#Wave squared without context | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

copperbadge · 1 year ago

Note

Hi Sam! I wanted to ask if you feel lately like you've been getting anything positive out of your therapy, because a lot of your initial thoughts about it kind of mirror mine. I'm very logical (except when I'm upset at myself) and very skeptical, so I feel like a therapist either isn't going to tell me anything new, or that I'm going to just disregard it because I can't trick myself into believing things that I just plain don't believe.

But I'm also starting to come to a realization, two years after my ADHD diagnosis and letting go (without therapy!) of most of the executive dysfunction-fueled self worth issues I was having, that I'm kind of Not Okay in other ways. I'm safe —going to work every day and doing my job so I won't lose my livelihood and have never had a self harm urge in my life— But I'm not really okay. I'm having major self esteem issues related to my personality separate from the executive dysfunction that are putting me in a bad place. I don't want to take antidepressants for reasons I won't go into but that means my other option is therapy and... I don't know if I'm a person that therapy will actually work on. I found a lot of validation in some of your perspectives, about affirmations being bullshit and "mindfulness" exercises feeling impossible and useless, about not having an inner monologue and how that might be causing issues with traditional methods. So I was just wondering, do you feel like therapy is working now that you've been in it longer?

I've wasted a lot of money on "elective" (and ultimately useless, back to square one) medical nonsense this year and I'm not eager to waste more, but I've also met my insurance deductible so it's the best time to try it if I'm going to.

I mean, it depends on the modality a little but I don't think trying basic talk therapy can hurt, as long as you find a decent therapist. And it's better to try it now when you're feeling Mostly Okay than waiting until you are Really Not Okay. But this entire paragraph comes with a lot of context so....

A lot of what I talked about in terms of struggling with mindfulness, etc. was less related to the therapy I am still in than it was to the DBT class I took at Therapist's suggestion. We were both aware that she was basically throwing stuff at the wall to see what stuck, and while it was an interesting class I don't think for me it was helpful. As you mention, I struggled with affirmations and visualization since neurologically I'm not really set up for those; I don't think they're objectively bullshit but I do think there's an assumption within the mental health industry that they will have function for everyone and that's simply untrue, and the expectation that it will is very damaging. I also struggled with the physical-intervention aspects (called TIPP usually) which didn't work at all for me and felt frankly like doctor-approved self harm. DBT can get very culty, which set off a ton of red flags for me -- possibly false flags, but they still waved real big.

And that's because I also have a lot of trust issues surrounding therapy. To the point where, the minute one of the people running the DBT class made actually quite gentle fun of me for asking a question he couldn't answer, I checked out on anything he said. We were learning about a DBT concept called Wise Mind and I asked, "If wise mind is an identifiable mental state, how do we know if we're in it?" and when he couldn't quite answer beyond "It's different for everyone" I said, "But if we know it's real there must be some kind of common denominator, a measurable data point," and he said "Well, Sam, you're not going to levitate" and the rest of the class laughed. Sorry bud, this is almost certainly an over-reaction, but I'm me and you lost me when you came at me instead of just admitting you didn't know. (Also it turns out I just live in Wise Mind like 80% of the time which is one reason I couldn't tell.)

But basic talk therapy outside of DBT is just...you talk at someone about your problems and come up with ways to try and solve them, which is a lot more straightforward and way less frustrating. You have to be an active participant, you have to both have a goal and be willing to discuss reaching it, but that goal can be as simple as just "figure out what my mental health goals should be" at first. You don't have to learn like, vocabulary for it.

The thing is, while I have seen some improvement in regulation issues, I also struggle with basic talk therapy. Most people, and this blew my mind, see measurable improvement in nine to eighteen therapy sessions. A lot of people don't go long-term, they just are having a moment and get help getting through the moment and then can disengage, with their therapist's approval.

I was in therapy consistently from the age of nine to eighteen and only stopped because I reached legal majority and physically refused to go.

Not one minute of those nine years did I want to be there. And, because none of the three therapists I saw across those years actually explained to me why I was there or how therapy worked, for me it felt like "Your punishment for having feelings is to speedrun every feeling you had this week in an hour, to a stranger." There was also what my current therapist believes to be some extremely unethical behavior going on, which didn't help.

