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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months

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Don't Speak 16

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Happy Wednesday. I didn't have to change this because apparently the last time I updated was also a Wednesday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You look in the mirror, the steam receding to the frame. You look tired. You feel it.

You put away the bottles you used for your bath and try some of the brown sugar moisturizer, hoping it might ease the dry spots left from the friction of your pillow. You cap it and place it in the basket with the rest.

You hang your towel on the rack and flip back the silver tab of the lock. You come out into the hall and nearly trip on your own toes. Andy stands casually against the wall, a dark blue towel folded over one arm, his phone in his other hand as he looks at you over the top.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I hope… hope I didn't take too long…"

"Nah, haven't been waiting long," he smiles and scratches his beard, a few tufts out of place as you hear the coarse graze of his fingertips, "sleep okay?"

You lie, "yes…You?"

"God knows I tried," he shrugs as he stands straight, "pretty shaken by the cops swinging by, you know?"

"Uh, sure," you tuck your lip under your teeth, "sorry–"

"You're not the one who needs to apologize," he waves you off and taps his thumb on the side button of his phone, crossing his arms, a gesture that emphasizes his size. "Anyway, I wanted to ask you something before I start the day."

"Oh?" Your brows squiggle together. What have you done wrong now?

"Did you wanna come to the library? I figured if you need to put together a resume for your application I could get together a few resources. It'd be a quiet place to work." He looks almost nervous as you watch his hand squeeze his phone tighter, knuckles white, "we could get some tea down at the cafe, maybe some lunch?"

You consider him and his request. It isn't a bad idea. You don't know where to start with a resume. You only imagine a blank piece of paper, as empty as your life. You try to smile, your cheeks dimpling painfully.

"Okay," you agree.

You don't know you have the courage to say no. It is his house and it's a thoughtful idea. Amber always said you should get out when you feel grey… Amber…

"I'll go get my tablet," you say to chase away your sadness, "thanks, Andy."

"No problem," he takes a breath, relief uncoiling the tension from him. Had he really been so anxious? "You're the one doing me a favour, so thank you."

"I am?"

"Yeah, I won't complain for the company and it'll give me something to look forward to," he moves towards the bathroom door as you sidle out of his way. His hand seems to float over your shoulder just before you elude it. Instead he presses it to the door. "I'll try to hurry."

🕊️

It feels almost surreal to be back at the library. It's a reminder of everything that's happened. All that's changed.

Andy brings you in with him as he opens. You stand at the counter and watch him. He does everything with graceful certainty. It makes you insecure, there's nothing you know how to do so effortlessly.

When the library opens, it remains quiet. Andy gathers a few books for reference and you take them to the basement, wary of getting in his way as the first patrons arrive. You're much more comfortable in the isolated underground.

You claim your usual spot and prop your tablet up in its case sideways. You open a book and delve into the basic formatting of a resume. You type your name at the top but the next line stumps you. Address? What do you put? Andy's? You don't even know it.

You skip that and put your email. Phone number? Yeah, not that either.

You work slowly. Your frustration mounts as you distract yourself with making neat margins and inserting lines over inputting any information. You have nothing to add. No skills, no experience, no value.

You put your head in your hands and take a deep breath. You're overwhelmed by this simple task. How can you expect to have a job? Like Andy and Amber and everyone else. Everything that is so easy for them is almost impossible for you. You are dumb and worthless.

You stay like that for a while, staring at the table, fighting back tears. What are you going to tell Andy? That you're a loser. That all those expectations he has, you can't meet. Maybe you deserve everything you get, maybe Amber didn't deserve the blight of your existence.

"You're here," her voice draws your head up, as if you summoned her with your thoughts.

You blink, not believing she's real. Amber rushes forward and you sit back, staring wide eyed, terrified at her. She winces and stays on the other side of the table.

"What… why are you looking at me like that?" She clasps her hands together, "please, just listen, please," she pulls out the chair and sits, stretching and arm across the table, "I'm not here to argue–"

"How did you find me?"

"It's not that hard, I know you. I'm your sister."

You fold your arms, shrinking down, brow furrowing, heart sinking. Why is she doing this? She's only her to make you feel worse.

"I'm not here to argue, alright? I just want you to hear me."

"You called the police," you accuse.

"You left in the middle of the night," she hisses, "what was I supposed to do? I was scared."

"And so was I," you snap back. "I'm fine…" you look down and spread your hands over the pages, pushing the book flat, "I'm going to get a job."

She pauses and looks down at the book. She leans in and nods.

"That's great," she forces out stuntedly, "I can help if–"

"No," you shake your head.

She sits back and sighs, "what did I do?"

"I told you. I'm not a child."

"I know you aren't, bubba."

"Bubba?! You talk to me like I am."

She seals her lips and swallows your word with another nod. She puts her hands on the table, as if steadying herself.

"Right, I'm not going to talk to you like a child. I'm just going to say what I came to say and you can choose to hear me or not." She takes a breath and sets her jaw, "that man does not want to help you. You can't see it but he doesn't want what's best for you, I do.

"I know you've made your choice but it's the wrong one. I can't change your mind, police said they won't bring you back, but I can at least try to talk some sense into you. You do what you want, be the adult you claim to be, but at the end of the day, you're my sister and you always will be.

"Bubba, if this all goes wrong, when it does, I will be waiting. My door is open. Today, tomorrow, in a week, a year, whenever you need me–"

She shudders as her eyes glisten and she puts her palm to her chest, "please just think about what you're doing."

You drop your chin. Your heart clenches. Amber always sounds right. She's always been there but you just can't go back. It feels cowardly to change your mind just because you have to do things for yourself.

And you just don't believe her. You want to so bad but you see what she's doing. Andy showed you what to look for; she's playing the victim. She hurt you, you didn't hurt her. She couldn't handle you being out of control and now she's panicking.

"Bub…" she utters. You just stare at your lap. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll bring you whatever you want–"

"Hoovering," you whisper, tilting your head up slightly at Amber's confused hum, "it's when a narcissist tries to win back someone they lost. Through spontaneous contact and making empty promises…"

"Bubba, how– I wouldn’t do that."

"I thought you wouldn't… before."

She lingers for a moment. She stands slowly and fixes her purse on her shoulder. She looms over the table and lets out a shallow breath that sounds like a sob.

"You know I'll pick up the phone. I'll be there…" she drags her fingers across the table, "whenever you need me."

She hesitates before she turns to leave. You hear her gulping as she steps between the shelves and steps shuffle out from the staircase.

"Hey, what are you–" Andy's accusation fills the silence, "dove! Are you okay?"

"Shut up," Amber growls, "and don't touch me." You look up as she shoves away his hand on her arm, "I'm leaving…" her voice is sticky with repressed grief, "she won't listen. Are you happy you fucking monster?"

He squares his shoulders and looks at her, glares down his nose, "I'm helping her. Something you never did."

"Fuck yourself. If you hurt her, I will–"

"That won't work. You're not going to stand here and scare her," he snarls, "so go."

They lock in a staredown before Amber elbows past him, marching to the stairs and stopping to look back down at the aisle. You sink down and cover your face. You feel a pit swallowing up. This shouldn't be so hard. None of it. Writing this damn resume or living your own life. It's so hard.

🕊️

You sit in the cafe, watching the street through the window from your seat in the corner. You feel as if you're outside your own body, like you're floating over the pedestrians, watching from some secret tower. You close your eyes and see the blank document etched into your retinas.

The clink of a dish brings your head up. You sit back, limp and barely able to support your own weight. You just feel empty.

Andy sets down a sandwich before you, beside the steaming tea you hadn't touched. He gives a sheepish smile as your eyes bore past him. He sits and places a napkin beside you plate.

Neither the sight or scent of food can stir your appetite. You can't even remember the last time you ate. Last night you pushed around the casserole noodles until he stopped paying attention.

"Looks good," he says as he reaches for his foamy coffee. "I grabbed a little surprise for dessert tonight," he says as he sets his cup down and pats his jacket pocket.

You nod and clear your throat. The simple act hurts.

"Thank you," you force out.

"Well," he hovers his hand over his plate, "dig in. It looks delicious and I'm sure you're starving."

"Uh, sure," you drone and consider the thick sandwich; a croissant stacked with turkey and swiss, a leaf of lettuce and slice of tomato peeking out.

You grab your cup instead and take a swig. You hum, "I didn't even try my tea," you distract him, "how's your coffee?"

"Good, mocha usually isn't my thing but not bad. Gotta try new things, right, dove?"

"Mhmm," you peel away the edge of the lettuce and make yourself nibble it. It tastes awful. Everything is terrible.

"Been a good day, so far, not too busy," he carries on, "how's the resume coming?"

You shrug, "not done…"

He clucks and nods, letting out a long breath. He leans forward and picks up his ham and cheddar on rye. He takes a bite as you tear away some of the croissant and pretend to chew on the end.

"So… guess we should talk," he swallows, "about your sister."

"I don't want to," you whine, "please–"

"I need to know what she said, honey. To protect you. Like last night, hm? When she sent the cops after you like some criminal."

"She was only worried," you rebuff.

"About herself. About making herself feel better by standing on your back," he puts and elbow on the table, lowering his brow in a serious way, "I tell you every day you can do anything, and what did she ever do but tell you not to even try."

You frown. Your heart is in pieces. You don't want to be here. You don't want to be anywhere.

"I'll keep working on my resume," you say, "I'll be done it soon."

He huffs and sniffs at his sandwich before taking another bite. He is silent as he swallows, his gaze weighing on you.

"We can get a box if you wanna take that back with you. No eating in the stacks but just don't let anyone see."

"Thank you, Andy," you say, "I'll be hungry later for sure."

"Mhmm," he taps his foot under the table, letting the silence hang.

You cross your arms and sit back, looking past him to the street again. You wish you had somewhere to be with a briefcase, or were running to catch a bus, you wish you had any purpose but to be a burden.

🕊️

You put the casserole in as Andy mutters to himself and flips through the channels. He says there's some ball game on. You're happy he at least had something to fill the void of your conversations.

You wait in the kitchen. You watch the timer countdown and when it dings you take out the pan. You set it on the counter and scoop out a healthy helping into a plate. You take a fork and knife and rest it on the rim, going to stand in the archway that looks into the front room.

"Do you wanna eat here or at the table?"

Andy looks over, his arm stretched over the back cushion of the grey couch.

"I'll come eat with you," he volunteers as he sits forward.

"No, it's okay. I'm going to lay down… I have a headache."

"A headache? I have advil," his forehead creases with concern.

"Already took something. I think it's going to rain…"

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I… was looking forward to eating together."

"It's okay. Tomorrow," you promise, "please, enjoy and watch your game."

His mouth slants as you approach and put the plate on the coffee table. You feel uneven and wobbly. You just want to sleep until you can't wake up.

"I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow," you step back and hide a yawn behind your hand.

"I hope so," he says, "I'll check on you before I turn in. Just to make sure you're okay."

"You don't have to…"

"I want to," he insists, "you know where to find me if you need anything.'

You slowly back away. You turn and drag your feet to the door. You don't need anything but to be alone.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #don't speak #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #defending jacob #au #library au

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vitaminseetarot · 2 months

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PAC: Messages From Your Spirit Guides 🌬🌨🛎

Sup y'all, I'm back for another reading on what your spirit guides have to say! We are approaching a powerful micromoon on Friday night into Saturday morning, and I hope these piles will help you with whatever you're manifesting or clearing out of your life.

Sidenote: I have been in the background trying to get my Paypal account working so I can have the chance to finally offer paid readings. I know some of you have been asking me about when I'll be doing private readings! Long story short, Paypal thought I was a bot and locked me out of my account. (They won't even tell you it's locked, it'll just act like your password isn't working, lol) After struggling for a while, I had to actually call for support. 😅

It's all fixed (for) now! I'm now going over some ideas for what readings I will offer. They will likely be basic 1 and 3 card type spreads for starters. I'll fill you in when more details are hashed out. I'm still also planning another game in March, so stay tuned.

