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miceenscene · 3 years

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What was your writing process with the first SoPDoE story? For example, did you have a general concept for the story outlined ahead of writing it, or did you write first and see where it took you? Or maybe your process was totally different--I'd love to know any of your experience and process that you're willing to share!

Did you learn anything while writing it that may help other writers in terms of writing a longfic, improving craft, etc?

I'm going to go ahead and put this beneath a cut because I can already tell it's going to be long. :P also SoPDoE spoiler warning?

SoPDoE began as a spite fic. I read (well, started reading) a different shakarian arranged marriage au and found myself frustrated that the plot wasn't being handled the way I wanted it to be--which is really the best way to begin a story because it means you have an Opinion. The first chapter just sprang forth fully formed [their parallel "Absolutely Not" answers and Garrus' "With all due respect, what the fuck?" and Shepard just verbally bitch-slapping in their first interaction]. And then major pathways became clear very quickly. I knew that the Council was going to break them up quite early on in the writing. I knew that Galena dying would be a major catalyst to push them together. But some things came later, like the whole Garrus starting a Pier Earth Imports for Shepard plot-line came. And a whole slew of kissing scenes had to be removed/reworded because their relationship arc wasn't making sense for the drama I wanted in act III. (I did save those scenes, btw. they're in a doc called Kissing Graveyard XD)

There's this concept you've probably already come across of plotters vs. pant-sers. Aka writers who plot out their whole stories before beginning writing and writers who just jump into the story without anything planned more than the next sentence. If I had to pick, I'm definitely in the plotters, but realistically, I'm in both. I like knowing where the general flow of the story is going, even if I'm not sure how to get there or what getting there will actually look like. For SoPDoE, I always knew that Garrus & Shepard would finish the story Together, but the exact details of Together changed over time as the story progressed. (At one point Garrus & Shep were duo spectres, till I realized that would make no sense for a turian who just turned his back on the whole Hierarchy.) And that's really the best way to do things, at least in my opinion. You have your heading so you have momentum, but you also aren't so driven that you can't stop and smell the roses along the journey.

I think the biggest thing that SoPDoE taught me was how much work goes into writing a whole-ass novel. Knowing that makes me feel better about starting wip's that I eventually abandon, because I know that the idea wasn't worth the effort. It's a good way to grant myself permission to move on and find the next idea that actually Is worth the effort.

The other thing SoPDoE taught me was how to keep myself engaged in a story. People write for all different reasons and when I began I don't think I knew what mine was. I know now. SoPDoE was catharsis for me. Garrus was my self-insert in this fic, especially through the Galena plot line as I am also losing a parent to a long drawn-out terminal illness that will one day take a sudden turn for the end. This is what they mean when they say Write What You Know. But besides catharsis, SoPDoE and all of my writing really are performance. I love having an audience beyond just my wonderful readers. I have a close circle of friends who see my stuff before anyone else does. I trust their opinion, their critique; I strive to surprise them, to delight them, to make them bust into my DM's in a frothing rage. They've taught me so much about writing, and they are who I write for when I can't write for myself. If you can figure out what type of carrot will keep you plodding along the path of writing, you'll be leagues ahead of so many.

As far as improving craft, the best advice I can give is to write. You gotta write. Better to write a full page of utter garbage than to not write anything at all. Even the garbage will teach you something.

#anonymous #on writing #sopdoe

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cookinguptales · 5 years

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You know, I’m in California right now, which means I can legally try a lot of marijuana products.

Yeah, yeah, I know, lmao 420, etc. etc.

Look, I have several severe chronic illnesses that do not respond well to any medication I’ve ever tried. This is an exciting time for me because I can try out a lot of different forms of pot to see if anything works. And guess what? I’ve had some success with a few different forms! That’s pretty thrilling!

But then again, there’s reality, too. Even for someone like me who could qualify for medical marijuana in any participating state with my eyes closed, the marijuana I need for my physical ailments just isn’t very accessible.

First of all, getting a medical marijuana card isn’t easy, even if you’re ridiculously qualified. In my home state, which has legalized medical forms of cannabis, there’s a lot of bureaucratic paperwork you need to go through before you can even see the doctor. I had to go to the DMV to get the proper local form of ID (despite having copious proof of residency), then use that ID card to enter all my info into a database, then find a doctor who’d see me, then set up the appointment, then fill out MORE paperwork. All of those steps cost time and money. A lot of money.

Next up, even with a medical marijuana card in hand, the forms that work best on me are not legal in my state. I love night time sublingual strips and this new tea I’ve tried, but neither are approved in my state. Zero edibles are, for that matter. And if you find a specific branded product you like in one state, it often can’t be sold in the next state because it can’t cross state lines.

Worst of all, THC’s not treated like any other medication. I cannot just go to any pharmacy and have a prescription filled. I have to find a dispensary. I cannot just use my health insurance to reduce costs. I have to pay full price — and oh my god is it expensive. I bought just one tea bag of this tea I’m drinking now, and guess what? That tea bag cost eight fucking dollars.

Let me reword this for you. I have been sick for all 28 years of my life. I am in constant pain. I can’t digest food. I am perpetually nauseated and exhausted. I faint and go blind occasionally. My bones pop out of my joints whenever they goddamn want to. And nothing I’ve tried until now has helped. Now I found something literal decades later that helps… and it’s not legal in most states, including my home state, which touts itself as medical marijuana friendly. My primary care physician cannot prescribe it. My health insurance will not cover it. And one dose of it is $8. If I had just one cup of this a day, it would cost me almost three thousand dollars a year.

I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford three thousand dollars a year. A lot of disabled and/or sick people can’t. It’s hard enough to get the damn card in the first place. That’s why I took a few sips of the tea and put the rest in the fridge. I’m gonna have to ration this stuff. And hey, a few sips takes the edge off. I guess.

Frankly speaking, our laws surrounding marijuana are stupid. We know now that it’s not particularly dangerous or addictive. Personally, I think we should just legalize it and do what we can to make things right with the people who were jailed for using it. (A let’s all be real here — the enforcement of that law was never equal to start with.)