So it has taken actually a lot of time to get to a place where I would even allow her to understand what help I need. I've been in therapy for about a year (generally weekly but there have been some gaps) and it has only recently gotten deeper than very basic interpersonal problem-solving.

Like, two weeks ago I told her, "I had a thought this week that I couldn't tell you about something I was doing because then you'd have material on me" (meaning blackmail material) "and that's a fucked-up thing to think." And once I'd actually identified it as fucked up I had zero issue telling her about it, wasn't even nervous as I did so. Who's she going to tell? She's literally legally constrained from telling.

I think well over half of what she does is either validate that whatever emotion I'm having is normal, affirm my reactions so I don't keep believing I behaved weirdly, or praise something I've done that was a positive act. Does this work? Not always, because I'm unfortunately very aware that it's part of her job to do those things. But yeah, sometimes. Even if you don't fully believe it, "Hey that was a really smart move" is nice to hear. Sometimes she helps me come up with a plan for stressful future events or (rarely) behavior modification, and sometimes she either provides me with research or points me towards research I can do on my own. We don't do meditation or affirmations or stuff like that.

Like, last week I brought up the fact that I hadn't really ever thought about how if I have a disability that causes emotional dysregulation and I got it from my parents, they also likely had undiagnosed emotional dysregulation when raising me. So she said I should look into research on children with emotionally dysregulated parents. I was pretty annoyed by what I found (the ONE TIME adults are the focus instead of the kids is the ONE TIME I needed to learn about the kids, really?) but it led to something that was both informative and upsetting, so we discussed that. And when I was stumped about how to move forward with the information, she suggested that my general coping mechanism of writing about it was probably a good plan.

(At which point I just silently advanced my powerpoint presentation to the next slide, where I had a series of quotes from the Shivadh novels where Michaelis, acting as a parent, repeatedly does the exact opposite of the upsetting thing, because I realized even before the meeting that it's an ongoing theme in my work whenever I deal with people being parents. It's a good thing she has a sense of humor and also that I do.)

So yeah. Going into therapy you have to be ready to reject a therapist if you don't like them or if they get weird and pushy, you have to be ready to be a self-advocate, but you are the client; it shouldn't be super difficult to find someone who can at least walk you through what you want from it and agree not to do the stuff you don't want, and if you want to stop going you just...stop going.

Good luck, in any case! I hope you get what you need, whether or not that ends up being therapy.

#not yet fired from therapy #sitting in the back of DBT class

149 notes · View notes

jacksgreysays · 2 years ago

Note

(Not sure if I can qualify for another prompt after the last wonderful prompt fill but here goes:

The Academy was perfectly fine with Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, until she managed to ____.

Oh dona, there are so many things that can fill in that blank. SO MANY THINGS. And, I’ll be honest, a lot of what comes to my mind range from funny to alarming. But the on that I think is the most encompassing—without being too boring—is simply “get caught.” Because that opens up so many opportunities for what else she could have been doing before she got caught in such a way that also builds a dynamic between those who are in on it (ie, the Rookie Nine, maybe even the full Konoha Twelve since Team Gai IS only just one year older) and those who aren’t (presumably the teachers of the Academy) However, in order to narrow this fic down into something writable, I should figure what Shikako is doing before she gets caught… and, maybe this is just me, but I kinda like the idea of… now maybe this is too specific… but basically, Shikamaru’s imaginary friend Shikako, aka his literal sentient eldritch horror twin sister that lives in his shadow, just straight up eating Danzo. Just. How do you get rid of something? Eat it. Because, like… okay. My brain goes something like this:

“Hm,” says Shikamaru as they hide in the treetops from Iruka-sensei.

Normally, Shikamaru is content with being out of the classroom that, outside from telling them the plan needed to ditch and stay hidden, he stays pretty quiet either cloud watching or napping.

Chouji, in his spot next to Shikamaru and equally satisfied with just being outside, is the only one to hear him. “What is it?” He asks.

That gets Kiba and Naruto to perk up, starting to get bored after their flawless escape with minimal conflict.

“Shikako says she’s hungry.”

Good friend that he is, Chouji offers some of his chips. A tendril of Shikamaru’s shadow shakily takes one, wobbling even under that weight, but Shikako is also a good friend so she eats it.