So let's dive into your readings! You can either pick your pile option through the palette cards or the corresponding pictures below for your quick message.

Pile 1 - Lavender Sky Pile 2 - Air Blue Pile 3 - Snowfall Pile 4 - Rainwater

Pile 1

Lavender Sky, Sweetness, Lava; V Hierophant, Queen of Wands, 3 of Cups, 10 of Cups

Pile 1, the guide (or guides) contacting you is the type to play it by the book. They know how to fill your cup because they've gone through it too. This is likely a passed ancestor in your family, though it doesn't have to be. Just someone who's really gone through it thick and thin while living on Earth, experiencing the highs and lows of existence. They're guiding you because they've been in your shoes. Their message is simple. They want offer you a cup of cheer. Although that's traditionally a Christmas saying, I picture of cup of healing tonic being passed to you. It's rich and warm, like a cappuccino or spiced chai. They invite you to sit down and relax with a similar soothing beverage.

I heard lyrics from the Evanescence song "Imaginary" while pulling out the palette card. "In my field of paper flowers and candy clouds of lullaby, I lie inside myself for hours and watch my purple sky fly over me." I'm sensing some detachment. They say you've been spending a lot of time closed off into your own inner world and not communicating as much as you'd like to, but not out of loneliness. In fact, this time alone may have revitalized you, or you may consider it a comfort zone to be in. You could have been laying dormant, working on yourself, wondering when it's finally time to stretch.

But the Queen of Wands, as confident as she is (and you are), truly enjoys being around others. It's where her light shines. If she wants to perform, she wants to do it with a crowd. If she speaks, she wants it to be with another. She knows her light, but it's not enough; the light must expand outward and be shared. Imagine that, instead of shining only in your mind, your creative abilities and unique personality can stand out in the real world to be seen and heard. For your unique truth to be recognized and lauded.

Your guides would gently like you to get out of your head a little. You have a bright mind and a caring disposition. There is no reason to hold yourself back from healthy communities. Your affirmation card says, "My truth flows through me gracefully." Holding your emotions and true self back is useless, anyway. The lava will come spilling out one way or another. Use that strong confident energy you have when alone, and channel it to reach out and connect with other people. Things likely will turn out better than you could have imagined. This could be your year for forming great new friendships that may even stand the test of time, if you're up for it.

I'm getting a lot of people in this pile may identify as shy or socially awkward. Your guides see your struggle and know this isn't an overnight event, it can a long haul process to come out of one's shell. And if reaching out to people in real life is still too difficult, please know that your guides are with you. They are available to talk whenever you need them. I suggest working with candles (safely!) or water scrying as possible methods for communication.

Pile 2

Air Blue, Ghost, Bee; 0 Fool, 9 of Cups, 5 of Wands, 7 of Swords

You received two affirmation cards in this reading because the yellow rose fell out almost immediately: it says "I am at peace in my life. I am at peace in the world. I'm getting some strong anxiety with this pile. It feels like the anxiety experienced on a regular basis. It's a strong contrast to your guide's energy, which is carefree and lackadaisical. I hear they can be a bit of a prankster with you? I'm seeing someone getting frustrated with computer equipment or some other machinery like a cash register. Really riding on that Mercury retrograde energy when it's there, they're opportunists. This could be your guide's primary way of talking with you, by causing strange and chaotic things to happen that put a brief halt in your day-to-day life.

It may seem somewhat cruel that a guide would 'tease' like this, but they keep pointing at the yellow rose, which symbolizes friendship. They have reached out and offered support in the normal, usual ways, but there's a sense of denying and not returning in the interaction? Have you ever met them? If you want to connect with your guides, the first step is to acknowledge that they're there and that they're reaching out to you. Otherwise they'll start to act like cats who sit on books and knock glasses over just to get your attention, if they want it badly enough. They can get even urgent about speaking at times, I heard the song "Urgent" by Foreigner.

They want you to see that things aren't as bad as they seem to be in the present, though. They disrupt your day precisely to get across that somewhere, you're getting yourself stuck in a rut. They're there to help you break bad cycles of thought that aren't helping you. It's an odd way of doing it, but if you can reach out to them and learn from them, they won't always be like this. It's only because they want you to embrace life like every day is a new beginning. Allowing yourself to get worked up in fear sets up the day for exactly that. They see your capacity for joyful and successful working and living and want to bring that out in you.

You may have times where you have very high hopes for something to happen in your favor, only to burst into panic when one little thing falls out of place or goes wrong, even if it gets resolved. Your guides aren't trying to work you into a tizzy; they want to teach you how to handle the day's hiccups with more ease instead of relying on control all the time. They want you to speak positive affirmations to yourself on a regular basis with the idea that peace and ease are available to you. Your other card says, "I can speak powerfully with ease." Your words are strong, especially what you say to yourself in earnest. Speak your wishes out and your guide will listen. Bottle it up too much, and your guide will find a way to pour it out for you. Focus on the BEST outcomes!

And if your anxiety still feels like it's getting debilitating, your guide will support you in getting you any outside help that you need. Ultimately, they want to see you thrive, both inside and outside chaos, even if their methods are unconventional.

Pile 3

Falling Snow, Fear, Swan; 9 of Cups, 3 of Swords, Page of Coins, 5 of Wands, VII Chariot

Pile 3, your guide is a colorful and gentle being, I'm picturing someone childlike here with the Page of Coins. This guide flourishes in nature and the innocently playing with their creations. Perhaps you're an artist or someone devoted to a craft that brings out your inner child, your unique joy? This being wants to guide you in these endeavors. Your guide embodies a playful spirituality, far from religious status and regulations. They enjoy seeing ideas come to life.

It seems like you've been calling out for help in dealing with relationships in your life, or lack thereof. If it isn't to do with love or people, the Swan card could suggest a creative passion that you already have in mind. You see this person or passion as the "One" you've been praying for, the "One" to forever come or stay in your life. Your guide wants you to begin by seeing that you are the "One" you've been looking for. See that there are two swans in the card. One of them is you, seeking the kind of beauty that's already blossoming atop your head.

I'm drawn in by the purple flowers. If you work with chakras, your crown chakra is calling for your attention. Your affirmation card says, "I am connected to the wisdom of the universe." You may have recently been hurt from a relationship, or you've been worried that dating seems far away from you. The kind of school to help you hone your talent may feel at a distance. I'm getting 5 of pentacle vibes with the Falling Snow card, like the opportunity is "snowed in". But it's an illusion; you're moving faster and more suddenly through life than you may believe, though there are times when relationships don't work out, or we get turned down from an opportunity that looked to be beneficial to us.

It's okay to be honest about how sucky rejections feels. Your guide, as playful and rambunctious as they are, wants to hold your hand with a compassionate smile. They can see the flowers blooming beneath the snow, but understand that you have a right to process how you feel. Their main encouragement to you is to give yourself the time, just as spring has time to thaw from winter. In due time, you'll be feeling better again once you've given yourself the chance to mend your heart. I shuffled an extra card for 5 of Wands, which gave me Chariot. You will be able to move on, through the fearsome fire and smoke, to the other side. Allow yourself to heal, then allow yourself to proceed, knowing you won't be burned like that again.

If pile 2 resonates with you in any way, I recommend checking it out. There are messages there about dealing with fear and speaking out kinder thoughts to yourself. See yourself and your creations as the beautiful swan, even if circumstances leave you feeling like the ugly duckling. Your guide only sees the beauty and laughter in you.

Pile 4

Rainwater, Sadness, Ladybug; 3 of Cups, 4 of Cups, X Wheel of Fortune, 10 of Wands

It seems clear to me that your guide is heavily connected to water in some way, be it the rain or the ocean (it all runs together any way). They appear to me as very old and wise, like an ancient sea spirit. Far from hermitage, they are connected to all life underwater, as well as the water that flows through us. They're pointing out to me the way everything in life follows a cycle. The powers of the water and the moon demonstrate this on a regular basis, showing how the essential patterns of water can be found in other parts of life as well, even if abstractly. See, for example, how cats can squeeze themselves into jars like liquid, or how crowds of people can flow like streams. When we talk about rain, we can think of either abundance or loss. Rain can represent the release of powerful emotions, or it can bring life to withering crops. To understand water magic is to see how versatile the power is.

Your guide wants to let you know that your life follows an ebb and flow like the tides of the sea. There may come times when it floods over and all feels hopeless. There may also come days when the cool rain shower comes as a welcome on dry and dreary days. Your guide says there is nothing inherently wrong with you, if you are feeling a bad streak of luck. They (though I'm feeling a strong feminine energy here) want to help you with your perspective on life. You are not 'deserving' of bad things to happen, they say, as it's an unhelpful belief to deal with troubling situations. Life happens around us, and many times we get caught in hurricanes caused by others, or by our own actions. These ebbs and flows stop for absolutely no one.

We, as people, should be more drawn to compassion towards each other because of this. I'm getting worldly energy when I channel the guide's connection to you, like your guide is a deity like figure or you are highly attuned to the earth in some way. You may feel drawn towards this need for giving and receiving compassion. Though what I sense your guide is pointing at refers to boundaries. It's dear to them that you feel connected to the world's energy, or to the pain that mother nature and her people feel, but please practice boundaries so you can give yourself a chance to breathe and live your own life instead of letting psychic woes eat at you.

Your guide wants to assure you that luckier times are ahead. The Wheel of Fortune combined with the Ladybug shows that you have the chance to count the blessings in your life to attract more of the same. To attract good luck and abundance for you is to do the same for others. Imagine if emotions were contagious, and you had the chance to spread good luck around by changing your perspective? Your affirmation card says, "I am able to let go of all sadness and negative emotions that don't serve me." There are times when things get turbulent, but don't let it stop you from getting ahead.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2024, @VitaminseeTarot ™

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hiraya-rawr · 2 years

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When you're on your period

synopsis !! them on your blood week

note 01 !! writing this half drunk? ish will edits later

note 02 !! I tried editing it a bit but turns out, half drunk me can actually write pretty well!

characters !! diluc, kaeya, childe, zhongli, thoma

cw !! stereotypical period talk, afab reader

Diluc

Despite growing up in an all male household, I'm pretty sure Adeline and the other maids force fed him all he needed to know about how to treat a lady right on her period.

Not to be stereotypical, but he knows better than to be a spoiled brat around his childhood nannies when they were on their red weeks. That would've earned him an ear pinch and Crepus would've sided with the maids as well.

At least their efforts paid in full. Now they have the perfect gentleman and ideal bachelor for a master, except that he's a little antisocial...

Luckily, he somehow got you! Now he's in the early stages of your relationship and you're experiencing a particularly terrible period day.

We all know he's a walking heater. Just grab his big hand and place it over your abdomen! Voila! A heating pad.

It would be cute if you do it randomly too, like out in the day or in the tavern when your cramps hit and you just need a hot compress. He'll get a little flustered and confused until he realizes 'oh. i should activate my pyro.'

"Can I... take my hand back now? I have a bartending shift..."

"No."

Overall, man is happy to be a pyro allogene if it proves to be useful for you. Pyro can be so destructive, but for you to seek its comfort is so <3

On the occasion that he is clueless, though, he'd rush to Adeline for some advice, only to be crowded around by maids bombarding him with information on how to treat you.

Just imagine Diluc sitting in the kitchen surrounded by young maids and he's trying to mentally list everything but archons, they're lowkey intimidating him like a kid cornered by bullies — what are pad sizes and how is he supposed to know whether you need cold food or hot food?

Couldn't decide on a chocolate you like so he buys off two of every flavor.