Until we have a federal law legalizing cannabis across the entire country, problems like being unable to transport it (even if you have a card) will not go away. Until a federal law legalizes it, the FDA can’t run tests on it. Until the FDA can run tests on it, it can’t be approved as a medication. And until the FDA approves it, it can’t be covered by health insurance.

But since that’s kind of a halcyon dream right now, can we at least stop pretending that the “exception” made for sick people is in any way fair? They can say “oh, well, we make exceptions for people who need it” all they want, but until they overhaul the entire infrastructure surrounding it and start treating it like a real medication, prescriptions will be difficult, the prices will stay high, and the people who need it won’t be able to get it.

This is mostly a rant post, but if you’ve read this far, well. Please call your representatives and make noise. Support the push to legalize marijuana. And maybe support your local sick person who can’t get their hands on a plant that will help ease their symptoms.

And if this post resonated with you or made you think, well. There’s always the THC tea fund.

#disability #ableism #chronic illness #marijuana #medical marijuana #goddamn this is bullshit #and seriously even if people just want it to get high #it's not like it's worse than alcohol #which is widespread and affordable

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chamberofnectar · 6 years

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Wounded, but not yet broken

SUMMARY

No more Orokin. No more Somatic Cradle. No more forced self-sacrifices.

But scars always take so long to heal, especially if they’re dug so deep.

[Tags update over time, rating will remain the same. A strained Father and Son relationship due to financial and emotional stress]

Mature | Graphic Depiction of violence

Content tags: Panic Attack | Mood disorder | Mental Instability | Self-Harm

[ Story Link ] Chapter 4 of (?) continue beneath the read more!

Warren hisses as the blade bites against his exposed thigh, barely a nip as he pushes down the band of his pants and shuffles himself back to keep his skin bared. It was still the same flawless tone the last he saw after they returned from the relay, untouched by his void scarring that pervades down his throat and over his abdomen. Visibly free of the several bouts of somatic deaths, of being torn to shreds as he lied safe in a cradle. Separate from those he was not, leading others to a death reveled only for a body count. His jaws clench, fingers gripping hard around the spira blade’s slim handle. His thumb presses it down to draw the welting beads of blood, hard enough to hurt, reminding of the ability to feel – but its slow enough to not slit deep into muscles.

Superficial, he relents for brevity. It’ll heal quickly.

And he queues the blade against his thigh again, sitting in a patient pin as he stares down upon it; biting at what’s left of his lip, questioning his understanding of the why. His logic to quiver in thought process to steal the blade from the open station, to sit down and pulling the band down his thigh.

Hair covered features draw themselves taut, nose scrunching as he shoves himself through self-defined torment, of the events of the zariman, the canteen courts, the imposed imprisonment that left him to languish.

He presses it down hard, and aggressive to daunt away the pervasive thought as he slits his skin to a swift hiss and the beading of tears across his sight. It dawns a relief to swarm through his throat, a decompression as he watches red drip ill and languish freely… though an idle finger brushes the red away from the couch cushion he sits. A sense that there should be nothing left as proof, nothing to worry the loki. It’s a dredging thought as the fingertip worth of blood is smeared against a garb of gauze sat at his side.

Just testing his proficiency with mending wounds. That’s it.

Haphazardly the material is set into a bundle, pressing against his skin as he sits patiently, focused turned from carving open to medicating shut. Where his mouth might before snarl sits gritted – exposed healing muscle and bone in place of expressive anguish. A sensation that draws his features in contortion, simmer agitation with his regret.

“First stop the bleeding…” he mumbles, lifting the white material to glance at the wounding. Patting and swiping it along the beading of blood, Warren mediates the amount he lets himself bleed, pressing the spira-made cuts to flinch – why wouldn’t he? Questioning his resolve as he pushes himself forth. Maybe just being intrigued that he bleeds, perhaps, or that the void harshness does not prevent such self-wounding.

It makes Warren wonder, as it slowly begins to draw itself shut despite his cautious kneads to draw them to bleed. What is the limit… how far could it mend?

With a shake of his head he disrupts the continued quandary of testing the limit of the ‘gift’ that made him a subject worthy of the Orokin’s focus so long ago. Something in the past, it can’t hurt him – as he thinks.

Even as he clearly remembers the amount of times his body was pulled out in agony.

The thought simmers in the back of his mind as he watches energy rift across the injuries, a faint tracing that transpires between the folds of his skin. In silence, he only watches. Tuning out the quiet and persistent beeps that come from the transparent pad at his side. Suuir keeps the annoyance active even though it left to languish as the tenno merely allows himself to heal a while longer. His focus entuned to it until it begins to properly seal, no longer irritated by the thoughtless swipes. No more blood left to drip.

With an exhale he pulls the side of his pants back up.

Only half paying attention, Warren taps at the transparent screen as he gathers the bloody materials. It overrides the cephalon’s persistence for just a moment, but the ever stubborn Suuir has the device ring again, displaying a short question he’s unable to turn into audio. ‘Are you alright?’

“I’m fine, Suuir,” Warren sighs, plucking the last of the material from the cushions as he stands. The spira dances within his fingers – motions he had adapted from the cumulative body count that was left in his wake. It draws him to stop, hand scrunching the material in a depth of thought he chases away in the same, similar instance. “I just… have a lot to think about.”

It’s enough to get the cephalon to leave him alone as he deposits the mess into the bin beside the foundry. To which end he cleans the spira as well – no trace of his self-destructive act he perceives; best for the loki to not worry about him. Now or later.

Fingers trace along the remnants of dried blood from the bagged cache left open, where a ribbon of gauze sits exposed from his earlier frantic thoughts. Once more he pulls it out, rewinding it back to be tight before he stuffs it inside and zips the cache shut. Shuttling it back to where his father keeps it, to where it belongs.

Where it belongs...

It causes him to pause for a moment, a rouge and pervasive thought. Persuasive, irate; where does he belong?

Warren settles himself back to the quiet residential room, taking the transparent device in hand and gesturing out into the open air. Cephalon Suuir sits quiet as the teenager flips through the storage banks held deep within the ship’s electronics. He slouches against the cushions, pulling a blanket around himself as his coat lies discarded out of his reach. Too exhausted to reach over for it, he justifies to himself, the blanket is closer.