Well. She tries, anyway. Shikamaru’s shadow curls around it, mimicking a chewing motion, but it remains unchanged.

After a moment, Shikamaru reports, “Shikako says thank you, but she might need to eat something else specifically?”

Naruto, ever curious asks, “What does a shadow even eat?”

Shikamaru shrugs. “She says she’ll know it when we find it.”

Kiba, and an Akamaru squirming with eagerness, declares, “Akamaru and I are the best and finding stuff. We’ll get it in no time.”

—

Iruka-sensei finds them before they find the ambiguous “it.”

To be fair, they were searching through the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge, and their self assigned mission had carried them through to lunch time. So really it was their own fault.

Didn’t stop Naruto, Kiba, and Akamaru from yelling and howling up a storm as Iruka-sensei grabbed the two boys by the collars of their shirts. Mizuki-sensei at least just gestured his two charges forward, trusting that Shikamaru and Chouji would cooperate since they had been caught fair and square. And plus, it was lunch time.

Distracted as they were, none of the boys noticed Shikamaru’s shadow stretch itself to connect to Mizuki-sensei’s.

Without that context, none of them made the connection when, not even a minute later, Mizuki-sensei stumbled, nearly falling, before catching himself in an uncertain stance.

“You okay?” Iruka-sensei asked, caregiving nature winning over his desire to continue lecturing the boys.

Mizuki-sensei waved him off with a strained laugh, “Ha, I just felt a little tired—midday slump, probably.”

Kiba and Naruto, sensing weakness, re-aim their efforts from complaining to making fun of Mizuki-sensei’s age. It draws his ire, never mind that he tries to seem cooler than Iruka-sensei, but he musters a woozy, half-hearted defense at best.

Shikamaru glances at his shadow, darker and deeper than it was before.

Shikako isn’t as hungry anymore.

—

A/N: And then something something Ino and Sakura spot the boys questing for Shikako’s food and they also believe in/like Shikako anyway so they try to help out, Shino gets pulled in because they end up on Aburame territory and he’s holding his smiling baby sister and his untouchable vibes are way lowered, at some point they’re like… maybe Hinata can use her cool eyes to FIND what Shikako needs (and she’s stalking Naruto anyway so we might as well actively include her) and then Sasuke kind of feels left out ALTHOUGH… I may have a separate thing for how Sasuke gets pulled in. Anyway the kids try to figure out what she’s doing—she doesn’t eat chakra, she eats life energy, but only out of people that she wants to kill anyway and the amount she eats from them is maybe based on how much she wants to kill them? (she really does almost eat Kabuto to death the first time they encounter him lol)—and they’re like… well… we also don’t like the people Shikako doesn’t like anyway? Here’s where plot maybe comes in and maybe where Sasuke gets pulled in but basically if this is pre-Uchiha Massacre then there could be a day when Itachi goes to pick up the little Uchiha members from the Academy and Shikako is just like ??? DO I want to kill and eat him??? because he hasn’t done anything (YET) so it’s just like… the rest of the kids investigating into Sasuke to investigate into Itachi which then somehow Scooby Doo style gets them to Danzo and MAYBE he’s being a creeper and visiting the Academy to recruit future ROOT agents or MAYBE the Academy building is near the Hokage’s Tower (I think???) or Shisui and Itachi are BOTH picking up the various Uchiha Academy students and Danzo tries to use the opportunity to intimidate/threaten them both “subtly” and Shikako’s just like !!!!! FEAST MODE!!!! And fully just eldritch style swallows him whole in front of some Academy teachers :) And it’s not like Shikamaru can get in trouble because he’s BEEN telling the truth about his imaginary friend Shikako the whole time. And as far as they know it LOOKS like a Nara clan technique so they’re like… well… uh… maybe we should tell the Jounin Commander about this. And Shikaku’s just like… uh… Kasuga… what the fuck… And Kasuga turns to Sembei-obaasan and also asks what the fuck… And Sembei-obaasan has to search deep deep into the Nara oral tradition for what the fuck is going on And Shikako is just in Shikamaru’s shadow, totally pleased with herself. I’m not hungry anymore :)

#jacksgreyson #donapoetrypassion #ask box advent calendar #dreaming of sunshine #shikako nara #shikamaru nara #chouji akimichi #hungry sister

315 notes · View notes

justinspoliticalcorner · 29 days ago

Text

Ben Makuch at The Guardian:

A cornerstone of the Maga movement during the Biden administration was to accuse a mixture of the so-called “woke left” and the justice department of forcing America into the grips of a free speech crisis. Common complaints were that nobody “can say anything any more” without being canceled or arrested for extremism. In the same breath, Maga broadly described the January 6 insurrection, which killed a police officer, as peaceful, accusing the Democrats of a communist conspiracy. Donald Trump vowed that when he returned to power, he would bring “retribution”. So far, he hasn’t disappointed, with unprecedented crackdowns on his perceived enemies.