Same goes with every other craving you have. If you so look at something, he buys it to appease you.

Kaeya

Like Diluc, he grew up being taught by the maids but as an adult, he has a more hands-on experience with people on their red days.

Most of his acquaintances in the knights order are women after all; Jean, Lisa, Amber, Eula... He's learned to help them through their bad days, even filling in their roles when the cramps get too much!

Despite that, I think his most reliable rule when dealing with periods would be to let you rest. Maybe because it's what he tells the knights under him whenever they ask to be excused.

"Oh? Dysmenorrhea? Head to the infirmary for some rest, you're excused for the day."

He'll buy you take out after a long day though! It'll be your favorite too.

He also likes slipping in bed to cuddle, hands gentle massaging any sore muscles with a gentle cool temperature.

If you're experiencing mood swings, he's the type to go along with you.

Oh? You're crying because... the cake he brought you is too cute? Alright... Kaeya understands. He nods along and agrees with you.

Childe

To my knowledge, he's the middle child with two sisters so he definitely knows what he's doing. Although he isn't home as often, his mama taught him well!

Like Kaeya, he probably also has his fair share of agents excusing themselves over their period or cramps.

Unlike Kaeya though, he doesn't rely on "go and rest" as the ultimatum. Childe treats you more like a child on your period, coddling uou and making sure you can handle yourself.

You have to reassure him that you're not exactly a sick kid 🤨 like... you can feed yourself. it's fine.

Probably tries to entertain you, "You can play with this toy while waiting for dinner. Or would you like to read a book instead?"

"Childe... I'm on my period, not regressing."

Childe would be the type to cook a great meal from scratch, most of it being sick people food like chicken soup (again, treating you like a little sibling).

Just allow yourself to be coddled like a child, being a big brother figure is his expertise I guess.

Zhongli

Honestly one of the best in dealing with you on your period. From your mood swings to your cramps, he's got it all covered.

Uses his excellent memory to predict your next period better than you can. Sometimes, you get surprised he's showing up with chocolates or a hot meal not knowing it's almost your period already.

Knows all the best tea and can personally make dysmenorrhea medicine from scratch. He has this little herb garden for you too!

He's amazing but modern period practices are kind of lost on him. Please, Liyue has come so far when it comes to personal care, back then, people used clean rags.

There are pad sizes and weights now? Cottony soft? Wings? Dry pads? Disposables? He's a little worried and tries to choose the safest option to his best knowledge.

Probably asks the store clerk or a nearby lady just to be sure he's got the right one for you.

Period shopping isn't his forte, but once he's got the grasp of it, expect him to show up every start of your period with everything you need! (paid by someone else, of course)

He has the tendency to treat you like a sick child as well. Maybe because of how fragile and weak mortals seem to him.

Thoma

He's an amazing housekeeper and caretaker, but he probably doesn't have a lot of personal experience dealing with periods.

I can imagine him learning to deal with Ayaka's red days first. There are usually maids for that, but sometimes the responsibility falls on him as a dear friend!

Back then, Thoma wasn't as aware but when people started welcoming him more as a foreigner, I can definitely see the other houseworkers talking kitchen gossip with him about their periods. He's just so polite and understanding about the topic, their gossip turns to advice giving when he genuinely asks for tips!

Like Diluc, he's your portable hot compress. Just grab his hand on a particularly bad day to feel warmth!

Also like Diluc, he gets crowded by the housewives and young maids telling him everything he needs to know if he ever asks for help.

Rather than caring for you though, I think he just continues to act like a house maid.

Especially if he's in your house; he'll cook and clean for you even though you're reminding him that it's just a bad cramp day.

Thoma cooks for you. I think this one's obvious.

navigation

as someone who gets rly bad cramps, I may or may not make a more comprehensive fic about them caring for particularly bad dysmenorrhea

#genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin impact #diluc #kaeya #childe #zhongli #thoma #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #childe x reader #zhongli x reader #thoma x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #diluc ragvindr #genshin imagines #genshin scenarios #genshin hcs

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courtforshort15 · 1 year

Text

Chapter 2

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem reader

Word Count: 5,600

Summary: It's a Wednesday when the sky quite literally opens up above you. The Battle of New York rages around you, and the only thing that gets you through is the stranger standing next to you. Matthew Murdock is more than he seems, keeping you safe in a city that is literally crumbling around you, and even once the dust settles, his hand is the only thing you don't want to let go of.

Trigger warning: violence, some ableism

Chapter Index

Move to New York, they said.

It'll be fine, they said.

Well, ten months into your change of scenery and things in New York are most definitely not fine.

You’d never really considered The Big Apple as a place you might end up in. Crime, overcrowding, and living expenses absolutely through the roof were all perfectly good reasons for someone to stay away. You'd visited once, just to say you'd been there, and honestly, you really hadn't expected to come back, much less to come back and stay.

But that visit had been almost ten years ago while you were still in college, and only to visit a friend who had wound up in a school upstate. You hadn't explored the city much, just two days at the end of the trip, before heading back home, wet and cold and thoroughly underwhelmed. You’d all but thrown your laundry in the washing machine and immediately started prepping for finals, throwing yourself into books and late night study sessions, your trip to the east coast easily forgotten.

You hadn't expected your company to open a new division in New York, and you certainly hadn't expected to apply for the relocation, not fully aware of the changes you'd put in motion until you were submitting your application on a whim. It hadn't seemed real until the moving van was pulling up outside of your home back in Arizona, innocently waiting for you to shove your whole life into a few boxes and load them up.

You'd been practically desperate for a change, broken heart bleeding and ground into the concrete by a heavy boot, struggling to pull itself back together with nothing but pieces of scotch tape and paperclips. And while New York hadn’t been your top choice of places where you’d want to start over, it had been a relatively easy shift in the grand scheme of things. Your job pretty much stayed the same, your apartment was still something small and outdated, and your cat continued to prefer your bathroom sink for her naps instead of the numerous cat beds you’ve bought over the years.

And as for your social life? Well, nothing had changed there either, seeing as you’d not had much of one back in your hometown in the first place.

But New York, you have slowly come to find, is bold and beautiful and vibrant in a way you never thought your life might be, and in little less than a year, you've made it home. Broadway shows entertain visitors and city dwellers alike, offering breaks from lives that are repetitive and stale. Museums and historic buildings detail a history of almost forgotten stories. Hundreds of unique and authentic restaurants on every block, each one a little piece of home from countries and cultures all over the world.

It just…fits you.

But at this very moment, standing in the middle of a goddamn alien invasion, you've never regretted your move more.

Matt is still extremely agitated as he stands ten feet away from you, head shifting from side to side, his brow furrowed and mouth parted as if there's a question threatening to spill from his lips but he hasn’t yet quite figured out what it’s supposed to be. In your terror, you haven't thought much about how disoriented he must be, sight gone and nothing but his ears to guide himself clumsily into the rapidly changing landscape of New York. You imagine he's just as scared as you, though he's certainly hiding it better, and you can't decide whether or not if he's the lucky one for not being able to see the horror raging around, the destruction and death that's bound to be left behind in a city that is beloved by the millions of people who call it home.

New York City has seen more than its fair share of terror and tears, and you can't help but wonder how it manages to get back to its feet every time another nightmare comes to life on its streets.

Hands twitching at your sides, you glance around the bookstore, eyeing the way it remains relatively untouched, unmarred by the chaos outside, a pristine reminder of the mundane Wednesday that had existed only twenty minutes ago. It's a tiny shop, not much larger than a small town diner, books lovingly placed along the walls and shelves that cut through the middle of the store.

The large glass windows show a very different world outside, one that has been reduced to nothing less than a hellscape. Debris has found itself a home over the streets and sidewalks, cars irrevocably damaged by things that have fallen on to them, dust and ash floating slowly down, gravity helpless to do nothing but pull them to the ground. It's the middle of the work day, prime time for people walking to and from lunch, but not a single soul has walked by since you entered the bookstore.

You can only hope that it's because people are finding shelter and not because they're losing their lives around the block or down the street.

It's a terrifying thought to have, really.

The sounds that are coming from outside are one you’d rather not think about. The crashes, the sounds of things exploding, the random blare of a police siren, each and every decibel that makes up the noise echoing on repeat in your head. You try not to think about city blocks that will be forever changed by this catastrophe, and you try even harder to not think about whether or not you’ll be alive to actually see the changes yourself.

Your hands are gross and trembling as you wipe the sweaty palms on your pants, willing them to slow down and at least offer the appearance of being composed. You guess it doesn’t really matter if you appear calm, not with a visually impaired man in the room, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting to look more put together than you are. Maybe, if you could convince your hands to stop fidgeting so fiercely, you’d be able to convince yourself that bits and pieces of this are fine, that you are fine.

But you aren’t. And you’re not sure when you will be again.

Matt’s fingers are dancing over his phone now, growing more and more frustrated as his calls don't go through to whoever he’s trying to get in contact with. Like with September 11th, you assume the cell towers are struggling to keep up with the amount of calls going in and out and around New York, completely overwhelmed with the millions of people trying to get in touch with friends and family. You’d tried to call your dad a few times, but the phone network seemed unable to connect your phone to his, so you’d given up after the fifth attempt.

Your dad doesn’t live in New York. He lives states away, actually, safe and nestled into a home town no one would think twice about, so while you’re nervous and want nothing more than to speak with him, you don’t feel the frantic energy to make sure he’s okay. Matt, however, seems to be in a different situation, absolutely fixated on getting ahold of someone, but eventually even he gives up, shoving his phone into his pocket with an aggravated damn it under his breath.

Outside, a large shadow passes over the street, too dark and too fast for it to be a cloud passing over the sun. You shudder at the thought of what it could be, something about the temporary darkness implying that something massive is flying over the city, eager to destroy and maim as much as it can, and you find yourself squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you can. When your eyes flutter open reluctantly, the sun is back out, but the light offers no comfort.

You shuffle your feet, wincing as the movement agitates the blisters on the back of your heels that have long since reopened when you’d been running in blind terror. There's no doubt that your shoes are wet and slowly being stained with blood as the scabs fall off and fail to keep the sensitive layer of damaged skin safe from harm. Bloody heels are a small price to pay for making it to shelter relatively unharmed.

Your eyes drift back to Matt, watching as he buries his head briefly in his hands, raising his face only a moment later, and your mouth decides to cut the silence before your brain can catch up. "What do you do for work?"

His head whips towards yours, lips parted in bewilderment as his hands fall back down to his hips. "What?"

You lean into the question instead of backtracking. "What, uh…what do you do for work?"

Matt’s face continues to look confused as he straightens his shoulders, frame jumping the tiniest bit with every harsh sound that comes from outside. He doesn’t seem to understand the question, or perhaps the motive behind it, if the frown is anything to go by. "Why?"

"Sorry," you say with a grimace, shrugging your shoulders helplessly, eyes drifting so that they slide past his face before you look down at your feet. "I'm trying to not have another panic attack by focusing on stupid shit. You don't need to answer."

He’s quiet for a moment, and you glance back up just in time to see the confusion slowly slide off of his face, mouth dropping slightly in a silent oh. He swallows. "I'm an intern. Or at least I just…interviewed to be an intern."

"An intern," you repeat slowly, briefly grateful that he’s answered the random inquiry. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your head, and you lift a shaky hand to wipe it off. "To do what? Where did you interview at?"

"Uh…Landman and Zack. It’s a law firm."

Your eyebrows raise ever so slightly. “You’re a lawyer?”

For the first time since the moment you saw him, his lips twitch slightly into what you can only assume would be a blinding smile if it were in full bloom, but the look doesn’t last. “Not quite. Graduation is in a few weeks.”

“Ah,” you say with a simple nod of your head. “Well congrats then. I’ve heard law school can be a bitch.”