Drifting within the warmth, drawing himself close, Warren flips through the archives left by T’viska. The videos, the candid photographs of pleasant scenery of reclaimed Orokin structures. Inner rot of flesh towers hanging exposed, calcified in the whipping winds of a vengeful landscape. Rebounding through the images, he finds himself drawn to the interior structures, the systems that would’ve been his only comfort for so very long.

It’s a couple more hours until he sees the cephalon chime across the screen.

Words dance across the screen, relayed words he can barely understand in the first instance before the cephalon’s visage fizzles, forgetful. As Warren is still in the process of learning the common language, Suuir tries to simply them into a series of bullet points. That is, until a brief audio overlap cuts short the cephalon’s irritation.

It’s T’viska. “Hey, Warren,” the loki sighs, “how’re you doing up there?” To Warren’s relief, he doesn’t start with the self-harm. An answer to a question he doesn’t want to ask.

“Bored,” he mumbles, letting the audio call through the device between his hands. “How long will you be there?”

A mechanically traced sigh, the warframe shuffling beneath foliage. “At least five more days.”

Silence. Idle hands knead the fabric of the blanket.

“Not feeling like letting Suuir tutor you?” the warframe slightly chuckles, a tone to break the tension. “He doesn’t like being told no so abruptly. He’s strict, but responsible.”

Warren only nods. “I don’t feel like it right now.”

“That’s fine!” the warframe shuffles beneath his position, the rattle of his idle rubico nestled against stone. “Suppose you could do some chores around the orbiter? It’s… a mighty mess I admit. Never got time to make it neat.” T’viska sighs. “Won’t take up all the downtime you have up there, but it won’t just be filled with Suuir’s teaching.”

“Yeah… I can do that,” the teenager mumbles beneath the blanket.

On the other end of the line the warframe sighs, audio rustling as he finds himself comfortable on the bark of his post. “There should be some cleaning supplies in one of the rear compartments. Might be buried beneath a crate. I’m sure you’ll find it up there somewhere,” he briefly chuckles. “If not, once I get back we can clean it up together. At least not as much of a fucking mess.”

Warren chuckles. “Yeah… I’ll see if I can find it. Stay safe dad.”

T’viska in return sighs. “I’ll try. Maybe next time we go to a relay can find a better transponder. Suuir has to patch me through his logic centers. And he’s not going to be happy with me,” and then chuckles. “Take care up there. I’ll be back in five days.”

And after a brief systemic beep, the cephalon returns to the device proper.

Their tetrahedron state jitters erratically, ablaze in agitation that bleeds through as frantic zipping lines of deep orange. Where usual calm text would tattle, they run in a frantic fury, garbled text that the teenager merely watches with only a halved expression, unimpressed by the cephalon’s directionless aggression. The outburst is short lift, in time the cephalon’s hosted words begin to settle back down, beaming with dusty yellows that flake from his pointed slate expression.

In the short moment of silence Warren only smiles, settling himself down amongst the blankets as he watches the cephalon strain to apologize, that the correspondence shorted his logic functions and the like. They’re verbose explanations the tenno can only partly understand, casting a quizzical expression down to the device. Shards of the cephalon fizzle as they work to reword themselves, streamlining their vast dictation for the teenager.

Until all Suuir can come up with is, ‘I’m sorry.’

Warren, having nestled himself amongst the warmth of the fabric, tucks the device between his half-covered hands and his lip. “That’s okay,” he sighs as his small smile begins to fade, “I’m sure dad didn’t mean it… he’s probably just worried.”

In a moment of pause, and no answer from the cephalon, he sets the device back behind him. ‘He was,’ frantically blips across the screen just as it leaves his sight, abandoned above as Warren rolls himself off against his side. Tucking the oversized blanket around his legs, throwing the corner over until he can barely see out into the room beyond a fold. Across the room he watches the sway of an ocean front – a clip of many, audio coaxing an abandoned seaside wharf. He’ll go searching for the detergent later; too exhausted to remain awake for much longer. Even as a kavat sticks their nose into the hooding, but all it takes is a brief gust of air to shoo Crenshaw away, blown up their nose. The creature quickly draws himself back to stare, investigating once more to the same nuisance reaction. Warren however snorts, amused, before he curls the fabric to entomb completely.

In the time between, the teenager lingers from one activity to another. From cleaning out refuse long abandoned and organizing; picking through the crates to create space; Warren spends every moment doing something. Focus from one room to another, he keeps himself busy, brushing away the thoughts each time he passed the spira blades left out across the loki’s arsenal. Items find themselves moved from cramped crates to more open storage.

Between the heavy shuffles, the lingering ache in his arms and legs, Suuir engages Warren with light tutoring lessons; primarily to teach him the nuances from the written language he used to know. It’s a simplified Orokin language Suuir is able to identify, but any queries given by the cephalon go unanswered, deflected at every turn by Warren. Or even cutting the lesson inevitably short.

Cephalon Suuir doesn’t push it.

On his return, T’viska settles them back into the residential quarter. He speaks in compliments as he drops the rubico down at the arsenal table, about Warren’s diligence when it came to making the ship more of a home, for more than an old warframe. Where it once sat cluttered items sit neatly organized, easier to parse through as the warframe notes as they settle back on the couch. He makes note of Warren’s reflexes to huddle beneath a blanket instead of his coat, a question sat simmering as the teenager reclines with his feet kicked up and comfortable.

And he’s still smiling. T’viska just wants to see him smile.

Another mission lined up sits in the back of the loki’s thoughts as he scrounges through the orbiter’s database. He has no idea what he’s looking for, slouching back against the cushions, dragging down a blanket of his own as his eyespots scrunch in thought.

“Dad, what’re you looking for?” Warren asks.

“No idea,” the loki huffs. He supposes there should be some activities left in the system’s residual files, something that could keep Warren entertained through the time he spends on the field. Most of the ship was clean now, he relents, and there’s only so much of the cephalon’s persistence left to teach. He shuffles himself to properly sit up. “Something you can do while I’m away. You’ve done such a good job cleaning that you might as well have some other activities, right? There’s only so much cleaning to be done.” The warframe stems a smile.