But experts say the first amendment is measurably under attack in ways it has not been since the presidency of Richard Nixon. A double standard has also emerged: if you protest, criticize, or publicly object to the president’s agenda, you’re a target.

Katherine Jacobsen, the project coordinator for the Committee to Protect Journalists in the US, Canada and Caribbean region, said: “The thing with the first amendment and free speech in general is that you have to respect everyone’s rights to say and print what they think is appropriate, versus just cherrypicking opinions and views that you find to be supportive with your own world views.”

Cherrypicking is evidently at play, especially for individuals or institutions defying the Trump administration: arresting and attempting to deport a Columbia University student who peacefully protested the Israeli war in Gaza and revoking the visas of foreign students who engaged in similar activism. Reversing a Biden-era protection prohibiting government officials from obtaining the confidential sourcework of the press. Denying billions in federal money to Harvard. Dismantling the education department and halting funds to schools practising diversity, equity, and inclusion. “We’ve spent years listening to various elites crow about the threat that campuses and workplaces pose to conservative speech, only for them to suddenly lose their voices once campuses brought down the hammer on student protests against Israel’s ongoing genocide of Palestinians,” Ed Ongweso Jr, a senior researcher at Security in Context, told the Guardian.

“Insofar as there is a real threat to free speech, it is from rightwingers interested in using this moment to purge critics and restructure the country and its institutions into forms more hospitable to the cruelty and greed at the heart of their politics.” Nothing, though, has come under more public protest and scrutiny than Trump’s recent deployment of 2,000 national guard members and 700 marines to Los Angeles, claiming demonstrators marching against Ice raids there were out of control – even as the LAPD had described those same protests as largely law-abiding and mostly under control. Running against those actions was one of Trump’s first acts in his second presidency – an executive order “restoring” the first amendment and “the right of the American people to speak freely in the public square without government interference”. But the current president has always and historically favored using the military to stifle public dissent: in 2020, he called on the national guard from multiple states to quell protesters in the Capitol against the police killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, while privately advising the military to “just shoot” them.

[...] Among some of the president’s most ardent supporters, these protesters and other leftists are not subject to the same standards of freedom of expression. For example, Congressman Jim Jordan criticized some of the protesters for waving Mexican flags in solidarity with the many foreign nationals coming from south of the border who are the targets of Ice arrests. “We fly the American flag in America,” Jordan posted on X, inferring it was indicative of some kind of foreign invasion. But a community note quickly fact-checked him: “Representative Jordan has an Israeli flag outside of his office door.” Other users also quipped that when the insurrectionists stormed the halls of the Capitol, one man was prominently seen carrying a Confederate flag.

Trump and the MAGA movement may claim to be for “free speech”, but their actions have proven to be otherwise, as the Trump Regime has been the biggest destroyer of free speech in modern American history.

#Trump Regime #Trump Administration II #Freedom of Speech #Donald Trump #1st Amendment #Gaza Genocide #Protests #Los Angeles ICE Protests #MAGA Cult

22 notes · View notes

stabbyfoxandrew · 4 months ago

Note

hii aerie!!

for wipw, could i request either one of arson neil, angel neil and mafia restaurant? i'm missing a lot of context but yay for mer andrew burning shit down hehe

also! there's a lot of cherry trees blooming in my route to uni and now every time i see them i think of jeremy and i find that association wonderful 🤣

i hope you're having a lovely week too <33

WIP Wednesday (3/19) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 290)

NEIL

Following directions he's scrawled frantically on a random sheet of paper has Neil feeling a bit strange. It's almost like he's on the run again, trying to get to a place his mother has scoped out for them. Those days are long gone of course. Thousands of miles and several years separates him from that scared kid following his mom's every command. He's made a friend, he's kissed that friend, and he wants to do it again. If this were back then, he'd have been beaten black and blue.