“It is,” Matt says with a quiet huff of laughter, the sound light and welcome against the havoc still raging outside. You find yourself wondering what sorts of things would make him really laugh, images of his mouth parted open in glee as he tilts his head back and snickers at a joke. “And you? What do you do?”

“I’m in…I’m in advertising. It’s–it’s super boring. But I guess everything is boring compared to…this.”

His mouth twitches again, though you’re sure it’s in some sort of nervous energy rather than actual humor. “Not your dream job?”

Cringing, you shake your head, forgetting that he can’t see the movement and only verbally responding when you notice the way he seems to be waiting on an answer. “Uh, no. Definitely not. It is what it is, though.”

"I'm sure you're not alone in disliking your job."

You shrug non-committedly, and Matt doesn’t keep the conversation going, instead choosing to resume quietly pacing again, footsteps surprisingly light as they move across the carpet. You get the feeling that he’s not someone who likes to stay still, not someone who has it in him to easily contain his agitation, so you let him pace, keeping your mouth shut again for the time being.

Hands bracing themselves against the wall, you slide down, giving your body a break and allowing it to rest, even as your mind races frantically. The sounds outside aren’t getting any quieter, any easier to digest, and even if your mind can’t stop its overdrive, at least your limbs and bones and muscles can have a slight reprieve. You bury your head in your hands, reluctant to look out the windows to the devastation that exists beyond the glass.

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, nor can you help the way it mixes with a tiny, dry sob.

“No,” you say shakily, sound muffled from behind your hands. “Nothing much I can do about it though.”

The man sighs loudly, and you look up in shock when he suddenly slides down the wall next to you just two feet to your left. Matt runs a hand through his hair, unintentionally shaking some of the dust out of the dark strands. “We’re gonna make it. Things will be okay.”

You can’t help but snort this time, even as your eyes well up ever so slightly. The tears don’t drop, to which you are grateful. Crying with glasses on is a bitch, the steam of tears often fogging up the lenses, and you’ve done your fair share of it within the past twenty minutes. “You sound so...sure. I don’t know how you can say that. Things are so fucked right now.”

As if on cue, a loud bang echoes through the street, and your eye catches a quick ball of fire that shoots across the sky. Flinching, you hide your face back in your shaking hands, the frames of your glasses digging into your palms. A hand lands softly on your thigh, the touch coming out of nowhere, and where before you would have viciously shoved someone’s hand off of you should they touch you like that, you can’t find it within yourself to push him off. Instead, in a motion that even shocks you, your hand slowly leaves your face and slides down to your leg, fingers weaving in with his without a word.

It only takes a split second before he’s fully grasping your hand in his, seeming to take as much comfort from you as he’s willing and able to provide in return.

“You’re right,” he says softly, thumb briefly brushing over the back of your hand. The touch grounds you, reminds you you’re not alone, and it’s suddenly hard to imagine anyone else’s hand in yours but his. He drops your hand after a split moment, pulling his back into his own lap. “I’m not sure. But I’m praying that things will be okay, and I have to trust that they will be.”

Your lips twist into a slight, wry grin, though it’s gone as soon as it appears. “Praying, huh?”

“Catholic,” he says in explanation with a brief shrug of his shoulders. “Praying just sort of…comes with the territory.”

“Ah, gotcha,” you respond as you turn your head back to look forward. The smell of smoke, grainy and gritty, seeps in from underneath the door, no doubt from whatever the hell is happening outside, and you wrinkle your nose before responding. “Well I hope it helps. Or…I hope it at least makes you feel better. About all of this.”

“Do you…pray?” He asks quietly. Out of the corner of your eye you see his face aimed your way, curious and resigned at the same time, the pair not seeming to be mutually exclusive.

Your own face feels blank, your mind hitting against some sort of glass wall, a sense of grief you can see swirling on the other side while you remain carefully and purposely poised, unwilling to open yourself up to it. “I used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“My mother died. Didn’t seem important after that.” It’s an old wound, one that continues to fester to this day, some days clawing at you until you can't breathe, other days a faint but present murmur in the back of your head. The tears and the prayers and the pleading hadn’t made one ounce of difference back then, so why would it now?

Matt doesn’t respond for a few moments, the bookstore silent with the exception of the chaos just beyond the windows, and you’re not exactly shocked. People don’t like talking about death. People don’t like talking about putting pets down, terminal illnesses, and dying parents. It makes them uncomfortable, makes them nervous about what to say to someone who is grieving the death of a loved one, dreading the possibility of upsetting or minimizing someone’s pain.

You didn’t mean to bring it up, not here, not now, and definitely not to a stranger who probably wants nothing more than to focus on surviving and not someone else's heartache. You wait for some sort of apology, some sort of vague sympathetic comment he can give to the person who had grabbed his hand and ran. It would be a comment that doesn’t really mean anything and was only said to fill the empty space, but instead–

“I know that loss, too,” Matt says softly, so quietly that you almost don’t hear him, whispered words sliding over you like balm you hadn’t known you’d needed. “It should have turned me away from God, but I think...I think it brought me closer. Eventually, at least. But I can understand why people experience the opposite.”

Stunned, your mouth opens to speak as you once again twist your head to look at him, needing to see the look on his face that promises to be empathetic instead of sympathetic, feeling the urgency to connect with someone in this sort of shared, twisted intimacy. Death of a loved one is a level that no one wants to connect on, this ledge that you are teetering on so clumsily, but you crave it, especially knowing he just might be the last person you speak to in this life.

His face has regained some of its color, though the red of his lips and the blood of the scratch on his forehead still stand out vividly, and even in your distress, you find yourself mourning the fact that you hadn’t met the man sooner.

It isn’t every day that a man promises not to leave your side, even with a war raging outside the walls of an unassuming building in Hell’s Kitchen.

But before you can articulate what you want to say, before your lips can form the words, Matt goes tense, his entire body snapping straight like a wire pulled from both sides, ready to snap at any moment. His head cocks to the side, and without warning, he’s scrambling and rushing to his feet, face puzzled and grim. His mouth drops a fraction of an inch, pulling in a deeper breath than necessarily warranted for the moment, and you watch in fascination as he moves even closer to a window he can’t see out of.

“What’s happ–”

Matt’s turning sharply on his heel before you can even finish your question, arms outstretched as he reaches for you and grabs your upper arms, hauling you to your feet and immediately forcing you to walk backwards. Shocked, your hands wrap around his upper arms in return, struggling to maintain your balance as he all but shoves you behind a large bookcase. You can’t help but trip on your feet at the speed with which he’s moving you, and he takes a large portion of your weight and pulls you back into a full upright position.

“What the hell are you–” His hand practically slams itself over your mouth, cutting off any sort of sound coming from you, and your eyes widen at the way his fingers tremble for a brief second. Warning bells go off in your head because whatever he thinks he’s discovered can’t possibly be good.

He may not be able to see, so how he knows there’s something going on outside completely escapes you, but you find yourself shuffling yourself closer to him, as if attempting to burrow yourself in the only sense of safety you can find in this completely fucked up situation. You continue to stare up at him in alarm, mouth moving to ask something even with his hand over your lips, but the look he sends you makes you shut up before a single syllable can ever leave.

“Shh!” It's only a whisper, only a fraction of sound, but it's desperate and harsh, and it leaves no room for arguing.

Matt cocks his head to the side, his face one of intense focus. His eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, mouth open as he breathes harshly in your ear. You reach out to grab at his suit jacket, and he doesn't pull away, instead pressing closer. The side of his face brushes your cheek as he leans further in.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully and not ask any questions, okay? Can you do that?”

“I, uh…what?”

“I need you to do something for me and not ask any questions,” he repeats himself urgently.

“Okay? What–”

He cut you off immediately. “There is something that is about to turn the corner, maybe thirty yards away from us. I can’t…I can’t tell what it is. It’s moving, and it’s alive, but I don’t–”

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” Matt places a hand back over your mouth with a severe look on his face. It is a far cry from the man who, not moments before, had given a small piece of himself away, sharing something you're pretty sure he doesn't speak about often. In this moment, he is focused, almost coldly so, and something about it is both alarming and intriguing.

“No questions right now,” he hisses in your ear. He pulls his hand away from your mouth, but keeps a finger on your lips. “If we survive this, I will tell you how I know. But for now, I need you to trust me.”

Your eyes are still wide in alarm. “Matt–”

“Can you trust me?”

Despite having only known him for such a short period of time, there's no hesitance in your answer. “Yes.”

The man takes a deep breath and nods before removing his hand from you entirely. “Right. There is something coming up the street. Five of them, I think. They have some sort of weaponry in their hands, but I can’t tell what it is. It’s–it's definitely not a gun. They’re speaking in a language that doesn’t sound remotely like anything from here. I think…I think they might be those things you saw coming from the sky, and what Iron Man was going up against.”

Shaking, you raise one hand to cover your eyes as you struggle to take a deep breath. “O-okay. What are we…what are we supposed to do?”

“I need you to go into the bathroom and not come out until I come and get you. It’s in the far right corner.” You take an automatic step back from him in shock at how quickly and self-assuredly he’s answered. His face is set in stone, and you know there's no room for reluctance, not here, not now.

“Just me? What about you?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. I need you to –.”

“No, I’m not going in there without you. Not when you can’t see what’s going on around you.”

The snort he lets out is confusing to you, but you have barely a second to process it before Matt reaches out for you and begins pushing you towards the back of the store. "There are other ways to see."

"What does that even mean?"

"Don't worry about–"

But Matt doesn't even finish his thought before he goes stiff, hands clenching your arms impossibly tighter. You're about to question it, but you're cut off by a monstrous roar that echoes through the bookstore. Matt is immediately yanking you further behind the bookshelf and down to the ground, knees rubbing harshly against the carpet with the force in which he pushes you. You barely have time to think about the fact that he doesn’t hesitate to cover a large chunk of your body with his as the glass windows explode and shatter, littering the store with shards that cut and slice your exposed skin.

Something had been thrown into the store, some sort of weapon fired, sailing past the place your head had been just a split second before.

A scream tears from your throat, but it's almost entirely consumed by another growl that erupts from somewhere up the block. The sound sends chills down your spine, purely because you've never heard anything like it. Your head, still covered by Matt's arms, is twisted just enough that you're able to see outside, and your eyes widen as something steps in front of the building, fully within sight. The glass windows had been open and large enough that you would have been able to see through them anyway, but this…

You wish you hadn't opened your eyes.

The glass had at least offered some sort of protection, though clear and transparent the windows had been, acting as some sort of thin and fragile barrier between you and the world outside. But now you are completely exposed, completely open and on full display, and the thing that stalks in front of the large gaping wound that had once been a window is actually one of several.

Your eyes can’t help but count the five of them that are now completely in your field of view, and the dread coiling in your stomach sharpens exponentially when three more drop from out of the sky to join them on the destroyed pavement.

They're large and grotesque, slimy, molted skin wrapping around forms that are bipedal but nothing close to anything that's ever been found on the planet. These are the things that had entered the Earth's fragile and delicate atmosphere like they were a warm knife cutting through softened butter. A strange sort of body armor stretches across their forms, and your flesh has never felt more pathetic and inadequate before, the sensitive skin cells binding around a body that can be easily shredded and swept aside.

Your life has become a horror movie, and your mind jumps to the question of whether or not you’ll be among the first to die, or if you’ll be the forever traumatized survivor who's lucky enough to make it out alive.

As if Matt can sense the racing of your heart, he presses himself more closely into you, and a hand slowly moves to cover your eyes. You might have fought him before, morbidly curious and horrified to see what stands just thirty feet from your frozen frame, but you can't think of a single moment in your life where you've ever felt more grateful for the dark.