Warren shrugs, burying himself among the blanket. “I suppose… what activities do you have in mind?”

T’viska sighs as he turns back to the display across the room, weaving through the archival structure crafted by the cephalon. “Given, I don’t have much control over what Suuir allows or not,” and to this, he turns to the ceiling, to Cephalon Suuir who only answers with a blip of ellipses. “We’ll work through the album first, how does that sound, Warren?”

Despite the teenager’s flat expression settled amongst the blanket, his sigh isn’t of contempt. “Sure.”

Elated, T’viska navigates back to the volume of remote photographs and video logs. For the few hours they still have, that the warframe explains as downtime, they spend them mulling over the landscapes, the minute details that the Loki barely remembers or the tenno takes interest in. It’s engagement that settles the warframe’s shuttered worry, at least for the time until he has to leave again.

He never brings up the pain dragged across his thigh.

Laid amongst the foliage brush of Venus, T’viska settles himself amongst the snow with his sniper rifle. A blanket lies drifted over his back as he takes position in the crunching snow, giving him just enough space to breath comfortably through his diluting dark vents. Another week of observation, his fangs wrought to clench as he curses into Suuir’s report filter his distain, updating their contractor with any relevant information. Logically intensive work, watching vessels decked with unlabeled cargo arrive and depart.

Long hours, but higher pay. A statement of receiving a large sum in return for the information.

T’viska shuffles the rifle against his shoulder, grunting as he watches the cephalon ease his mental workload through his vision. “Suuir, what should I do,” the warframe sighs, watching as a corpus vehicle depart over the hills.

‘About what?’

“Warren,” he hushes himself against the snow, sight flickering past the distant blooms. “Just being able to feel his emotions makes me anxious, I can’t distinguish between them sometimes.”

‘Understandable; any idea what to do with the payment?’

“Save it up. Take Warren to earth or something, he enjoys the views I snapped from there. A couple of them should still be untouched by the grineer regime, right? I’ll take him someplace safe, let him have some fresh air.”

‘T, how many jobs did you queue for again?’ Saved on the details of priority, the ones willing to work if they’ve not already been taken.

The warframe sighs, “at least nine last I can remember… Have any of them had other offers yet; can you check that for me?”

Cephalon Suuir reads blank across his vision, letting T’viska’s question hang as he stares back through the scope. It’s mindless preoccupation he finds himself, counting the bolts in the structures as he waits, watching the time elapse count closer ever so slowly to seven-days of observation. Minute by minute the loki waits for a response, straining to recall what missions he slated himself to work.

Suuir verifies his frantic assignments; two more observations, three minor assassinations, and four ‘simple’ captures.

Of course, someone else had already taken one of the captures in the network, another having staked a claim in an observation as he lies prone in the snow for another six days. Little by little, as he waits in the snow, the assignments he took interest in are completed, barely filled with more of the simple jobs or ones that carry a hefty bounty for completion.

Through the scope he can pick out the VIP his contractor had interest in. The loki has no care for economic politics.

“Target in the compound,” he relays to Suuir, eyeing the clock in the corner of his sights. “They’re late, but they’re present.” Assignment completed, capturing the suspect’s movements for payment.

T’viska sighs.

One down, a couple more to go…

On the way to his next assignment, he drops by a relay for a transponder. It’s a small device he holds in the palm of his hand when he returns, folding it down into the teenager’s own as the orbiter turns to their next destination. His next assignment. It won’t hamper Suuir’s logic functions, he attested, a confirmation that’s made as he meanders through the maintenance shafts. The connection affirmed and blipping in the warframe’s sight as he cloaks into the hostile environment, keeping his conversation light, muting his end of the line as he ducks into capturing a corpus dissident relating to his earlier observation.

It’s the same VIP whose curses become mute against the loki’s palm, metal fists punching back against the warframe’s body has he strangles them into silence. It’s within the depths of the side room does the muffled struggle goes silent, catching the body as he lies back against the wall with a sigh.

“Dad, are you alright?” Warren’s voice mumbles against sheets.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” the loki sighs, heaving the unconscious body down to the floor. He taps the door to initiate its lock, “I’ll be back soon… just got into a bit of a scuffle, that’s all.”

On the other end of the line, the tenno sighs. “Alright. Just be careful on the way back.”

T’viska nods, making his side become muted once more.

He hates this part.

And to it, he plucks the ‘interrogation device’ from the pouch at his side, holding it face down over the unconscious body before him. In an instance, their body blooms and flickers into shards of light, their form becoming mere fragments of existence as they dissolve into his palm, captured and right for interrogation.

Looking down into his palm, the warframe sighs.

Only a few more he’s willing to do.

#VueWritten #Warframe #fanfiction #Tenno #Loki #trauma #Operative Warren #T'viska #familial relationship #self-harm #chapter #wip

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kreeshaha6 · 4 years

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Kreeshaha 6

by Hui Kj

With the weight of the napkin, yoo-hoo! It is a father with an orange juice disorder wish. Sins count, greet the dogs kindly or you will ask fellow locals if they are bilingual because you just have not been anywhere for awhile. Peace will get you killed - I have been pushed away via repulsion both ways; yeti stance. Somebody interrupt, drown with me - heaven is cheering when you stare around. Nobody will tame house; Julia triangle. If you are stuck on a boat fishing, scream at the tally of meaning lost but shiver on. I have hunted for etiquette in evolution and the wind is a smart devil. Not call it anything but muddy carpet to scrub out while you know exactly how to update yourself in your habit modes - a lot of social tests behind your back: a prince does not know how to talk, and queens will catch you lying you idiot. Whatever you think: it is still going to be countered or briefly deconstructed - counter, go ahead: I know the actual perverts when they sniff or clear their throat. Hints mark distance.

The compliments are not lies, cough. The dedications are not sin: show yourself crazy-cat. Your best friends can go home and find love in a different world. You can do heroin. God is real when you dream; it is just about natural disasters and some year soon the math will not be funny anymore and galaxies can go fuck themselves. The napkin edges are pink in yet out just of black holes after the swallow - saying one thing soon that will ruin your life, let’s go.

