of the latter, so obviously the former,” Enjolras said, a little sharper than intended. “I'm just staying with my folks until I can get a little money together and move out.”

Grantaire nodded. “Ah. Noble.” He drained his martini and almost immediately the waiter was at their table with another. “So does that mean you have a job?”

Enjolras’s flush deepened. “Um. Not really.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “So how do you plan to get a little money together?” he asked, before something like realization brightened in his face. “Wait, how old are you?”

“I'm 23,” Enjolras said, curious where this was headed.

Grantaire’s smirk returned. “And now it makes sense. I assume your trust fund matures at 25?” Enjolras glared at him, but Grantaire just laughed. “Don't look so put out, kid. I say get it while the getting's good.”

“It's just – it's not like that,” Enjolras said, though he wasn’t certain the actual explanation, that his father wanted to him to go to law school and when he refused, his mother wouldn’t let him get an actual job for fear it would make the family look like they were hurting for money, would have him come out looking any better. “And you seem to know an awful lot about it. Did you manage to blow through your trust fund already?”

Grantaire laughed. “Fuck no,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t get a dime from my family. But I've been the rebellion of enough upper crust men in their 20s to know the signs.”

He didn’t say it as an accusation but Enjolras still frowned. “That's not – I'm not using you as some kind of rebellion.”

“No?” Grantaire said mildly. “Then why are you here?”

Enjolras felt like he had been constantly on the wrong foot for this entire conversation thus far. “I– you called and invited me,” he said, flustered.

“I did,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of his martini and giving Enjolras a searching look. “But you don’t seem like the type to come when you’re called.”

“Normally I’m not,” Enjolras said. “But I felt like we didn’t get to finish our conversation the other night.”

There was something sour in Grantaire’s smirk. “So this is just about converting me to your cause?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, feeling like he might finally have at least even footing if not, however briefly, the upper hand. “Why’d you call me?”

Grantaire’s smile faded. “You left your number,” he said, sounding almost surprised by the question.

“And you don’t seem like the type to actually use a guy’s number,” Enjolras shot back.

Grantaire snorted into his martini. “Touché.” He shook his head slowly. “I guess it wasn’t over for me either.” He gave Enjolras another searching look. “But I’m still not sure what made you want to convert me in the first place.”

“Well for starters, I didn’t think it would be a conversion. The things you said about free speech…” Enjolras trailed off and shook his head. “I guess I just liked what I heard.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, eyeing Enjolras with something appreciative in his expression. “I can dig that.”

Enjolras glanced at him. “What, you liked the things I said, too?” he asked, mostly teasing since he knew better than that.

Grantaire’s smile widened. “No. But I sure liked the way you said them.”

Enjolras flushed again, but for an entirely different reason, and looked away. “Saying something like that could get you in trouble,” he said finally.

Grantaire just sat back in his seat, a small smile still playing on his lips. “When it comes to you, I think I’m already in trouble.”

Enjolras was saved from having to come up with some kind of response by the arrival of their dinner – or rather, his dinner, and for better or for worse, they both managed to steer the conversation back onto somewhat neutral territory during the meal. Grantaire asked questions about Les Amis and the work they did, and while he seemed more amused than anything, Enjolras at least felt like he was listening. Which might just be the first step in an otherwise lengthy process of getting Grantaire to maybe, one day, care.

But all too soon, Enjolras had finished eating, and he glanced almost nervously at Grantaire, who was finishing up another martini (Enjolras had long since lost count). “So what now?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, when it comes to your cause, I think we're at an impasse.”

Enjolras wasn’t remotely surprised to hear that. “Just means I'll have to try harder to convince you,” he said.

Grantaire’s eyes darkened. “God, I hope so.”

Enjolras was used to it enough now that only the back of his neck flared red. “But what I actually meant was, uh, what now for the rest of the night?”

Something unreadable flashed across Grantaire’s expression, so quickly that Enjolras almost didn’t catch it. “Why?” he asked mildly. “You want dessert?”

It was so far out of what Enjolras had been doing a terrible job at implying that he gaped at Grantaire. “No, I—” He broke off, frustrated, before asking, with no small amount of exasperation, “What do you want?”

Grantaire gave him an almost pitying look. “That's a dumb question.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “What do you—”

“You know what I want,” Grantaire interrupted. “I know what I want. Hell, the waiter two tables over who's been giving me the nod since I got here knows what I want.” He leaned forward. “So the question is, what do you want?”

Enjolras’s heart was beating so hard in his chest that he almost thought Grantaire could hear it, and he wet his lips before saying quietly, “I want what you want.”

Grantaire’s expression tightened and he forced a laugh. “Well now I'm not convinced you know what I want.”

“I do know,” Enjolras said, a little stubbornly. “And I want that, too. At least for tonight.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Have you ever done this before?”

It wasn’t that Enjolras hadn’t been expecting the question, but it still rankled, just a little. “Yes.”

Grantaire’s lips twitched. “Have you ever done this before with someone other than a guy in college that one time who later claimed that he was drunk and told you if you ever mentioned it again, he'd kill you?” Enjolras flushed and looked away, and Grantaire nodded. “That's what I thought.” His lips twisted wryly. “That guy'll probably end up a US Senator.”