"Don't look," he whispers in your ear, sound low and mouth not half an inch from the side of your face. "Just focus on me and don't move."

It's not hard to follow his instructions, every atom of yours as immovable as the ice of a glacier, despite the warm temperature of spring. There's splintered wood from a bookshelf digging itself into your hip, piercing the skin and causing blood to trickle out, but even the pain isn't enough to make you drag yourself away. You’re helpless to do anything but lay there, body molded underneath his and unwilling to move.

The loud crunching of stone, glass and concrete resonates somewhere to your right, your body laying parallel with where the glass had been less than a minute before, and it occurs to you that the beings are still walking along the street, weapons poised and feet heavy. They're talking to each other, it seems, the sounds garbled and harsh, randomly drowned out by the other atrocities happening in the city. Each step seems to be coming closer and closer, and the sound of glass digging into the sidewalk startles you. The being is no doubt stalking around to find something or someone to further terrorize.

It takes everything in you to not open your mouth in another scream, and the only thing that holds you back is the near-silent "Shh!" that Matt all but hisses in your ear. Your first tightens into a fist at your side, the only indication of your fear outside the racing of your heart.

It's only two seconds, though it feels like it lasts eons, before something pulls the being's attention away, loud footsteps and screeches rapidly moving back into the street and away from the store. Your body loosens just a little, but Matt’s body does the exact opposite, tensing into an even firmer line above yours, and it's only a split moment before you find out why.

A roar, one with a power behind it that you've never heard before, echoes through the block, followed by a loud thump that sounds to be not ten feet from the entrance to the building. You can't help but jump at the noise, the same roar you've heard several times throughout the past twenty minutes. It had been thunderous before, each wave of sound seemingly aimed straight at your eardrums, but at this distance, it’s deafening.

Shots are fired, and the weaponry they've aimed and let loose sounds like some sort of mixture between a gun and goddamn laser going off. There's a strange energy that fills the block, and you can feel it whirling through the air, though you know it's not aimed at you, but rather the thing that's invaded and halted their search.

You don't know what it is, other than it's different from the other things that have been stalking through both the air and the ground, but it's no less fear-inducing, each rageful howl one that could leave someone with nightmares for weeks. Its feet are heavier than that of the other creatures, its breath coming in heavier pants, and you can't even begin to imagine what might make those sorts of noises.

However, even though you're not quite sure what it is, you don't think it's the same for Matt. For some reason, the way his body has become more and more rigid makes you think that maybe he knows what has suddenly made an appearance, and it doesn't seem to be anything pleasant.

“I’m going to count to three,” he suddenly says in your ear, voice rushed and lips somehow brushing over the ridge of your cheekbone because of how close his head is to yours. “I’m going to count to three and then we’re going to run into the bathroom back in the corner.”

“I–”

“Do you understand?”

Voice too shaken to really answer, you nod slowly, flinching as another growl shatters throughout the building, followed by something crashing on the other side of the street. Your eyes follow the sound, flitting around the street that would be in your field of vision if Matt’s hand wasn’t still blocking your ability to see.

“One.”

Your hands shift slightly, moving to brace themselves against the floor as best as you can, preparing yourself to push off of the ground at his word. Glass digs in, but you ignore the sting.

“Two.”

Air leaves and enters your body slowly, lungs savoring each breath as if it might be their last. Your face hardens, determination flooding through you even as your head tells you it may be a lost cause.

“Three.”

His calloused hand leaves your face as he heaves himself off of you, arms taking most of his weight for just a split second before his legs find purchase and help him push himself to his feet, splinters of wood and glass further breaking under the force. You’re slower, much slower, bloody hands scrambling against the carpet, knees further tearing and shredding at the movement. His hands thrust themselves under your arms, hauling you to your feet as if you weigh nothing, and there’s not a single second wasted between you being upright and him dragging you behind him as you make your way to the bathroom.

Behind you, it’s an absolute mess as the thing roars again, the screams of the other creatures piercing through the air as they’re thrown violently into buildings like one might throw an ax at a target. The weird shots you'd heard earlier continue to go off, but with an increase in frequency as the savagery grows. The building next to you shakes, rattling the walls of the bookstore, and you’re not quite in a state of mind to process the thought of the building collapsing on you. Glass explodes across the street, bricks and concrete crash to the ground, but your mind does your best to focus on nothing but Matt’s hand in yours.

You don’t question the way he moves, you’re far past that, too grateful to the person who has seemingly taken your life in his hands as he dips and weaves around the mixture of toppled bookshelves and those still standing. He reaches the door to the men’s restroom and shoves it open, but for a split second the world seems to pause, and you turn your head back to the carnage that exists behind you.

Your eyes have no trouble finding the cause of the noise that’s been wreaking havoc on your ears. It stands in the middle of the street, mouth parted and preparing to let loose another shockwave of noise, one that will no doubt be loud enough to seemingly shake the foundation of buildings that exist in a large radius around it.

It's large, and the body is as bold and dangerous and paralyzing as its roar. Teeth are bared, knuckles clenched in front, thighs thick and bare feet digging into the damaged street. But despite the force that lies in its body, power and brute strength radiating through every muscle and bone and artery, the thing that strikes you the most is that…

It's green.

And it's not an it, it's a he.

Shredded jeans that are far too short and small encase his lower half, dark hair sweaty and plastered to the top of his head, odd cuts scattered across its body that ooze a deeper green. Your breath hitches on something resembling a sob, and its head whips towards yours, upper half twisting towards yours with a growl. Green eyes land on you and narrow, and your heart absolutely jumps in your throat.

But before you can open your mouth in a scream, he nods his head in some sort of acknowledgment, and jumps out of sight, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust and several dead aliens scattered around him.

You’re yanked into a dark bathroom a moment later, and you stumble unceremoniously into Matt, bone white hand still tightly held in his and a strong arm wrapping itself around your shaking shoulders.

#daredevil #matt murdock #human disaster matt murdock #marvel #avengers #the hulk #matt murdock x fem reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfiction #daredevil x fem reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil fanfic

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niuttuc · 2 months

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magic subject: upcoming planes/sets

Hope you’re having a good week! :3

I'll try to stay brief because there are a lot of those.

Thunder Junction: I was expecting to like this set more than I have been. The tropey character twists of MKM and the fact they just dropped a dozen existing named characters without really getting any deeper on any of them makes me roll my eyes more than anything, I'd have liked an actual new set of characters for once.

Modern Horizons III: Excited for some fun designs, dreading some pushed designs, baffled by commander precons, like the idea of new sparkers.

Assassin's Creed: I have mostly no care for that franchise or the associated designs so far. It'll exist. I'm a bit amused that they committed to the small booster formula so far and with another company before the first one even went to print and faceplanted.

Bloomburrow: Cute and new! Well, except for the fursona bonus sheet, but hopefully that's just a fun addition and it's not another set of "new setting, but all old characters" again, because we haven't had something new in a good while. At least it's a bit less tropey a space than Western or Detectives.

Duskmourn: Now that we've seen Thunder Junction and MKM, I expect the modern horror set to also be pretty shallow, and it's not a genre I have much investment in. Hopefully they don't feel the need to make it all about known characters being trapped in the mansion!

Innistrad Remastered: Would have been much better instead of Double Feature, and also probably will get forgotten like the last few remastered sets that were overpriced and/or underprinted. Be honest, whoever is reading this: did you remember they announced that?

Interplanar Death Race set: Chaining together genres that I don't care much or any about, though given its nature I expect this one will be old characters at least, as it should be.

Return to Tarkir: Finally we get development on that situation of returning Khans! We do, right?

Final Fantasy: I'm not the biggest Final Fantasy fan, I've played a couple of them, but it's the same kind of set as LotR was, and that was a success regardless, and there's a lot of material to pull from in Final Fantasy. Cautiously optimistic.

Space Set: Neat! I hope they pull it off and make it feel expansive and alive without invalidating the rest of the game!

Return to Lorwyn: A bit too far into the future to know what to expect, but the one narrow and unhelpful look at Lorwyn in March of the Machine did not make me hopeful for the return, especially with how the previous block ended!

Return to Arcavios: That's a lot of returns! Hopefully this is about Arcavios as a whole and not as focused on Strixhaven. Honestly had forgotten this was a set!

First Marvel booster set: See Final Fantasy. Thankfully, probably will be focused on the comics moreso than the MCU. But wouldn't surprise me if the different sets are different comic book runs. We don't know enough details to give a real opinion.

Finale to the multi-year story arc: I imagine the arc will end with battling returning Fomori or a big villain taking control of their tech in some way. It's starting pretty slowly for now, so can't really guess much about this one.

#mtg #magic thoughts #future sets #a lot of them

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kaeyx · 1 month

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somno poe <333

adding onto the fucking Poe in his sleep part y'know what would be weirdly funny. Him noticing how sore you are in the morning/the next day or two. and KNOWING you fucked someone, but he didn't visit you last night. so he gets jealous but also anxious because. what if he WON'T get a chance with you at all & he's losing you. He knows he cant do anything too drastic because he wants you to love him, trapping you in a book can wait until he knows for absolute certain who your partner is , if it wasn't just a one night thing

whoever you slept with must have done a damn good job, you seem pretty happy.

even better if you fuck him in his sleep multiple nights

he either makes more frequent visits to you at night or just kinda. tries?? to be more friendly w/ you, getting you gifts & staying close to you and making sure he has your attention when he can, without it being too suspicious.

But, we know Poe's smart. Ranpo beats him, yes, but he's Ranpo. We really need to see Poe go against other detective people. but anyway thats beside the point

point is, eventually he'd connect the dots between; 1) he can't find anyone else's items in your house other than people he knows don't fuck you, 2) he sleeps deeper the nights before he notices that you're visibly sore & he's more tired/groggy in the morning, 3) he swears you've been looking at him a bit differently. he can't tell if you're plotting something [when you should fuck him next] or if you're almost admiring(?) him, and 4) no one else has been acting differently around you. there's no giveaway for who the hell you could be fucking.

it'll probably take a while to actually consider it for long because he doesn't see why you'd actually want him, but eventually he realizes he was the one you fuck. instant flustered mess & instant horny.

I wonder if he'd start plotting down the days you do it so he can find a pattern, & the next night that you do it he just pretends to sleep; he's figured out what exactly you keep slipping the sleeping pills into, as well, so it's easy to avoid sleep by not taking the drugged drinks.. he wants to catch you in the act, just to be absolutely certain~

...this ended up a lot longer than i meant it to and i have no clue how

YEAH IT WOULD BE SO GOOD!! Poe feels terrible at first, like he's going to be sick, he even contemplates trapping you in one of his books. Whoever fucked you must have done such a good job, you look so happy... and you walk a little funny and wince when you sit down, he can't bare to look at you. He can't stop thinking about how you might have looked, sounded, how your perfect cunt would have stretched so wide and been filled so deep.... until you were dripping cum and your cervix was all bruised, and it wasn't even him who did it. He mopes around all hay, half hard because he keeps imagining you getting fucked but also miserable because because it wasn't him that fucked you. And every time it happens he does the same thing, wakes up groggy after sleeping a bit too much and finds you skipping around, smiling at him, walking funny as if you've just had your guts rearranged.

But no matter how much he investigates he can't figure out who the hell is fucking you! And yeah Ranpo is the better detective but not by that much, Poe should have figured this out by now! He's so sad and frustrated and still he's obsessed with getting his hands on you, jerking off every night while dreaming of you, sighing when he blows a fat load all over his hands and stomach, getting the sheets messy, wishing he was dumping all that cum deep inside you instead.

I don't know if he'd figure it out or not but eventually Ranpo would have to tell him, probably kick some sense into him too because Poe will be in denial. Ranpo already knows what you've been doing even if you haven't confided in him, and he can guess when you're planning to strike next. He tells Poe to not eat or drink anything after lunch, not even out of a sealed packet and especially not anything you make, and then pretend to sleep and wait. He knows his friend is in for a happy surprise.