Loud wind, cartoon questions - boink. I hate cleaning the lawn before cleaning the lawn. Consume teal mold for the beauty of heroes and it will keep your life an achievement; maybe wicked to you and I mostly agree. Some 420s let you knock on neighbors doors to tell them all you know about 9/11 - the same neighbors that you steal cigarettes from from their porch every week, and on Halloween you put a christian book in their mailbox; also a mixtape of songs hinting about what you are reading right now. It has been five years now since the discovery moment where God opened the burning star door and nobody has to believe me.

I heard Julia likes live music. If you look away do not miss anything. Take a bus to a stranger’s bed, and if one sings for another then you can avoid talking about abortion. People say I lie to them but it is a reverse to laziness and accumulation of everything I want to say to people but say it now; feels good but that does not mean there is a scheme thing but rather being a romantic and free, so. You can think it jab to you but reword back to me only making people in homes bitter: like context and history with a dazzling motive to not go back to the moment if that is how it feels.

In my childhood bedroom, every time I slept facing the wall Ursula would be looking under tables for me at daycare in my dreams. None of this violence - look down to your menu and order whatever you like. I can get a discount for you because I work here. Talk vaguely a bunch so the circle is crooked so they do not plot against your base. My father started a private school and is doing his Phd although while his bewildering perversions make you so sick that you deny it of that setting: ha ha, a lasting impact but reveals so much that makes him think that every message is from God so it is all fine. The future sucks; metaphysical targets for what is basically standard psychology that the man never knew it was an ill catastrophe leaving me and some others perverted in the sense that you can never forget it.

Ignore it; manipulation is impressive but you should rather get a benzo from a doctor. It is paranoia but not the last splash - I am healing you. To tell you my stomach hurts under blue sky and you are just getting lucky today - ugh. Will I ruin your time? It is more than being lonely or personal whorish fallbacks - every man I know has never asked me questions and I could cry about it sincerely, like it is stealing and you will hate me for asking you questions. Maybe if you thought I read enough books and write essays that I would know how to have an opinion - that is not how I would like to use my time when in the relevance of a beautiful creature explaining this now or then or whenever.

Their loved ones will ask you stranger how they can help them outside of your new friends house like who the fuck are you? - fuck you actually and fuck the police. Putting stuff in other’s mailboxes is illegal and I just do not want trouble which is why I make it so difficult to trust me. No material desire for shoplifting, rather pretty luck will keep you better informed of the news; a whole new bias begins where that if you do not smell bad or can buy the rum only to be the new’s steadier in the end to popularize romantic metaphors that just have nice colors in them eventually.

My father drinks decaf. My suicide prevention sticker looked like the grim reaper warping towards me at the certain angle staring - shadows move of other shadows. Maybe when you got reckless heaven’s angel work in curious ways, but you thank God even tho he said only a dove - your best friend is a bird and he or she will mention later on about when the angel got used to it all and literally kept you alive out of pure loyalty.

You can toot if you want. Romance is luck - if free money is going around it should all be for anything but devices or decor; rather buy a map and rent a small house for yourself and take notes on how they never cared like you do. Make coffee and never answer a door. Water is the only great thing - water and good. The earth will put up a fight

- throwing up is good and the decomposing factor dresses us light and fried by the sun.

Were angels once human? Lucifer chose to leave, and I did not know an angel could bend - even though God is still building a kingdom which I believe changes in the war seasons. I can ruin your life; just a minute. Soft tone means peace and if you can find peace in hell the soft tone is the most heartbreaking edge in religious history where you can take a break to visit earth for good or bad - but maybe these are all just a different race: armadillos are just gross and that is my observation to know how sick I am which the angels and demons are in magnificent pose and telling enemies ‘He is mine.’ But enemies will hear about it and it is your party, there are just a bunch of lustful, sick, obsessive figures trying to use your voice against young people so they have their own obsession of lust - incorrect and dumb. Go into a basement and do not leave until you have scratched out a million things: follow a series for a theme and counter it without anger. Boy, girl, boy, girl…. Which game is this? Finnegan’s Wake - the master key, only happening with a person you will quit on : so have fun with your boring masturbation until you are ready to drink it up to become your own entity, mission quite repulsive but holy if God said so. You can bullshit, that I got yoga at 5’clock. Buddy will talk; every little little fever come along, and he is drinking now and I say! the wrong first dates this month, powder donuts, and a dork fag. No worries, people know wrong is wrong.

Earth attack with a pickup line for when it will zap least because of desperation. If you say what you mean thru tunnels of empathy checkpoints direct it to enemies. It is asexual and you remove yourself - you take drugs and risk your family’s curtesy. One aches when relieving some sort of statement that is past relevancy - at least there is conversation in the wild west. You wonder if I love you - might as well kill me.

I know the sin - that is my profession: kreeshaha 6. If you draw a blank that means you have admitted - at least that is how you make new friends opposite of disappear. What will catch on? Peppermint? Cinnamon rolls? Think of as many people as you can - betray your best friends if you are the devil. Old people will think you are cool if you show what they forgot about.

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munkustrap-on · 7 years

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Fancy That (Tugger/Misto)

"...'So I know we've been friends for a while, and I wanted to inform you-' ugh, that won't do."

He straightened up in the mirror, looked himself dead in the eye...and then deflated. "Who 'informs' people anymore? Munkustrap maybe." Actually that might have been an idea; he could tell Munkustrap who could then inform Tugger of his longstanding crush-turned-unrequited-love. Yes...that was a good idea; he'd keep that in his back pocket.

In the light of some strange cosmological event, Mistoffelees had found his best friend lying out in the sun, alone, and looking blindingly dazzling. As usual. Perhaps it was a sign...or a trick. It wouldn't be the first time Everlasting Cat had him biting his own tail.

Still, he took a shaky breath for confidence and leaped up onto the shipping crate, greeting his dozing friend with an unexpectedly exuberant "Tugger there's something I need to tell you!"