“Or a Supreme Court justice,” Enjolras muttered bitterly.

“Or head of the fucking FBI.” Enjolras glanced up at him, half-smiling, and was relieved to find Grantaire was as well. “So,” Grantaire said, swirling his martini. “You still want to do this?”

Truth be told, Enjolras had been thinking about this almost as much as he’d been thinking about trying to convince Grantaire to come to a Les Amis meeting, so he didn’t hesitate before saying firmly, “Yes.” And he didn’t hesitate before adding, “But I want something in return.”

“I don't pay,” Grantaire said instantly, so quickly that Enjolras wondered how many times he’d faced that proposition before.

“And I'm not looking for money,” Enjolras said. He took a deep breath before saying, just as firmly as before, “I want you to come to one of our meetings.”

Grantaire sat back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “Coercion ain't consent, kid,” he said flatly. “And trading favors feels an awful lot like you doing something you don't actually want to do. I’m not interested in that.”

Considering that Grantaire had been hitting on him since practically the first second they’d met, Enjolras was taken aback by the flat dismissal, and he took a moment to reply. “You may not believe me, but I want this,” he said, his voice low, because he did. Not just because he wanted Grantaire to come to a meeting, but because talking to Grantaire this evening showed someone who was sharp, and witty, and surprisingly passionate, and as much as Grantaire tried to disavow his comedy routine, it had taken hardly any time at all for Enjolras to know better. And even if he didn’t have much experience in this realm, he knew he didn’t want the night to end. “Besides, the way I see it, you'll end up sticking around long enough to come to a meeting with me anyway.”

Grantaire cracked a smile. “You think you're that good?”

“No. I think I'm probably shit,” Enjolras said bluntly, and Grantaire choked a laugh. “But that just means you'll have ample opportunity to teach me how to be better.”

He said it a little too forcefully to be considered flirting, but Grantaire’s smile still widened appreciatively. “Now that is spoken like someone who wants what I want.”

Enjolras smiled as well. “I told you so.”

“Fine,” Grantaire said, draining his martini. “If, as you say, I end up sticking around long enough for it to matter, then we'll see.”

“And in the meantime?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire gestured to their waiter. “In the meantime, we let these fine folks flip the table.”

He stood and Enjolras scrambled to follow, hanging back awkwardly as Grantaire conversed in an undertone with the waiter before he nodded towards the door. Enjolras glanced sideways at him as they left the restaurant. “Aren’t you going to invite me back to your place?” he asked in an undertone.

Grantaire didn’t look over at him, stepping forward to hail a cab. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh.”

Given everything they had just discussed, Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure how he’d misinterpreted things, but thankfully, Grantaire seemed to pick up on his confusion, and he turned back to him. “Two men leaving a club together in the Village wouldn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. In this part of town…”

The fact that they had somehow managed to switch places in terms of who was being more cautious didn’t escape Enjolras. “So you’re looking out for me?”

Grantaire half-smiled. “I’m trying to, kid. I meant what I said before – I have no desire to add to your rap sheet.”

“I can manage that on my own, thanks,” Enjolras said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “So then what are we doing now?”

“Now, I shake your hand and we part ways,” Grantaire said, cocking his head slightly. “You take the cab downtown while I catch the A train, and we meet up at my front door.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “Why do I have to take a cab?”

“Because I don’t have that kind of money at the moment.”

Enjolras felt a sudden jolt of guilt that he hadn’t pushed back harder at letting Grantaire pay for dinner. “I’m—”

Grantaire waved him off. “It’s a somewhat voluntary vow of poverty. Besides, I’d rather spend what I have on you than on me.”

“What if we both take the cab?” Enjolras offered. “My treat.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Kid—”

“You think I care what any of these people think of us?” Enjolras asked. “You think I care if NYPD, the FBI, fuck, HUAC or Hoover himself drags me in?”

“I know you think you don’t,” Grantaire said honestly. “But you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

Enjolras just gave him a look. “You say that like you’re 85 years old, not 35. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, too.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire said noncommittally. He reached up to rest a heavy hand on the back of Enjolras’s neck, just for a moment, his thumb brushing against the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “I could ruin you,” he murmured, so softly that Enjolras almost didn’t hear him. Then he took a step back, his hand falling to his side. “For so long the only person I’ve had to worry about ruining is myself, and I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. But ruining you…” His expression twisted. “I don’t even think I could get a good joke out of it, which is the worst part.”

Enjolras recognized the self-deprecation for what it was, and he wanted so badly to kiss him, but for all his bravado, he didn’t dare. There’d be time for that later, when they got to Grantaire’s, hurried kisses as Grantaire pressed him against the door, both of them scrambling to undress, and heady, slow kisses as they lay entwined on his bed.

Kisses that would let them both forget, for even a moment, that, as Grantaire so heavily eviscerated in his comedy, the world would do everything in its power to tear them apart.

He settled for resting his hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Come on,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take you home.”

Grantaire hesitated for just a moment more before nodding, and together they walked to the waiting cab, the backs of their hands just brushing together as they walked.