#poe.bsd #poe my soggy meow meow

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mythographers · 2 years

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The Jaime Lannister-ification of Aemond Targaryen except he's not going to become a tiny bit better as a person or tl;dr I Prefer The Show Character

We're going to see Aemond become a monster and despite what purists say, watching devolution happen in real time is more interesting. There's no way to avoid his crimes. It just won't be as cartoonish as it was in the books.

I did my reread recently and I was right that he's mostly caricaturized in the books. Greens are mostly caricatures in the books tbh. Yes, a purposeful killing could've been a strong moment but they wanted to make a real character they could destroy and make a monster in real time.

Also, they've already written Aemond differently starting from when he was a kid. They're following the character they made and what he would do instead of just taking his book motivations at Storm's End (EDIT: turns out his book motivations are unclear because F&B says the tragedy that befell Luke wasn't planned ) and placing it on the show version.

I get the regrets for the unhinged monster we lost but I think in the long run this is main character material. This is a character that we watch become a monster.

No one will believe him that it was an accident. There were witnesses at Storm's End. It will likely hurt his relationship with his mother. After B&C, it'll hurt his relationships with both his sister and his brother.

He will always be known as a kinslayer and it won't matter that he didn't intend because the truth is what people believe and people will believe he killed Luke on purpose.

This guy turning into an unhinged nihilist and burning the Riverlands and going on a very 'I'll be your monster' arc is very plausible.

I explained it on twitter: Book Aemond was already at 100 when he met him at 10 years old. We see no vulnerability in him. He's impulsive, and a pure instigator of violence. Book Aemond is an absolute idiot for killing Luke. That's why after he does it, Otto and Alicent yell at him. He's a caricature!

That's not much like the show's kid Aemond nor the resentful but dutiful mama's boy we met in the show so far. I could never ever imagine Book Aemond opening a philosophy book.

And, this characterization is superior to the caricature he is in the books. I stand by it as someone who disliked Book Aemond. He existed as a cartoon foil to Daemon and had little nuance. He was always just framed like a cartoonish villain from the time he pushed a 3 year old into dragon droppings.

He did have the potential to be a real person who becomes a monster and that's what the show is doing.

DISCLAIMER: THE SHOW IS NOT THE FAKE HISTORY BOOK IS NOT THE SHOW

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd

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lululawrence · 11 months

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After reading your post explaining why 3 concerts in Ohio, I'm curious about your opinion on this. So Louis could have done fewer shows and bigger venues per show (like for example only 1 concert in Ohio but in a big venue) requiring more fans to travel to each concert, and it'll be less effort for him, although I think he enjoys the travelling to new places to see fans. I've been seeing people shade Louis saying he can't sell out MSG like Niall. And I'm here confident Louis can if he put it on his tour schedule and my simple reasoning is that if had fewer concerts around the NY area, it will encourage fans to make a trip to NY for a larger venue show like MSG, but I imagine you know the geography side and ticket buying habits more than me. What are your thoughts?

Oof okay so this is all just my own opinion so people can obviously disagree, but here’s the thing from my point of view. There’s so much more at play than just venue size and geography/demographics to fill it. The larger the venue, the more staff that will be required to put on the show from Louis’ end but also the venue’s end to accommodate the increase in numbers. That often translates to an increase in ticket prices to account for the higher numbers for Louis’ team and their own expenses as well as the cost the venue will pass on to him just to book it etc. something he’s been open about especially in this last round of promo was how he’s making a concerted effort to keep things affordable for the fans, at least as much as he possibly can manage to, and we have a lot of sources telling us that touring costs for the artists only continue to skyrocket (much like everything else right now). So if he chose to do fewer shows but tried to make up for that with larger venues, maybe even booking them for a couple nights to allow people better chances at seeing him there… well you’d basically end up with the residencies Harry did this past year in the US, wouldn’t you? And that was accessible for exactly……….. well. Not very many. Not to totally diss the residencies. As an artist, residencies are big deals and are much easier for them in a lot of ways! I understand the appeal for sure. But if accessibility is your biggest goal, that’s not going to be the way to achieve it.

So could he do that? Yeah absolutely and I’m some cases it would probably be for the best honestly. But he didn’t, at least not here, and I’m personally grateful for that.

So, now we have that lead in, if Louis were to adjust just a few shows and instead do a night at MSG, do I think he could sell it out? Uh, yes. Easily. Like, who the fuck is gonna stop us, right? Lol See, MSG is a special case and a scenario that is different from saying “why not condense the three Ohio shows in smaller amphitheaters to one larger centralized show in nationwide arena?” No one knows what nationwide arena is unless you’re super into Columbus hockey or have attended a previous show there lol it’s not a destination in and of itself or a dream venue anyone has on their list of places to play or attend a concert. For that you need a place like Red Rocks…….or MSG.

So imo announcing a show at MSG alone is going to bring more attention and make people a lot more willing to travel a much further distance than they usually would because… it’s Madison Square Garden. Even my phone knows to capitalize that lol but add to that the fact this is Louis and Louies are not exactly known for being chill or relaxed fans? I have exactly zero doubt that Louis could sell it out. We’d see a higher ticket price most likely due to the larger venue, but I doubt anyone would complain because they’d get the chance to witness Louis on stage in one of the most well known venues out there. That alone seems pretty damn worth it and I think most Louies would agree.

But for now I’m incredibly proud of the guy we all support going out there and doing his best to really get in an easy travel distance for most of the US population in ways almost no other artist has done in recent years all while trying to keep ticket prices at a reasonable level. We truly chose well when we named him our king haha

#asks #anonymous #please note everything in this is just my opinion and thoughts #based on my own observations and experiences #hahaha thanks

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bettsfic · 1 year

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craft essay a day #5

my response to this one maybe derailed a little.

"On Imagination" by Mary Ruefle

beginner | intermediate | advanced | masterclass

filed under: process, poetry

summary

first i must describe to you the physical object that is this essay:

it is a chapbook (published by Sarabande Books, an indie poetry press i really admire), which means it is more or less a staple-bound pamphlet. there is a goat on the cover. inside, on each even-numbered page, is a picture: an ocean wave, a lettuce leaf, the night sky, a bed, 3 fish, a bird in a tree, a pie, 4 dyed eggs, a human ribcage, grass, trees, a slug, and the goat that is on the cover, whose presence permeates the essay.

on the back of the chapbook, instead of blurbs, there is a quote in very small font:

"My imagination was roaming at sunset and placed his bare foot on a blade of withered grass, which ran into it like a thorny needle, and injured him."

this quote appears not to be attributed, which makes me think i should know what it's from, and i don't.

Ruefle has a collection of essays called Madness, Rack, & Honey (published by Wave Books, another great poetry press) which is one of my favorite craft books and i highly recommend it. it'll be a while before i summarize the chapters, though, since i only recently finished reading it.

i've been lucky enough to attend several of her lectures, and although i got a lot out of them, when i go back and look at my notes, they are utterly indecipherable:

partly this is because, as you can see, my handwriting is not legible. but it's also partly because this particular lecture was kinda bonkers. i've been waiting for her to publish it in written form but i don't think she has yet. "Hell's Bells" is my second favorite of her lectures (Ruefle's lectures and essays are one and the same), my favorite being "On Fear" which i'm sure i'll write about in a future post.

still laughing at "does the artist...become time?" with the star beside it (which in my notes always indicates an Action Item, so in 2018 i clearly intended to Do Something about becoming time). also "put a hole in meaning - give space, aerate?" then in pink, "(how?)" i also apparently intended to Do Something about "Beginning of universe was striking of tremendous bell."

another lecture of hers i attended was a recreation of John Cage's "Lecture on Nothing," and i am ashamed to say that it took me so, so long to realize it was literally a lecture on nothing. i wrote like 3 pages of notes and about a half hour in, i flipped through the pages and realized literally nothing of substance was being said. and i was furious. like, why am i wasting my time here? and i realized i was supposed to be having a reaction to it, and thinking about the nature of the concept of a lecture at a creative writing workshop, and what am i even doing here, etc.

in retrospect, that spoke well to the "Hell's Bells" lecture, which, for me, was all about how listening is sometimes just about hearing, and not trying to make meaning of all that we hear. as someone with an audio processing problem who has to attend a lot of readings and can't understand a word of them, it made me feel a lot better. like i could attend a reading just to appreciate the voice of the writer (which Ruefle likened to a bell), and not what's being said.

at the end of the lecture on nothing, Ruefle took questions, and responded to each of them with the answers provided in the original lecture. it was quite a time.

back to "On Imagination."

in any Ruefle essay/lecture, there is not much to summarize because they function more or less as poems: each is a series of thoughts or anecdotes on a general topic, and never firmly declare their point. however, on the first page, she does make a pretty big declaration:

"I am going to tell you now, before I begin, what my conclusion is to my thoughts on the imagination: I believe there is no difference between thinking and imagining, and that they are one."

to me, that's the kind of statement that's so simple it seems almost meaningless, but i know if i consider it long enough, i'll reach a deeper conclusion about it. since i finished reading this essay 37 minutes ago, i have no such deeper conclusion as of yet.

i appreciate that on page one, she also points out that thought is only ever an interpretation of reality, and words exist only to conjure meaning in the imagination. when a person says the word "tree" to another person, the recipient of that word can mentally conclude or conjure the object that is a tree. we can always refer to a tree, but in speaking it or thinking it, it does not become real.

she declares that imagination is not necessarily good; imagining things can hurt us as equally as help us, and we don't really have control of it.

"...the imagination has its own life and its own autonomy, the imagination is not what you play with, the imagination plays with you."

she introduces an anecdote in which a poet, after a reading, is asked, "is that a real poem, or did you make it up?" and concludes her point with a fact that punched me right in the face:

"Real things are made things."

she goes on to talk about an elementary school reading primer from 1880, Ukranian dyed eggs, Johnny Cash, a misinterpretation of the bible by Keats, and a goat in Emily Dickenson's attic. each of these, somehow, connect and make sense, yet i cannot attempt to do so in a (not so) brief summary.

"Imagination, deep in each of us, can give us what we need and want, that which we dream of, the reality of love and communion, help in our tired loneliness."

yeah :(

she notes that many believe some people have more imagination than others, and that's why there are artists and not-artists, but she claims we all have the same amount of imagination; it's just that some of us don't discriminate between "imaginative and unimaginative acts" and that paying close attention to the mundane "paradoxically opens a new door to the imaginative."

i am having trouble figuring out how the end of the essay is about imagination. she talks about how, in her old age, she feels isolated in her interests, and that because she has a limited future, she's only motivated to dwell in the present.