"Need you say? Then I suppose I should pay attention." He stretched in the most endearing and erotic way possible. The sound of a dozen jaws dropping was deafening. Tugger looked up at him expectantly and…oh wow, was it warm outside today!

"I've..." cue inner turmoil, strum up self-consciousness, pound away at the self-sabotaging bongos. "Noticed a piece of fluff in your mane." With a strained laugh he reached out and picked at an invisible ball of fuzz and threw it over his shoulder.

Tugger's brow furrowed, not bothering to inspect his now pristine mane. "I... thank you. That was very important and pressing."

Misto took in a quaky breath, quelling the sudden urge to run away to Germany and change his name to Bernard.

All he needed was to get his foot in the door. Once he peeked around the threshold he could count on Tugger to drag him in kicking and screaming. What could he say? "I fancy... someone." The last bit was quiet, almost imperceptible even to himself. But damnit he said it and that was something!

Tugger's whiskers twitched and he peeked an eye up at him. "You're fancy? Aren't you just full of surprises today," he laughed, nudging Misto's thigh for good measure.

"It was a verb," Mistoffelees murmured.

"A what?"

"Verb. An action."

"You're acting fancy?"

"I fancy someone!"

The floodlights in Tugger's mind went off, nearly blinding him with a devilish grin as he rolled onto his stomach. "You fancy someone! The ever vague and aloof Magical Mr. Mist-"

"Yes yes, it's hilarious," he grunted. Let the kicking and screaming begin.

"Not hilarious, just…curious." Tugger eyed him anew, a thousand questions lining up. "So...who is it?"

"Must you be so impudent?"

"I'm a very busy tom, Misty, I can't afford to beat around the bush."

"Clearly."

"So...?"

Mistoffelees felt his throat dry up and close. He licked his lips with a papery sound. Tugger quickly got the hint and sat up.

"Twenty questions," Mistoffelees croaked, avoiding his gaze.

"Sure. Number one: who is it?"

Mistoffelees tossed him an exasperated look.

"Okay, fine. Is it a Jellicle?"

"Of course. Who else-"

"Tom or Queen."

He swallowed thickly, glancing at Tugger who gave him an encouraging nod. "Tom."

Immediately the coon's face crumpled up in distaste. "It's not Asparagus, is it?"

Mistoffelees licked at his paw, trying to calm the twist in his stomach. At his silence Tugger's cheeky teasing evaporated to mildly disturbed concern, "...Is it?"

"No!"

Tugger shoved his face in Misto's looking him dead in the eye. "Are you playing with me?"

"I-I...I- uh. Munkustrap!"

Tugger pulled away, bemused and visibly skeptical, "Munkustrap? I don't think you're his type..."

At hearing his name, Munkustrap looked up from his inspection of an old wood burner. "I need to speak with him, excuse me. We'll talk later!"

"If you say so," Tugger shrugged and flopped down for some much needed sunbathing on his deprived belly. Mistoffelees leaped from the shipping crate and trotted over to the tabby, who smiled and greeted the tux with a nuzzle. Neither he nor Mistoffelees aware of the coon's lingering gaze.

Later Tugger had paid Munkustrap a visit- now the tabby may not look it but he was a lucrative gossiper. Tugger himself may be reputed as being artful and knowing but he'd admit in a heartbeat that Munkustrap knew so much more. To Munkustrap, all gossip was worth knowing; Tugger drew the line at recipes, mild illness, and anniversary plans.

All this knowledge, and still his lips were sealed when it came to Mistoffelees and the topic of their urgent conversation. While Tugger left with a few juicy tidbits on Admetus and Tantomile's failing relationship- wouldn't you know Coricopat was too clingy- he came out even more confused about his tuxed friend.

"He was acting real strange," he'd told Munkustrap, "Like someone was holding a bucket of ice water over his head." The tabby had simply nodded and continued his crocheting.

But that couldn't just be that; there had to be more. Mistoffelees had to have told the tabby something about his secret facy-ee to have been sworn to secrecy.

All he knew was that it wasn't Asparagus... Probably.

Or what if it is Munk? Oh…

That knocked quite the wind from his sails. To think that all this time he'd been teasing and bothering the winsome Mistoffelees and the tux had been looking to Munkustrap the whole time. Tugger couldn't exactly blame Misto for looking elsewhere; he kept a lot of cats around and it was clear the tux had a penchant for monogamy. And Munk was nothing if not shrieking 'dedicated life partner for one.'

Tugger sniffed. He could be monogamous... for the right cat, of course.

He could be monogamous for Mistoffelees.

Maybe if he knew Tugger could still have a chance.

Genius!

There was no time to waste on thinking his plan through, much less to come up with a plan. Tugger had to find Mistoffelees and let him know that he could be monogamous, he could be a dedicated mate, and that Tugger could very possibly fancy him.

The 'very possibly' was in case things started to get ugly.

It had been an hour of searching, but Tugger eventually found the tux in the first place he should have looked: his den. Mistoffelees answered the door half-awake. "Tugger, what-"

"Remember when you said you fancied someone?"

"...Okay, yes."

"I was thinking about it and I think I fancy someone too."

"You think you fancy someone," Mistoffelees said, incredulous.

Tugger nodded, "Yes, and I think I'm going to ask them to be my mate. For life."

Either sleep had delayed the frequency or Mistoffelees had bet money he'd never hear the words 'mate' and 'life' in the same sentence (That wasn't 'I will never take a mate in my life.') because he stared at him like his fur had turned hot pink. Eventually he shook himself awake. "Then I guess congratulations are in order."

"Not yet, I've... ah... not asked them."

"Right. I wish you luck then." They stood awkwardly a moment, staring out into the space between them. "...Is that all?"

Hmm, maybe he should have reworded his proclamation a little differently. Then professing his affections for Mistoffelees wouldn't be an unsolicited proposal to a lifelong commitment. "No."

The tux quirked an eyebrow and leaned against the frame of the door, looking up at him expectantly. His eyes still a bit droopy and his fur mussed up in all the right ways. Times like these it was always so hard not to touch. "I might want to start with telling them how I feel first. Before all the mate stuff."