Enjolras already had a hell of a rap sheet. At least this potential charge was one he was determined to thoroughly enjoy.

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #éponine #les mis #les miserables #fanfiction #1950s AU #comedian au #time period homophobia #the marvelous mrs maisel au #lenny bruce!Grantaire #developing relationship

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seeminglyseph · 17 days

Text

Every now and then I get so used to people posting other people’s videos or people being so big on tumblr that they just ignore most of the reblogs they get that I mostly consider my comments lost in the noise. I rarely comment something like. Mean??? As far as I am aware. Sometimes my social skills are garbage, but I mean, intentionally I don’t go out of my way to be mean.

Every now and then I find out by accident I’ve contributed to a meme chain, though the nature of tumblr notifications being what they are sometimes I don’t find that out until like. A year later and that post is on fucking Facebook and someone’s posting an Alberta meme and there’s me making a dumb fucking offhanded comment about our constant vigilance on rat control. “See; the main thing that seems to come up if you google sephet besides the restaurant in Istanbul”

I do have a hopefully warm memory of one time in a half conscious state I commented on a video where a guy had gotten makeup done by his sister and I suggested a beard contour without fully realizing that like. The video was posted on tumblr and someone would see it, and I just think like… a lot of people with beards have commented insecurity about the look of their skin or beard and if you’re on the topic of makeup already, I thought the fact that there are makeup products made for beard shaping and contouring bearded faces is like. Spread the word. I was worried immediately that guy would think I was calling him patchy when like. The real statement was about like. Gender neutral makeup use, and foundation and contour looks that include and incorporate facial hair and accentuate a “masculine” face without giving up the “glam” of makeup. Which I didn’t go into a rant on but I figured a post about a bearded man looking excellent in makeup might benefit from “oohhh!! Also!! Beard contour exists!! It’s not as well known because men are less likely to wear makeup and they are more likely to have the full beards and need beard contour but it can complete a Look!” Kinda idea.

I am still half asleep so bad damn. I don’t have a point I just can’t sleep and feel like gaaaarbage. And my brain is spewing thoughts that are tumbling around in my head…

I need to figure out a way to try and save my hair. So much keeps falling out. I feel like I need to just cut it all off again, but it seems like a shame after I tried so hard to grow it this long… I don’t know why I’m doing that when I don’t know a thing at all to do with long hair and it’s both too thin and fine for me to do anything with it at any length.

I need to try and commit to getting less overwhelmed by stuff and washing it more often maybe, and maybe stress and hygiene is the problem. Maybe I need a better hair brush and maybe a better scalp treatment… dunno what. All the information is confusing, and sometimes even the advice isn’t really about hair in my type that needs help, it’s hair already doing better. And the places giving advice can be very rude about how beyond help my heart type needs. (Sorry guys with great hair who get asked questions about their hair and decided to make advice sections about it, it must be really hard for you to have been born with a different hair type and have to explain that over and over to people. But like. There is a point at which being being called ugly and balding etc is making me feel like “one day you will no longer be 22 and I hope when you find yourself facing the ways age and or stress or other factors of nature or environment effect your body people will be kinder to you” but also “I hope one person calls you bald and you think about that one person a lot and see yourself in them a little” because I’m a little bit of a cunt sometimes.

I did have a conversation once about growing up white and hair care and like “uh I obviously don’t speak for everyone but there was no ‘touching moments of learning and bonding as a family’ like I was just in charge of it once I knew how to comb it or put it in a ponytail. That’s part of why I cut it off when I was a kid. Hell it was falling out by the fistful when I was a teenager and there really wasn’t any help or guidance. And my mom’s an ex-hairdresser. She could cut it but that just meant I didn’t have control, but I didn’t have guidance. And in general all the shampoo and conditioner in drugstores suck and are made of the same shit with different scents and slightly different ingredients. But it’s mostly water and a few handfuls of soap chemicals. If you feel like they’re making shitty Black targeted products it’s like. Par for the course with most of their other products we just have no standards for good haircare because literally none of us have been taught to take care of ourselves.”

This is overly broad and I am aware I am a child of neglect so like. “Your experience is not universal” so like. Probably some people have parents who like. Taught them to style their hair and how to do self care in a proper way etc, but like. I do feel like I’m not as much of an anomaly as I sometimes think I am, and the fact that there’s a bunch of of white people who also straight up don’t know shit like “what the fuck *am* I supposed to do with my hair???” Or like. “Do I just exist in a perpetual state of dry skin?” Or any number of self care hygiene practices I guess we’re re badly co-opting like the Korean 7 step skincare routine. Which I admit I’m too lazy to follow when I sometimes have to fight the Mental Eelness to get my face clean at all.

Actually now I’m wondering how much is a product of extreme neglect, I’ve met people with the similar upbringing of “here’s a hairbrush, here’s shampoo and conditioner, congratulations you know how to manage your hair. It’s your responsibility now” as soon as I passed through the “no longer a doll I can style and dress up to do as I please” phase, but that might actually be one of those “no seph, that’s another one of those ‘your mom really liked babysitting and had no concept of what being a parent was’ things” and significantly less normal than I think it was.