"All I can tell you is that at long last I am myself and free, even if isolated, and I am happy when I want to be and sad when I feel like it, and about the only thing that troubles me is knowing how many people on earth do not have that privilege...and to these I bow and for these I pray."

my thoughts

this got kind of personal, so i'm putting it under a cut.

i rated this essay advanced, not because i think it's hard to understand, but that it goes beyond the work of beginner and intermediate essays, which focus primarily on mechanics and concepts and how to get the work down on paper. this essay makes no real claim about writing, and i imagine wouldn't help anyone looking for advice on how to write.

a few days ago i wrote about Smiley's introduction in 13 Ways to Look at the Novel. that, coupled with the Ruefle essay, have fucked me up a little. in Smiley's intro, she talks about how she always had one foot in the fictional worlds of her novels at the cost of her presence in reality. in Ruefle's essay, she talks about the uncontrollability of imagination. i've never considered myself a creative person; i think in expected patterns and can't really devise anything truly novel. that's why i consider myself more a teacher than a writer--i'm better at fostering creativity in others than developing it in myself. i am, however, an imaginative person. i never stop imagining. i'm so imaginative that existing in reality is sometimes unbearable. even things that make me happy--seeing my family, hanging out with friends, reading a book--come second to dwelling (drowning?) in my imagination. i have to pry myself away to go do those things. when i'm really into something i'm working on, i can write over 10k in a day. i can write from the second i wake up at 9am to the moment, usually at 3am or so, my brain can no longer make clear sentences, stopping only throughout to eat a spoonful of peanut butter and maybe reply to a text.

these are the kinds of days i live for. they make me truly happy. and yet there's such an enormous cost to them: i'm beginning to have hand problems, and i have so little control of writing that i can't force myself to stop and let it heal (i did upgrade to an ergonomic keyboard and mouse but they're not helping as much as i'd hoped); i'm no nutritionist, but i'm pretty sure 3 tablespoons of peanut butter a day and walking fewer than 100 steps is not particularly healthy; and big picture, i want to get married and have kids, and that's not going to happen if i'm spending all my time in my imagination with fictional characters getting married and having kids. and if i somehow against all odds do get married and have kids, will i be able to be fully present with them, or will i always in the state i am now, counting down the seconds when i can escape reality and return to the peace of my own head?

i think this is a conflict i'll always have, because ultimately i'm writing work i'm proud of to an audience that (i hope) appreciates it. writing and being read is the greatest privilege i can imagine. but i'm also always thinking about my dad, who died at 59 after enduring years of agonizing pain and a lifetime of trauma and depression, and how he never got to do a fraction of the things he wanted. i imagine myself at the same age less than 30 years from now with the same fate, if i am even so lucky to make it to that far. i'm in this between space of the hopefulness of being young, of the gross entitlement of believing things will keep getting better for me; and the hopelessness of ptsd, the kernel of doubt that remains even after so long in recovery, that joy and success are never owed to me. rationally i know both of these to be true, that there will be some good and some bad, and whatever happens will never turn out as i expect. and yet that doesn't abate the conflict or quell the fear that the conflict creates.

it is probably a bad idea to write about my deepest fears and insecurities on a blog with thousands of followers. it's easy to be misinterpreted and taken out of context. honesty is totally antithetical to branding or gaining a following. and yet i think i'd rather be known than not. i think i'd always prefer to take a risk in the hope of being understood.

i'm sorry i have no conclusions or advice or anything helpful to say here. but imagination is a big thing. it's the biggest thing. in allowing us the power to interpret and create, it might be the only thing.

craft essay a day tag | cross-posted on AO3 | ask me something

#cead #process #poetry

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bottlecaprabbitgames · 1 year

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Weekly Update for 7 January, 2023

HELLO AND GREETINGS, FELLOW 2023-ERS! Let's get on this weekly update, shall we?

Mind Games: Trepidation's 5th Chapter is currently sitting at a little over 9,000 words! I'm super excited, I know for SURE now that it'll get over my goal of 15,000 words by the end!

Currently, we have Scene 1 and 2's rough drafts done, along with Scene 3 started! (There are 4 scenes altogether.) I've been working on branching out Scene 1 mostly the last two weeks, and it's actually nearly done! Er... minus the part I forgot that naturally developed while I was writing, haha!...

Ah, okay, I'll give y'all a little information, heh. Some of you guys got a movie night with Sylvia in the first chapter (if you chose to hang out with her instead of researching the forums), and in Chapter 5 there is another movie night OR for the forum surfers the first movie night in game! It's a nice little scene between two friends! Actually, a lot of Chapter 5 really does revolve around relationships! From Sylvia to Quinn and his wife to the team and the solo agents; it's been fun writing the placeholder scenes and imagining the variable scenes for them later! I hope it doesn't end up being overwhelming, what with so many interactions in one chapter, but I definitely think you guys will enjoy seeing them!

Other than that, I'm actually sitting down today to think about some of the future books' stuff. Some stuff is cement-solid (especially Book 2: Obsession, as that was the OG of OGs and I think very little will change from my original plans except in key areas), but others... I don't know. I have better ideas that don't feed into themes I honestly no longer want in the series, and I want to have some of these ideas solidly down on paper so, if needed, some things can start being set up in the early books for later. Some of them... AAAAAAA GOD I can't wait to write them.

Just... have to finish book 1 first, lol!

Other than that, I will say the other three winter holiday scenarios will be coming out this month! The one that will be free will be Iris/Irien's, and the two on Patreon will be for Blake and Fawn (where you can also find Adontis's and Loche's)!

Okay, that's all I got! Have a good weekend <3

#mind games #mind games: trepidation #mg:t #mgt #weekly update #update

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sargentpotato-probably · 2 years

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The OMORI Sunset AU chapter list

Spoilers for OMORI turn back and play the game before reading this

I update with a new chapter very frequently (so far one a day...)

Q: what is the OMORI Sunset AU

A: imagine a alternate reality where on that fateful day Basil was busy doing school work. What if Sunny had used this wits and dialed 911, what if Mari survived? This is the Sunset AU.

Q: what time does it take place?

A: same time as the RW in OMORI, 4 years after the incident. Hero and Mari are returning from their first year in college for the summer. Sunny, Aubrey, Basil, and Kel are 16 and its the begining of summer break.

Q: is this a sunburn story? (Sunny x Aubrey)

A: Yes, Aubrey never had the chance to become a delinquent and stayed friends with everyone. Sunny gained better social skills and is less pale and skinny. Their personalities are different then cannon OMORI.

Q: is there any shred of headspace?

A: no, headspace cant exist, neither does Omori or any other DW characters.

Chapter list:

Count-8

Quick note: I have to link several chapter lists together in order to link chapters to a chapter list.

Also, due to school posts will as of now be up to twice a week (no promises.)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter list continued

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irrigos · 1 year

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For the writers ask 4, 16, and 25

3 also, because we both have adhd and I'm curious how the writing habits compare (mine is chaos if you're wondering)

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

My two favorite words right now are "prelapsarian" and "diegetic". They're just both so useful!

Theres a quote from an old HBomerguy video where he says (in a high squeaky voice) "In reality, idolizing a non-existent prelapsarian point in history is like wanting to return to the garden of Eden, or the womb. It's a pathology for only the saddest!" and i quote that all the time

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

I already answered this (boring, I don't really use anything weird because I always have scraps of paper lying about) but I will also add that I used to never use bookmarks, because I could remember the way the page looked. Like, I'd remember the shape of the paragraphs so I could flip through the book and find the page. I don't spend enough time reading these days for that to work anymore, and I just use the receipt from the library

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

This is way beyond the scope of Book of Red Murder, but post-Nemesis, Morgan is gonna get into building the Great Hellbound Railway (their wife made them pick a project that was closer to home because she got too sad every time they went to zee, and their husband agreed). They're also gonna get pregnant, so you can imagine them doing all the railroad stuff either very pregnant with their huge son, or carrying around their huge son in like. a baby bjorn. (or their husband has him). Their sons name is Teddy and he will someday grow up to be a staunch pacifist, which is funny, because his parents are all murderers.

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

I can't say I have much of a ritual, because I have to mix it up to keep the ADHD guessing. Sometimes I write by hand while I'm supposed to be doing other shit, sometimes I throw on some lo-fi beats and type, most frequently I'd say I use this website called The Most Dangerous Writing App, where you can set a timer and if you stop typing for too long before the timer runs out, it'll delete everything you wrote.

TBH I was always more of a Write or Die kinda guy, which did basically the same thing but deleted things word by word instead of all at once, so you had more time to save yourself after the consequences kicked in (you could also make it so, instead of deleting your stuff, it played an annoying noise or smth), but I didn't like version 3 of Write or Die that much, and it's been totally abandoned by its developer as far as I can tell, so it's not gonna get better. Mr Writeordie... if youre out there.... tbh version 1 was the best and I bought the full version but that was in like 2012 and I don't have access to it anymore. but I miss it. It was good.

#im sure version 3 of write or die would be better if i bought the full version but im not gonna buy the full version #of a fully abandoned program #but my problem was that it took too long to start deleting your writing #so the consequences werent enough to make my brain work #every time i tell people thats what i use they act like im fully insane but it WORKS you gotta threaten me if you want to writing to happen

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thepravinshah · 1 year

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Steps to Be More Entrepreneurial And Creative

You may not automatically think of creativity when you think about entrepreneurship. Since entrepreneurship is all about building and growing a company, creativity is often viewed as more artistic. They actually go hand in hand. Entrepreneurship requires creativity in order to solve problems and come up with innovative ideas.

1. Get organized. It may seem counterintuitive but organizing your thoughts can spark creativity. Failing to organize your thoughts and ideas will lead to overwhelm and frustration. Instead, organize your thoughts with a journal or mind mapping tool. This will allow for a clear mind and give you a better base from which to build new ideas.

2. Take breaks. You may feel stuck if you stare at the same problem for too many days. If you can take a step back from the problem, even for just a few seconds, it will help to refresh your mind. You can go for a walk or take a break from your desk. It'll surprise you how much better and creative you will feel when you return.

3. Your mind needs stimulation. Sometimes, all that is needed to spark your creativity is a little mental stimulation. Listening to music, reading articles or books outside your industry, and watching TED Talks are great ways to get your creativity flowing again.

4. Collaborate with other people. Your creativity can be boosted by working with others. Working with someone else to brainstorm ideas can lead you to new possibilities. Even if your collaborator isn't directly involved with your business, they can offer valuable insights that can help you spark new ideas.

Conclusion:

It's essential to use your creativity to make your entrepreneurial ventures more successful. It's possible to open your mind to new possibilities and find innovative solutions by getting organized, taking breaks and engaging in collaboration with others. You might be able to achieve greater success than you ever imagined!

entrepreneurship and creative

Pravin Shah

#entrepreneurship #creative #Pravin Shah

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dynamoe · 1 year

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on AO3 | Pro | Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 |Ch 4| Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 10 → Ch 11 ←

But first, a flashback...Rose Whalen's new job requires she uproot the family to Washington, DC. Government jobs don't pay as much but they come with spectacular benefits— she took it specifically for the health plan. Rose Whalen already doesn't trust doctors and getting a hard diagnosis doesn't help. seriously, save your eyes and read it on AO3. It'll look better, too. ✨✨ illustrations and expanded chapter to be added soon ✨✨

The black car with tinted windows showed up in front of their new house exactly at 9 AM.

Li’l Billy watched out the window, seeing their leafy suburban neighborhood go by. The car crossed the Potomac into the District of Columbia proper. His mother noticed him staring. Li’l Billy seemed so far away lately.

“Are you worried, water-baby?”

He kept looking out the window. They passed the Jefferson Memorial, heading into the heart of the city. The Capitol dome rose high on the horizon as they crossed streets named for states and more named for letters of the alphabet.

“Don’t let it eat you up. We can fix any problem if we do our best.”

Intellectually, Li’l Billy didn’t believe it but he wanted to. He slid over to her side of the car and she embraced his head in her arms and rocked him, humming. Intellectually, he knew this was not an actual solution but it did make him feel better.

The car dropped them off at the front door of a bland government building. A big brutalist rectangle with narrow windows with a sign with a jumble of initials announcing whatever it is that this particular group of pencil-pushers were administrating. They went through the lobby to a waiting elevator, but instead of choosing a floor, his mother hit a series of floor numbers in quick succession and the emergency panel opened. She showed her ID to what he assumed to be a small camera and the elevator lurched to life and started descending.

“Mama took this job for the benefits,” Rose smiled at Li’l Billy to reassure him, “Government jobs don’t pay as much but they have a really good health plan.”

“Is this a hoschpital?” Li’l Billy asked, trying to float an air casual curiosity rather than the sinking feeling of terror he was actually feeling. The elevator seemed to speed up.