"That'd be wise," he said with a dainty yawn. "Tugger, I'm really not the best cat to be asking about things like this."

"Why not? Are you afraid that-"

Mistoffelees frowned and slumped off the jam. "I'm closing the door now, Tugger."

"No, Misto wait!"

"Mistoffelees is going back to bed now," he called from inside the den. From outside the door he could hear the tux flop onto his nest with a tired groan. For a long moment he waited; any second now the door would open and- "I know you're still there!"

With a growl Tugger stormed up the path. Mission failed. If anything, he'd probably managed to make Misto like him less. He almost entertained the thought of going back to explain his sudden lack of...a brain.

He couldn't help himself! This tux was all wrapped up in his thoughts now and he was at the mercy of those enchanting blue eyes and the way his nose twitched whenever the breeze tickled his whiskers. Hell, he dared say even the way the tux hyper-critically picked apart his mouse before eating it was in its own way endearing.

Bastet what was he doing?!

Mistoffelees slept in fits until the sun was low on the horizon. By tea time he was up and about, unable to fidget in his den any longer. Instead of going to the clearing, he found himself ambling to the back of the lot, one cat in particular on his mind. "Tugger," he groaned, hopping up onto a decayed printing press. "You make a terrible stalker."

Peeking out from around the pile of photo albums was Tugger's guilty face, dressed up in a sheepish grin. "I make up for it in other ways."

"I can imagine." Looking away he blushed. He shouldn't have assumed Tugger was being lewd but his mind couldn't help but wander.

"And what are you seeing?" came the saucy bravado as he regained his confidence and swaggered forward. Mistoffelees steeled himself and looked back to Tugger, watching him carefully but not trusting himself enough to keep from throwing his hand at the Coon's feet. Tugger was, after all, pursuing his life-long mate. The smouldering look lifted and his eyes hardened. "You said we would talk later."

"I don't feel much like talking."

"I'm excellent at charades."

Mistoffelees jumped down from the press, walking up to Tugger and sitting on his haunches.

"...You want to hit me," Tugger guessed.

"Hardly."

"Well you're going to have to give me another hint then, because I'm getting a lot of mixed-"

In the time it took Tugger to chaff his charades skills the tux had reached up, wrapped his fingers around the coon's collar, and reeled him in for a kiss. Just as quickly as it happened Mistoffelees pulled away to stare at the ants marching by his tail.

And, to his surprise, Tugger did not. "...I think I'm going to need another hint."

The moment he felt hot breath on his ear he reared up and met the coon halfway, anchoring his claws into the long tresses of Tugger's mane and kissing him for all he was worth. If that wasn't enough of a hint he might actually consider giving him a good box to the ears.

Tugger released him with a deep rumbling laugh, tail thumping the ground. He looked happy, and not in the cheeky mischievous way that forecasted a raging Jennyanydots. This smile was kind and beaming.

"Would I be wrong if I guess that I was the one you fancied?"

"Not at all," Mistoffelees breathed, kneading the mane beneath his paws. "Would I be wrong if I guessed I was the one you were going to ask to be mates with? For life?"

In a flash Tugger's happy smile was gone, his tail falling limp at their sides. Brow furrowed, he looked about ready to make a dash for the hills. Disappointment weakened Mistoffelees' confidence and his paws soon found their place at his side. "Tug, I wasn't-"

"No," he said evenly. "You wouldn't be wrong."

After a long pause Mistoffelees reached out and gently took Tugger's paw in his. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I know a place in the city that has the best curry… We could start there."

With a shy nod the tux flattened the fur still standing on the back of his neck.. "I'd like that."

#Ewwww kissing!#Rum Tum Tugger #Mistoffelees #cats the musical #cats #fanfiction #CrazyIndigoChild #munkustrap #SFW #Tugger #Misto #Tugger/Misto