I realized last night that I’ve spent so much time since I was young having my parents vent to me about their regrets that I have become like. Paralyzed by fear of being similarly burdened by regrets and in the end I’m still full of regrets and I am not sure what to do about that. But I do know that my mom has long since crossed a boundary with me by making me her like. Confidant and shoulder to cry on and comfort and vent space. Knowing all her frustrations about my dad and his family, her nostalgia and longing for her home and childhood, her insecurity and regret. I know I was an accident conceived while she was stoned and didn’t feel like telling my dad to use protection. I know my mom took my behaviour as personal attacks against her, just trying to make her life specifically more difficult. Not trying to make my life easier or trying to figure out anything about myself, it was directly tied to how it affected her and upset her. She doesn’t know what this fully means, just that she was wrong about her interpretation. She will not go to therapy because she insists she’s fine, I cannot convince her that she’s not and it’s weighing on me.

I don’t have a point, I think I’m just vent blogging about. Stress. I don’t know. My stomach hurts.

#my life

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facetsofthecloset · 10 months

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15 Questions 15 Mutuals

Was tagged by @meteor--shards, but tumblr tumblred and didn’t notify me at all! I just happened to see the post while scrolling luckily lol

(idk why this keeps happening even when people tag my main blog. should probably contact support about that >_>)

Were you named after anyone?

Yes, my first name came from my dad’s tai chi teacher’s wife. Which sounds like a weird random connection, but they were practically his second set of parents so, yeah.

When was the last time you cried?

Yesterday. This morning? idk man i’m on an emergency trip back home at my parent’s place for mental health reasons i am not at my most resilient rn

Do you have kids?

As in actual kids I birthed myself, hell fucking no, but considering the age gap between me and my brothers I half-consider them my own kids in some ways.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

Why no, never. Not at all. Not even the tiniest slightest bit. Perish the thought.

[^i’m lying for the bit] What’s the first thing you notice about people?

Uhh, never really thought about it, but if we’re meeting in person, probably their height?? Just because most people are taller than me so the first thing I have to do is crane my neck lol

If we’re talking about online, I only ever use tumblr, so probably their tags

What’s your eye color?

Brown. Pretty much black though.

Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings, usually, because for a long time I was too wimpy for any kind of horror. In recent years I’ve really started getting into it but I still tend to go to media for happy endings because real life generates enough horror for me most days MY GOD what is happening with the chickens!?!

Sorry our flock of chicks was being really loud just now because one got separated by a thin concrete wall that was very echo-y lol (they’re fine now)

Any special talents?

Eh, dunno about that. My party trick used to be leaning over backwards really low (think, like, for playing limbo or Matrix bullet-dodging) without falling over or touching the ground, but the pandemic nuked my stamina and all physical ability, so I’ve just been in mild but constant pain for the past year or so.

I guess I’m decently quick at picking up the very basics of new creative mediums (paints or embroidery or whatever), maybe that counts.

Where were you born?

Japan. Oh dear that chick got separated again hang on

nvm it was a second chick that got separated earlier as well and was hanging around the kitchen door, which was why it was so loud. It’s fine and much quieter now.

What are your hobbies?

Writing and drawing mainly, but I’m the kind of person who has five million hobbies because I need to rotate between them to keep myself interested. So auxiliary hobbies include costume making (covers a lot of different hobbies honestly), swimming (in the ocean. and not like, proper forms and all that. just being in the water basically), parkour (can’t at present for physical condition), roller/ice skating (once again, not atm), started woodcarving the other day (kinda falls under costume making because i’m trying to make a wizard staff lol) and whatever else I feel like taking a stab at for one day and then maybe never again (I should try fencing. maybe when my back isn’t in constant pain)

Have any pets?

At my parent’s place, there’s a cat, a dog (both fairly elderly), bunch of half-wild chickens, various fish, and a tortoise (the kind that get big). Don’t keep any pets at my place because I travel back and forth too much and it wouldn’t work logistically.

What sports do you play/have you played?

Like on an official team/club? None, aside from parkour briefly. Otherwise it’s stuff I mentioned in hobbies that I learned either on my own or had a friend casually give me tips or something. My parents have been teaching me tai chi on and off through the years? Does that count it’s a martial art isn’t it I mean

How tall are you?

5′2″ is what I tell people. Technically I’m just a hair too short for that but it sounds defensive to say 5′1.8″ when I don’t actually care that much lol

Favorite subject in school?

Art, enjoyed the marine biology course I got to take in hs. Was good at English but never loved the way any of my teachers taught it. Technically my hs history class was my favorite but that was bc of the teacher and not the subject matter.

Dream job?

I’ve always wanted to be a fantasy writer, but I figure that can be a long term goal. For now, for a job that would sustain me? I would LOVE to be involved in theater costuming or even just grunt work in a production company. Something creative and silly. I’m considering applying to work at Tokyo Disneyland despite grievances with the company overall just because being in a themed environment every day and getting to see “behind the scenes” does sound fun. Even though I’m sure the work culture is probably horrible. idk something to do with costumes or practical effects would be amazing.