“It is a cutting-edge secret medical research facility,” his mother announced cheerfully, “No other little boy in the world gets to be studied and scanned and tested like this. Just you! Because you’re so special!”

Even at seven, he could tell when he was being sold a line, but his boy genius mind was on fire imagining the technology he was about to see and the ten billion questions he was going to assault some poor junior technician with.

“Mama asked The President if his very best doctors wanted to meet you and he’s letting you visit as a favor to Mama.”

Li'l Billy was not as impressed with the namedrop as his mother had hoped. Despite his intelligence, Li'l Billy was as lukewarm on politics as most of his elementary school age group.

“Will they have Donkey Kong?”

“Video games make morons, Billy,” Mom said automatically, muscle memory taking over, but she relaxed, “I bet they have even better games… and machines. And books that only TOP CLEARANCE AGENTS like your mama can read.”

Li’l Billy straightened up. He wasn’t totally reassured, but he knew this might lead to a real adventure just like Rusty Venture went on in the cartoons. High-tech machines. G-Men. Mad Scientists. He might get to hide in a barrel!

The elevator opened on an unimpressive narrow hallway of checkerboard black-and-white tile, lit with flickering overhead fluorescents. They walked for a while, before reaching a blank door. His mother held up her ID again, not quite sure where to flash it to. There was no obvious camera or scanner, so she just held it in mid air and turned in a couple directions. The door in front of them clicked. She pushed against it and they walked onto a railed walkway over a room that seemed to go on forever.

Li’l Billy had read enough comics and seen enough child-friendly knock-offs of James Bond to recognize what he was looking at. A vast open room bigger than an airplane hanger. Researchers and technicians in clean-room suits with full ventilation masks— henchmen, really— working at huge futuristic machines and banks of computer displays. This sort of place should have been inside a volcano or on the moon, but deep under an unassuming office building was ok camouflage, he conceded. Had his mother taken him to a supervillain hospital? No, of course not. It was the US Government. They weren’t supervillains. They were… the government.

A doctor met them on the walkway and directed them to a staircase to the main testing floor. Although he wore usual doctor garb— lab coat over a suit and tie with a prominent name badge/ID tag— his entire face was concealed behind a ventilator mask with tinted shield.

“Shouldn’t we also be wearing masks,” Billy’s mom asked, “Are we going to be exposed to some… toxic materials or rays?”

“Oh, no. It’s standard issue for full time floor employees primarily for anonymity,” the doctor gestured animatedly to make up for his lack of visible facial expressions, “It’s also an emergency precaution in case of an outbreak but the chances of that happening are negligible.” He shrugged broadly and then led them down a staircase to the main floor.

🩻 🩻 🩻

Li'l Billy disrobed behind a changing room screen, down to his underpants and socks but instead of a paper robe the masked nurse handed him a pair of what looked like swim goggles. With exaggerated mime hand gestures she guided him into a free-standing cement cylinder in the middle of the room. He stepped in and the hatch slammed shut behind him with a pressurized rush of air.

"PREPARE FOR IMMERSION. SUBJECT DON EYE PROTECTION… NOW,” a mechanical voice ordered emotionlessly.

The lights in the chamber flickered, went dark and then turned red. Ominous. Li'l Billy swallowed hard and braced himself

“SUBJECT GRASP BAR ABOVE HEAD… NOW.”

He pulled the goggles over his eyes and looked up, spotting what looked like a towel rack above his head. He grabbed the bar above him like a trapeze. With a deafening whoosh, the steel grate floor of the chamber fell away, leaving him suspended. The trapeze rotated slowly. He felt like a shawarma on a spit. Servo-controlled cameras began scanning from all directions, their guiding laser lights flickering all over his skin. X-ray radiation blasted the chamber.

From the outside, his mother watched through the peephole on the lead-lined 6-inch cement wall, “He’s not in any pain, is he?”

“We need a full external and internal 3D scan to have on file so we can reconstruct him inside the computer,” the technician explained without answering her question.

Rose looked back through the peephole. Li'l Billy was rotating faster now. Rotating into a montage...

After the scan were the standard array of tests in quick succession: a treadmill run, an EEG, MRI, a balance test and a full dental check-up.

🩻 🩻 🩻

Li'l Billy was suspended in the tank of turquoise gel with a dozen sensors glued to his head and an oxygen line to his mouth and nose. He dog-paddled furiously against the generated current, only barely managing to stay in place.

His mother and the head researcher watched from outside the glass.

“What does this test tell you?”

“Nothing really. The tank was free so I figured we might as well put him in it.”

This particular faceless researcher made less of an effort to mitigate her statements with gestures, making her seem particularly sociopathic. Rose frowned impatiently.

“Well, we’ll get a measure of his heart rate under stress, I guess,” she shrugged as she looked over the stack of printouts on her clipboard.

“I have the results back from the morning tests. Intelligence, exceptional, but you knew that. Congratulations. No brain tumors, cancerous or benign. Good. No evidence of extraterrestrial DNA or latent psychic ability. Sorry about that. Oh, and two cavities. You really have to make sure he’s getting those back teeth when he’s brushing.”

His mother looked worried, “And his brain?”

“We tested the cerebrospinal fluid and other than there being a lot of it, it’s normal. There’s nothing out of the ordinary chemically or hormonally. He just makes too much of it and can’t get rid of it through normal processes,” the technician continued in the same bland, bored tone, “AKA, standard hydrocephalus. Conclusively: CSF is not the cause of his intelligence.”

The technician entered a few keystrokes on a panel in front of them and a 3D hologram of Billy’s head projected in front of them, rotating slowly. The outer layer faded as it span, revealing his bulbous, souffle-like skull. Despite the hot air balloon shape creating a great vault of space, an average sized brain floated in the middle of it, like a single olive in a bathtub-sized Martini.

“Physically, the brain is average. All that space is just fluid and pressure.”

“So, he should just get the shunt surgically implanted,” Rose concluded defeatedly.

“That’s closing the barn door after the horse bolted. At his age, the skull isn’t malleable anymore, it’s set. He’d get some benefits, I suppose— less intracranial pressure, no seizures, fewer migraines— but the systemic damage isn’t reversible.”

Rose looked stricken. She always assumed doctors were lying to her or underestimating her as ‘just a woman,’ so she never considered just listening to what they told her.

The hologram isolated the hypothalamus and a cluster of glands in the middle of the brain roughly positioned behind his eyes or bridge of his nose (on his tiny pug face, the distance between them was negligible) and projected them larger for inspection but to Rose it just looked like a cluster of squashed jelly beans.

“Endocrine system, right?” the technician quickly pointed out as if this was something everyone already knew , “Hypothalamus, pituitary…. Further down the throat is the thyroid. It’s shot. All of it. Kaput. Crushed by pressure and the weight of the skull pushing down on it.”

Rose tried to keep composure, “It can’t be repaired or replaced?”

Technician shook her masked face, “It’ll keep crapping out the bare minimum of hormones to keep him alive but he’s done growing.”

Rose swallowed. The technician shook her head.

“Puberty’s a non-starter, natch. The whole system will be completely dead in ten years if not earlier. Then you’ve really got problems.”

A sudden SLAM behind them interrupted the conversation. Bug-eyed but exhausted, Billy hammered at the glass before being pushed back again. His energy was flagging and the current slammed him into the tank wall repeatedly as he struggled to resist it.

“Oh right, the kid’s still in the tank,” the technician noticed, “We should fish him out.”

They sat in a waiting room. Billy wrapped in a towel sucking down a Capri Sun, the ordeal in the tank largely forgotten as he wholly focused on a top secret prototype of a hand-held video game machine the size of cinder block on his lap. His mother picked wads of blue suspension gel out of his still-wet hair.

The senior doctor entered and sat across from them with a folder of all the day’s results. His smoky colored visor obscuring his face made even less sense away from the shop floor and added a sinister tone to his otherwise personable voice.

“I’ve been told you’ve already been briefed on the compromised anatomy. Let’s consider treatments and solutions.”

Rose sat up. This was an attitude she appreciated. Billy sucked the dregs out of the spent Capri Sun pouch without looking up from the bleeping-blooping four-inch screen.

“I want the brain surgery. I want him to have it,” Rose said quickly, anything to alleviate the guilt from resisting the diagnosis for years.

“They explained to you that it wouldn’t correct any of the physical damage—”

“I know, but if it relieves the pressure and keeps him alive.”

“Yes. I suppose it would but there’s an alternative procedure to consider.”

“A different treatment?” Rose reiterated, surprised.

“Not a treatment, per se. It may be the best way forward for him and for us.”

Rose looked at Billy, who looked at no one. He was drooling slightly, his pupils wide and reflecting back the chunky pixels on the game screen.

“He’s not even registering what I’m saying or where he is. Don’t worry,” the doctor said calmly, gesturing to the electronic brick in Billy’s hands. Rose looked under to see a spaghetti-thin tube threaded from the underside of the game machine into his wrist, “That’s an experimental deep suggestion device the psy-op division have knocked up. It pulls total focus from the target while delivering microdoses of dopamine to the bloodstream.”

“You drugged my child?” Rose huffed.

“Micro-doses, Ms. Whalen,” he reassured her, “Less than he’d naturally get from finding a penny on a sidewalk or enjoying a ripe pear. But enough to make the game feel incredibly rewarding and demanding more and more focus. The idea in the field is to steadily increase the dopamine hit until the subject becomes ultra-suggestive to implanted messages but they’ve given him the no-frills basic model. He’s just having fun.”

“I guess after the day he’s had he’s earned it,” Rose conceded reluctantly.

“He’ll be a little down when we unhook him but nothing serious. Like losing a favorite sock,” the doctor gestured vaguely, opening the file of test results, “Your son’s a perfect candidate for exocranial oxotosis.

“What exactly does that entail,” Rose asked tentatively.

“In layman’s terms, surgically extracting the subject’s brain from the compromised skull and putting it in a jar,” the doctor said.

Rose looked confused.

“Your son’s brain is a little squishy but still very high functioning. Without the pressure from the cranial fluid that brain will work even better— no bodily processes to regulate. We could even hook it up to a simulation so he’d never even know anything had changed and he could happily function as a bionetic processing computer for another 50 years. Maybe 100!”

“I don’t want my son to be a brain in a jar! How can I hug a brain in a jar!?” Rose shouted, horrified. Li'l Billy reached up and tried to put a hand over her mouth without looking up from the game.

“No, mom. Schtop. Too loud,” he mumbled without tearing his eyes from the screen.

“Honestly, the body’s a junker. We couldn’t even salvage the organs for donation because they’re too small.”

“There must be a way to fix him as… as... as a human!” Rose struggled to put her disgust into words.

“Be practical, Ms. Whalen. Even if we artificially compensated for the hormone deficiency with a drip of recovered cadaver growth hormone— which would be cost-prohibitive even for a Special Access Black Budget program like ours— the results would be deeply unsatisfactory,” the faceless doctor tried to win her over with logic, “Best case, after 20 years of daily injections, he ends up a lumpy-headed 5’2 diabetic with violent rage issues and a 50% chance of contracting Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.”

Rose just sputtered in shock.

“Honestly Ms. Whalen, jarifcation really is the only logical, compassionate way to proceed.”

“Could my brain get put into a robot body?” piped up Billy excitedly, “Or a robot dinoschaur body?! With lascher eyes!”

“Hmmm. Not enough dopamine," the doctor jotted a note on his clipboard.

“I beat the game," Billy said proudly, showing his mother the victory screen.

Rose’s jaw dropped as she looked from Billy to the doctor, “We’re leaving.”

She yanked the catheter from Billy’s wrist (“Awwww.”) and threw the video game at the wall with enough forced that it burst apart as they stormed out.

to be continued...

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