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amelia00-blog1 · 7 years

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01 - Assessment Day

June 23, 2017 Friday 1:30pm Meet up with J; he's looking a bit slicker than before. Nothing fancy but I noticed him trying to dress more formal with dark dress pants with green/blue khaki striped shirt tucked in. He asks his regular question, "How are you?" I give him my regular answer, "Good, you?" He repeats my answer without much thought. I asked him if he has plan meeting up with someone tonight as his choice of clothes seemed especially nice. Looking down his shirt partly surprised/confused, with a slight (nervous?) smile, he says no. I didn't know I would get him so off guard about it. Then he turns to me to reassure me the assessment is long but that's ok since we can finish up what we don't get to tomorrow. His smile here seems more calm and the plan sounds great in my head. My sleep schedule had been off so I apologized to J if I seem different as I forewarn him I only had one hour of sleep. He seems fine with it or too preoccupied with setting up to really give much thought. J turns and tells me he found out more about the confidentiality about our sessions. He was wrong; the record would stay and would still be accessible to be retrieved years down the line via a subpoena. Previously he had said the information would only be accessible for few years from now if someone were to get a subpoena. He asked me if I had any police case opened. I did. There was a robbery at my place (the cause of my anxiety/panic attacks). He asked if there was any case -against- me personally. I answered no. J said that was okay then. And that no one would have access to my files unless they had a subpoena but they would have to know I had my files here and that there would be no way for them to know because the department here didn't share information with other people/places. Not really thrilled to hear different stories but I'm not out to make a big deal out of it. I remember him telling me we have to complete the assessment before I can start therapy in our first meeting and I just want to get everything done at this point to find a solution to my everlasting panic attacks. He said he'll continue where we left off from our first session, which is quite at the beginning. He's reading off the computer screen but I kind of feel like I'm just chatting with someone. J: Do you usually talk about what's bothering you with your family? Me: Not with my family, no. J: Do you have anyone you go to for emotional support? Me: Usually one of my friend but she's been diagnosed with cancer so I feel bad bringing my problems to her. J: For a lot of people their background, like race or their sex, is an important part of their identity. Do you feel that's true for you? Me: No, not particularly. Asian or American - I don't feel one is more me than another. J: Do you think other people might identify you as that? Me: My family might (because of Asian expectations) and other people might have a notion of how I should behave but I don't feel pressured to be a certain person because of it. J: How do you deal with emotional problems? Do you ever try to ignore it? Me: I do but when that doesn't work I try to do the coping exercised we talked about in our prior session. J turns to me to talk now. J: Like breathing slowly? Me: Yes and meditating and trying to focus on the NOW but I'm here because those things aren't working for me. J: Have you tried the Progressive Muscle Relaxation I suggested? Me: Yes but I'm not sure if I'm doing it right because- J: It's not working? Me: I mean I'm not sure if that's because I'm doing it wrong or not. J: Well you can talk more about that later after our full assessment. Me: Ok. Sure. J turns back to his computer. Not sure how many times he had to read the same set of questions to people but his speech is sounding more and more monotone. J: Did you ever receive help from anyone else outside your friend that made you feel better? Me: Um in Korea there was someone who help me after my trauma. J: Was that person a professional? Me: I guess so. She was the one who suggested I might have PTSD. J: So she was a psychiatrist? Me: I'm not sure. I had one or two sessions with her so maybe a psychologist? (I think she was a social worker.) J: Did she ever help you get anti-depressant? Me: Yes. J: Then she must be a psychiatrist. Me: Ok. J: What's it about her approach that you found helpful? Me: I appreciated her being kind and reassuring and even if our encounter was brief I think it helped a lot. J: What kind of help are you looking for now? Me: Some coping mechanism that will help me with my anxiety and panic attacks. I see J typing but he seems a little less present the more he types. J: Going back to what you said about being Asian, do you think that would somewhat be a problem coming here? Me: Not really but I wouldn't really want my family to know I'm here. J: Why is that? Me: There's a bit of stigma in Asian country with mental health. People think if you seek out treatment for it it means you're mentally ill and aren't capable of making your own choices. J: So what is your main concern? Me: I wouldn't want people to assume I had a disorder like schizophrenia (because I'm coming here) and question if my judgements are sound or not. J: So confidentiality is an issue for you? Me: Right. J: Have you ever had experience of your family finding things out they shouldn't have? Me: Yes and I feel they just make things worse so I rather them not know (because of the stigma I stated above). J: It sounds a little bit like paranoia. J laughs as he says the last sentence. I give out a small laugh to match his but he's facing his computer screen and doesn't see the expression on my face. The one that says my guard just went up. The one that says I no longer feel safe sharing things if you say stuff like that, even as a joke. J asks me to choose the severity on the following symptoms he reads out loud. I answer: Agitation - None Change in Appetite - I gained weight but not sure if it's because of change in Appetite Depressed Mood - I don't know if I'm depressed more than just having constant panic attacks and anxiety (J: That's depression. Me: Ok.) Having 'flashbacks' - Of the things that are missing and that sets off panic attacks Feeling of helplessness - Yes, sometimes Feeling of hopelessness - Yes, sometimes Feeling of worthlessness - None Loss of energy - Maybe Labile Me: Sorry what does 'labile' mean? I don't know the definition. J: It's when you have sudden highs and lows. Me: Then no because I'm usually feeling moderately ok and then the panic attacks would make me feel worse. J: Well that's what labile is. It's when you're suddenly feeling bad. Me: Didn't you just say someone has to have highs and lows? I don't really get "high" J: Well or it could be just any change in mood. Me: Hmm J looks over to me. Me: The change in mood is caused by panic attacks and anxiety though? Is that the same thing? J: I'll just put "no, typically set off by flashbacks" then. Me: Ok Nightmares - Sometimes. Lately, yes, when something triggers it. Difficulty with concentration - Sometimes Sleep disturbance - Yeah, lately I been having some irregular schedule Loss of interest doing thing - Extremely Anxiety/Panic Attacks - Extremely Everything has now dwindled down to being robotic. His questions and my answers. J asks me to describe the incident in Korea that caused the trauma and I 100% don't feel confident after he made the paranoia remark so I tell him I don't feel comfortable sharing that at this time. He says that's fine but he expected me to talk about it tomorrow. Which, I knew, I wouldn't be comfortable with by then. I ask J if my therapist would be the same person as him or someone else. He answers "it depends" and already in my mind I've decided to confide in another female after the assessment. J turns to me and asks if I been to the doctor's lately. Me: You mean like downstairs (where the women's clinic is located)? J: Yeah. Me: Yeah, I recently got my pap smear. J: How was that? Me: Painful. It took days for me to recover and that's strange because I had a pap smear before and it didn't hurt as much..it felt so rough. J: Did they give you any medication? Me: For that? No. J: Or any medications? Me: Just birth control pills to regulate my menstrual cycles. J: Your what? Me: My menstrual cycles.. for lady days. J: Oh and you think it's related to your anxiety? Me: No, I don't think so. J: Have you been taking your pills everyday? Me: No, not everyday. For birth control pills you only need to take it on the days it's needed and rests are just blanks. J: Oh. Ok. J: Do you know what kind of birth control pills they prescribed? Me: No, not off the top of my head. J: It's ok I'll just get it from your files. Me: Um didn't you say my information was confidential to each department before? J: Yes, the department. Us. Me: I just thought the women's clinic was in a different department than the mental health department. J: No. Me: So does that mean anyone downstairs can read your notes? J: Yes. Me: ... J: I thought I told you last time they would be able to see you had a visit here. Me: Yes, I thought it was more like listing I had an appointment with you and not the whole notes you write. J: No. Me: Oh. J: Well you can get a copy of what I wrote too if you want and we can go over together to fix anything. Me: Really? That would be great. J: So tomorrow then we can finish this and you can get a copy of what I wrote today and tomorrow, tomorrow. J pauses to reword what he just said. J: I mean you can get a copy of today's note tomorrow and tomorrow's note tomorrow. Me: Right. I got it, thanks. J: We're out of time so I'll see you tomorrow? Me: Yeah that sounds great. Have a nice weekend. J: You too~ Me: Oh wait we'll see each other tomorrow, haha, so see you tomorrow then. J: Ha, right. See you tomorrow. Midway through the session was rocky but J made me feel safer and in control with his offer to review his notes tomorrow.

#mentalhealth #assessment #analyze #gad #anxiety #panicattack #panicattacks

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