I also love bugs and animals but I have a harder time visualizing myself working in related fields there

I don’t have 15 active mutuals, but: @mariegoos, @vonlipvig, or anyone else who wants to play, feel free! No pressure tho

Thanks for the tag! It was fun :)

#tag games #fun #i'm sorry if this post winds up posting five thousand times or as doubles or something #tumblr is having a normal one #meteor i feel like we have a lot in common but a little to the left lol #in a good way #thanks again for the tag

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carcharadroid · 10 months

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Recovering from having been at one point “Tumblr famous” is weird.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t properly “Tumblr famous”. I wasn’t someone with generic enough appeal to garner enough followers for that. Didn’t really want to be either, I wasn’t trying to be. But I was undoubtedly famous in a niche. That niche being Wreck-it Ralph RP, of all things, back when the movie had only just come out and Tumblr was in its askblog/RP peak.

So, you know (which you might if you’ve been following me for long enough), I made a character! Made an askblog that over time became more of an RP blog. I got involved with other talented and popular RPers on the scene. By the time everything was said and over, I was just shy of 1,000 followers on my silly little niche fandom ask/RP blog.

I got fanart! Fanart from whole ass entire strangers. A lot of them weren’t even roleplayers themselves, they just followed along because they were invested in the story that was unfolding around my edgy little murder twink and the increasingly awful situations and people he surrounded himself with.

But, time wore on, and the fandom faded. Of course. But it was damn close to...7? 8 years? before the RP stopped. The fandom was dead but that just meant crossover was embraced and the fun kept on rolling for a good long time. But everything comes to an end, and between Tumblr shitting the bed by banning NSFW (which gutted pretty much every RP community, not overnight but sure close to it) and the natural inevitability of interests diverging, it basically ended and everyone moved on.

But having that kind of an audience for that long is one hell of a terrifying high, and the crash afterwards is humbling at best and absolutely damaging at worst. Somewhere along the line I realized that I stopped knowing how to create purely for myself and my own enjoyment. I told myself that was what I was doing from the outset (and it was true in the sense that I didn’t axe parts of the story to please people who didn’t like the shit I did), but the sting I felt from getting fewer and fewer and fewer notes as outside interest waned long before inside interest did still hurt.

It made me feel gross and egotistical, which didn’t help. I spent a long time beating myself up about it. Which, you know, also didn’t help.

I dunno. This is all some self-pitying bullshit and reading it back is making me cringe, but fuck it. Maybe this’ll help someone somewhere who’s going through anything even remotely similar. Being shocked with an audience you never expected, getting used to it, and then losing it has a way of making you wonder why the hell you bother to pick up a pen. I think that’s normal. I’ve heard similar stories. Seen them unfold, too. It happens a lot. My story isn’t special in that sense.

I still don’t have my muse back. Not quite. The past while has been a whole lot of me doing my best to retrain myself to create for myself before anyone else. Unrelated, real-life stress is making it slow going, but it’s still going and that’s what’s important. I’ve done small scribbles and sketches, all for myself, and it feels good to do that again. I’m just going to keep on doing that. Sooner or later, I’ll be back where I was before I accidentally caught that lightning in a bottle. And if I ever manage to do it for a second time, hopefully I’ll be more prepared to deal with the inevitable aftermath.

#uuhhh this is cringe oh well lol #*dox babbles

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dead-not-sleeping123 · 2 years

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Uhhh so when I joined tumblr I never imagined I’d be writing fanfic for a dnd actual play podcast, much less one called dungeon and daddies. But here we are I guess. Please enjoy my first ever fanfic. It’s based on the really cool comic by @awnrii

Nick Foster stood outside with his back against the wall letting the cool night air wash over him. He had stepped out back of the party he was attending to smoke a cigarette. A convenient get away when stuff inside got too rowdy. Don’t get him wrong Nick loved a good throw down, he was a demon after all, but sometimes the dads could be a lot especially when they were all in one place. So he stood outside, feeding his terrible habit, and enjoying the calm.

The party in question was nothing special, just the annual daddies get together. While the dads had all remained close, the sons had drifted apart. Not for any particular reason, that’s just what happens when you reach your early twenties, childhood trauma doesn’t bond you together forever. This party however is the first time everyone has been in one place in several years. So yeah, things were getting pretty rowdy inside.

That’s when he noticed Lark escaping from the same door he had come out of, walking towards him, rummaging around his pockets for his own cig.

Lark leaned against the wall next to him. Shoulder to shoulder.

“Loud in there huh” making conversation with the Oak’s could be a bit of a mixed bag, but hey Lark was always his favorite.

“Same boat”

“Ha yea”

Nick took a moment to observe the Oak twin next to him. Once it had been impossible to tell Lark and Sparrow apart, now it was impossible to confuse them. Both still had their fathers sandy brown hair and green eyes of course but the forgotten realms had changed them. It was their demeanor that was different, the way they carried themselves and interacted with the world. Sparrow rushed to make friends, would do anything to keep the peace, he wanted the world to know how much love he had. For Lark it was the intensity. He had an anger to him, angry at the world, at his father, at himself. It was those same angry intense green eyes that are currently glaring at a lighter refusing to light a cigarette.

“Got a light”

“Dude seriously, I am the light”

With a flick Nick's finger lit up with fire. Sparrow rolled his eyes but accepted the light without any further fanfare. After blowing out his fingers as if it were a cool smoking gun the two settled into a comfortable silence, each enjoying their own cigarettes.

“Look at you lighting cigs for me. You used to be such a narc. Crazy how much you’ve changed”

“What’s with all the existential talk? Of course I was a narc, my dad was a cop”

It was true, he had changed since their time in the forgotten realms, quite a bit actually. Once he had been a goodie two shoes, quick to narc, to the point the dads had called him narcolas. At the time it had really annoyed him, now it’s just funny. Currently though he had fully embraced his demon side, becoming the kind of person his childhood self would’ve hated. He could’ve never imagined having long shaggy hair dyed blue at the ends with hell fire, or the blue horn, or the blue tail. Blue had kinda become his brand….

“I’m being serious, you’ve changed”

“I mean of course I’ve changed, but it’s weird ya know? I feel like I was always gonna turn out like this. I dunno” while Nick couldn’t have predicted ‘this’ he liked being a demon who loved to party, smoke cigarettes (or that dank kush), and was generally rad in a rebellious way. “I mean you’ve changed too, we all have” when Lark didn’t answer he added “right?”

“You’re wrong” there was a long pause, too dramatic for Nick’s taste “I haven’t changed” at that Nick could swear he could see something in Lark’s shadow, something powerful and angry “I’m leaving, see you around Nick”

“Wait Lark…” Lark stopped but didn’t turn around “no no you’re right, deep down you’re still a scared little kid aren’t you”

“I’m not scared of anything, never have been” an obvious lie on Lark’s part, Nick had seen him in the halls of the omega daddies castle. Both the twins could put up a brave front, but even that had to drop sometimes.

“Do you wanna get out of here, unless you’re too scared” Nick gave Lark a wink at that

“If you’re trying to goad me into coming with you it’s not going to work” another lie

“Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. You’ve never backed down from a challenge. Plus my motorcycle is pretty sick”

“Fine where are we going”

“Back to my place? I got some cool swords from hell recently I think you’d like”

“Sure”

As Nick started to walk away towards his bike Lark stopped him “aren’t you gonna go back inside to say goodbye?”

“Are you?”

“Fair enough”

Nick’s bike was bright blue to match the blue aesthetic being a demon had given him. He didn’t have a spare helmet, or any helmet at all. Another perk of being a demon was damage resistance and high hp. He figured Lark probably wouldn’t put on a helmet even if one was offered to him.

“Hang on tight little birdie” Nick didn’t wait for whatever Lark’s response was, he started the ignition and let the roar of the engine drown everything out.

#dndads #dungeon and daddies #nick foster #Lark Oak Garcia #dndads spoilers #fanfiction

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slickshoesareyoucrazy · 1 year

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Adjusting To Broken

I wrote this in June of 2020, originally, for a ‘30 Sub Stories’ writing project in the Tumblr D/s community I used to I guess sort of feel like a part of (I have realized in the past year or two, particularly the past month, that it wasn’t actually much of a community; it was a lot of parasocial attachment and some people there made and continue to make claims on me that they never earned...some of them hurt me within a connection that feels performed now; some of them invented or exaggerated a connection based on reading and reblogs of some of my writing pieces, or even imagined and/or still imagine a connection that never existed.) I usually wrote things that weren’t really overtly D/s-y for this community, and this was one of those pieces. J and I live a D/s life together, and while we live intentionally, we just aren’t formalizing a lot of rules and punishments and shit, and I’ve never been super comfortable talking about kink or sex or anything truly private about our relationship. When I do write about us, I’ve always written more about LIFE than D/s, when talking about our D/s life. And this is one of those pieces. It’s actually a major way life with J is way better than life before J.

I’ve spent the past two days REALLY cleaning our whole house. Not that I don’t keep our house neat and clean all the time. I do. That’s literally my job. And COVID has dictated I do more disinfecting than I used to (things that used to be done monthly are done weekly; things that used to be done weekly are done daily; things that used to be done daily are done a couple times a day…). But I did EXTRA things like dusting every picture frame on the walls; steam mopping all the hard surface floors; lots of extra laundry… When I’m feeling anxious, doing some tangible work like that helps to calm my nerves, plus our house gets super clean, so it’s all really good all the way around, really. Anyway to finish up today, I ran our vacuum. I got all of it done, but near the end of the vacuum routine, the power button wouldn’t stay engaged unless I pressed it down. When I completed the job, I immediately sent J a text to tell him the problem.

J: I’ll look at it.

And he did. He got home from work, and literally the second he got home, someone from work called him with a problem that he spent about 2 hours, including all of our dinner time as a family, troubleshooting and correcting. And while he was dealing with that problem, his cell phone microphone stopped working unless he spoke directly into it or changed it to the speakerphone setting, so after the work issue, he fixed his phone issue. And then he did a quick workout. And then he fixed the vacuum. With all of these issues, J just knew exactly what the problem was and took steps to correct them. As they cropped up. Now all the broken things work. And that just AWES me. Because my go-to response when EVERYTHING starts breaking one after the other is, “FUCK! Everything is BREAKING! Why is EVERYTHING breaking?’ J doesn’t really think about why things are broken/breaking until after he’s dealt appropriately with the broken thing. I’m trying to get better at that myself. J helps me get better at it.

But I didn’t start writing this post to fawn over J’s calm and stable resourcefulness and clutch performance (although I DO really freakin’ love that stuff). I started writing (sorry…guess this is gonna be another long, rambling one) because his vacuum heroics reminded me of this time about 6 or 7 years ago when my old laptop hinges were loose. Like…damn near falling apart. But the laptop still worked. So I just used it with the bum hinges for a long time, until one weekend day, J picked up my laptop to move it and noticed the wanked up hinges.

J: How long have they been like this? me: I dunno…months? J: MONTHS?! Why didn’t you tell me they were like this? I’d have fixed them. <he said as he was fixing them> me: <shrugs> It still worked. J: Yeah, but you had to pick it up weird and hold it weird and…you don’t have to just adjust to ‘broken.’

Before J was in my life, I dealt with everything myself, and if something was broken I didn’t know how to fix, I just adjusted to broken. Because I’d been very well conditioned to believe that asking for help was futile. I grew up with parents who would call me irresponsible and demanding if I brought up shoddy hinges on an otherwise working laptop. ‘You must have done something to break it, and also, it still functions, doesn’t it? What did you want? Us to get you a new laptop because the hinges are loose? You’re so selfish, Jen. You expect too much from <us, people, things, life…>’ Parents who would swear and yell and maybe bust the vacuum to pieces and throw it in the dumpster and then complain about the expense and inconvenience of buying a new goddam vacuum because the power button wouldn’t stay engaged. So I’d have just held the power button down the entire time I used it to avoid the drama. I’d have just adjusted to broken.

I told J about the vacuum right away, because now I believe that I don’t have to just adjust to broken. J will help me fix it. He’ll stay calm. He’ll help me figure it out. He’ll help me find a solution. I don’t have to tough shit out alone or adjust to broken. The value of having a safe place to express a need…a desire…a problem…and know it will be met with calmness and willingness to help can’t be overstated. J’s ability to almost instantaneously diagnose and fix broken things is impressive. But even if he couldn’t actually fix damn near everything broken I’ve ever told him about, his calmness and willingness to help without being accusatory and shaming would still be there. And that’s one of the most important gifts he continually gives me.

So here’s a part I’m adding on now, in the present. J has helped me over the past few weeks, again, to not just ‘adjust to broken,’ in a more emotional and social way, not a literal, ‘I’m gonna fix this busted vacuum; your shitty laptop hinges; the printer...whatever.’ J is one of the only and definitely the BEST shining example of someone who wants to know me and attempt to correct the problems I’m having, even if they are problems he’s creating. He never wants me to just ‘take’ shit that’s hurting me, or making me consistently unhappy in silence. He doesn’t want me to limp along at ‘less than,’ constantly adjusting to broken to appease him. And life with J has taught me that I never have to do that in a relationship with anyone again. J has taught me that a person who really does love me will not expect me to adjust to broken; they’ll want to work with me to fix it. The more I write about J and read over the things I’ve written about him in the past, I’m earnestly stunned I ever was considered a ‘voice’ in the D/s ‘community’ at all. Our life is D/s (and sometimes it’s even kinky, even with a young teenager in the house all the time during a global pandemic), but our life together is a real lived live, a real collaborative partnership, which is how I think D/s should be...but it doesn’t seem to be much of what’s shown in the ‘community.’ I’m not sure I was ever really a part of it. And I know I no longer want to be considered a part of it. A lot of people there were expecting me to adjust to broken, and I don’t want to, and I don’t HAVE to do that anymore.

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o-blivia · 1 year

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I posted 63,088 times in 2022

34 posts created (0%)

63,054 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@lennis

@zuvson

@graylok

@cybermax

I tagged 21 of my posts in 2022

#cyberpunk - 3 posts

#science fiction - 2 posts

#amwriting - 2 posts

#stray game - 2 posts

#reading - 1 post

#wow tumblr sucks at letting you embed links to posts - 1 post

#apparently - 1 post

#i cannot tell if this is ironic - 1 post

#montreal - 1 post

#signage - 1 post

Longest Tag: 128 characters

#i feel like all the replies i've been getting are people just wanting me to say the only solution is to burn the government down

My Top Posts in 2022:

WIP - Signal in the Void by Olivia Black

-….. …——..-.. ….. ……-.-.-.- .—..-..-.. -.——-..- ..-…-.. ..- ..—..

This shift always seemed to drag. Most of the crew of the Yang Toa was tucked up in their bunks, but Scully had drawn the short straw and was manning the nav. Not that there was much she needed to do. The coordinates for Ganymede Station were locked in, and the shit was running on auto. She was only there to deal with anything unexpected, which meant she was struggling to stay awake as she babysat a console. The data cable plugged into her cortical implant fed her a constant drip of status updates — all green — from various ship systems. It used to be an AI with a full personality load out would handle the feed and keep pilots alert, but not anymore with all the new regulations making it prohibitively expensive to maintain an AI ethically. Most companies had made the choice to dismantle their AIs, including her own. Scully had never quite adapted to the change, still expecting to hear a startlingly cheerful voice murmuring in the back of her mind. Not that it was going to be an issue for long. This was her last run before transferring to an administrative posting with the company. Admin was its own kind of monotonous, but at least she’d be having dinner with her family every night.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, jerking her out of her thoughts. The shrill whine that flooded her kind of brain signalling she’d pulled the data cable loose at her abrupt movement made her shudder and twitch. She scrambled to fix it, momentarily distracted from the interloper on her bridge.

“Sorry,” Hamdi said sheepishly. “Thought you heard me coming up.”

“And I thought you had first shift. Shouldn’t you be sawing wood, right now?”

“Sawing — what does that even mean?” He said, nonplussed as he levered himself into the copilot’s chair.

“Dunno. It’s something my grandmother always said about grandpa. Apparently he snored.” Scully side-eyed him with a smirk.

“I do not snore.”

“Did you think it was coincidence you got that cabin to yourself?”

“Lies and slander. And here I was thinking I’d keep you company on your last duty shift.”

“Wow. Are you getting sentimental on me?” Scully mocked, even if some part of her warmed at the thought. She was trying not to think about it, but she was going to miss the ragtag bunch she’s been running transport with for the last few years.

“Maybe I’m here to talk you into staying. You’re the only other person on this boat ho knows how to cook anything halfway decent.”

“And deprive my family of my ‘halfway decent’ cooking?” She asked as she lazily flicked open the tab in her visual overlay for the ship’s scanner readout. There shouldn’t be anything on it; they’ve run this route dozens of times, and never carry high value cargo, which was why they were a slow transit rig.

Instead of a clear field, there was a blinking red dot indicating an unknown object moving at high speed.

“Hold on,” she said, cutting off Hamdi’s reply. “I’ve got something on scanners.”

“Pull it up.” Hamdi made the switch from jovial to in command on a dime. Scully was already sending the live feed to the central display as the main computer kicked off a shipwide alert. The objects projected trajectory was now overlaid on the feed.

“Shit, that’s coming straight for us. Still to far out for an ID.” Scully regretted her earlier boredom.

“How long until it’s in visual range?” Hamdi asked from where he was busy pooring over the secondary console.

“Less than a minute.”

“Holy hell, it’s moving fast.” He toggled the intercom to the engine room. “I hope you people are awake down there. We’ve got trouble brewing.”

“We saw the alert. FTL’s spooling up. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.” The night shift engine lead’s voice rang clean through the bridge.

“Good. Scully —“

“Already plotting emergency jump. Hopefully we won’t need it.” She was bent over the console, her overlay adding helpful notation as the VI double checked her calculations.

“Entering visual range,” Hamdi announced as a new window popped open with the visual feed from sensors. Scully paused her hurried typing to gawk at the slender, oblong pod.

“What is that?” All thoughts of plotting the jump fled her mind as she tried to puzzle out this thing that looked like it belonged in a direct-to-stream vid.

“A seeker missile,” Hamdi replied, his normally dusky skin was an unhealthy palor. “I’m launching counter measures. Get those jump vectors plugged in already. The decoy buoys will only keep it off us for a few seconds, if we’re lucky. We need to be out of here before it has a chance to scan us.”

“Those things are real?” Scully’s fingers are flying over the haptic keyboard. “I thought they were bedtime stories they tell baby pilots to keep ‘em up at night.”

“Unfortunately for us, they’re very real. Decoy payload is away. Contact in five.”

“Vector’s are in; compu’s running the final check. Shipwide alert is sent.”

See the full post

19 notes - Posted November 26, 2022

Shoutout to the person who waded through thousands of my posts to find one where I denounce the anti vaxx movement, and call me a pharma shill, while also spectacularly missing the point. It was a fantastic thing to see for thing when I woke up.

Trust me, my life would be a lot better if I got paid $1000 every time I said that vaccines have a centuries long track record of working, but sadly those checks haven't shown up in the mail.

I still don't get how I'm the unreasonable one for saying that autism is not worse than condemning hundreds of thousands of children to being killed, disabled or disfigured by preventable diseases... Like, no one who's attacked me for saying that will even address it. They just say I'm wrong about the side effects, but say those side effects are real, I'd still take them over an infant mortality rate so high that it takes twenty years of the statistic for average life spans. Just saying.

20 notes - Posted February 4, 2022

Soft Hiatus

Just a heads-up; I've got a bunch of stuff in my life that I need to be focusing on instead of spending way too much time fighting with The Hellsite to keep my queue even moderately full.

I don't want to leave altogether, so the compromise I've struck with myself is that I'll be posting much less, and only be actively around on Sundays to fill up my queue.

Hopefully, I'll be able to come back as actively as I used to be, and maybe even have more writing to share. In the meantime, keep being swell :)

41 notes - Posted August 28, 2022

What do you get for the woman who has everything?

The best gifts are the ones that show a person that you pay attention and see them for who they are.

67 notes - Posted April 26, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

This is gonna be a Stray blog for the next couple weeks. don't care.