Fortunately, his mom will never know about Andrew.

But Neil is glad he does. Still, it's a bit nerve wracking to drive without knowing exactly where he's headed. Andrew could be leading him anywhere at all and he's following like a dog being led around by a treat. The treat, in this case, is the promise of getting to kiss Andrew again. And he thinks he would follow it just about anywhere. Which is why he's a bit confused.

He knows this road leads out of town if taken long enough. So his destination has to be coming up soon. Neil keeps his eyes on the road, flicking them to the right every now and then looking for a sign and trying to figure out where he's supposed to end up. Finally, he gets lucky and spots Andrew's car parked outside a... A barn? Neil thinks he's made a mistake but, no, that's Andrew for sure. He's leaned against his car and looking up at the road. When Neil waves, Andrew gestures a 'come to me' with a couple fingers.

Neil's out of the car as soon as he's parked it, rushing around the front of it to obey Andrew's command and eager to be within touching range of the firefighter again. The breath leaves his lungs when he's standing before him. Andrew is beautiful. Neil finds himself leaning in before he's even said hello and Andrew quirks a brow at him.

"Just going for it right off the bat?"

"Is that okay?"

"Yes." Andrew pulls him in by his jaw and presses their mouths together. The kiss doesn't last long enough; he pulls away after a handful of seconds. "Is that enough?"

"For now." Neil clears his throat and looks over at the barn. "You were right. It's not the Ritz."

"It has a certain charm. When I'm in it." Andrew says, taking Neil's hand to pull him along. "Come on."

Neil allows Andrew to lead him into the barn and it's nothing much inside. Just stuffy and quiet, dark except for the light coming through the slats of the walls. Andrew raises his arm and, with a very loud click, they're suddenly illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from a string. Neil holds in a laugh, because that's very murder-basement. But he doesn't say it. He just looks around and finds the place is piled high with square bales of hay, except for an empty patch in the middle where Andrew's put out a blanket and a cooler. Neil thinks if he were anyone else he might swoon.

#hehe mer andrew had to create a diversion so neil could get away from lola >:3 also ahhhhhh that's so cute!!! :DDD Cheremy Moreau <3333 #andreil #aftg #WIP Wednesday #Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew #🕊️#answered #tessasilverswan

25 notes · View notes

guilty-pleasures21 · 6 months ago

Text

The last of the real ones

No context, no explanations. Just words and emotions spilling onto my keyboard. Listen to the songs for the full experience.

An only child of the universe

The waves

Wet concrete pt II

This whole damn city

Does your therapist know?

Too good to be true

The only one

Warnings: descriptions of grief and explicit descriptions of sex (male x female).

----------------------------------------------------------

“You were too good to be true …”

He stood on the rooftop, surveying the street before him. It was deserted at this time of the night - no thanks to the curfew that had been implemented on the streets of Gotham ever since the appearance of the notorious Red Hood - but the building across from him had been sealed up anyway, sectioned off in preparation of its demolition. Jason dragged his gaze away from the broken shutter swinging off the window of the second floor apartment and glanced down at the empty market square. How … Why … What if … He sucked in a breath as a wave of incomprehensible thoughts flooded his mind and his heart squeezed in his chest as he watched the ghosts of a little boy and a little girl playing in the square. The girl was small and cute and completely aware of it, playing up her adorableness to gain attention and get some spare change from passers-by in the crowd surrounding her. The boy was thin and quiet, practically invisible as he snuck around picking the pockets of the people too busy paying attention to the little girl to notice. But the girl saw - she always saw him, no matter the size of the crowd, no matter the distance between them. Jason straightened suddenly when he heard the sound of soft footsteps landing on the rooftop behind him, but he refused to turn around.

She wrung her hands together, her nerves growing tighter and tighter with every second that he stayed frozen in place. But he’d kept his tracker on; he’d let her find him even though he clearly hadn’t forgiven her for rejecting his offer last night. She took a step forward, but hesitated when he still didn’t turn around. “Love?”

His jaw tightened at the sound of her voice; soft and pleading and … so sweet, always so sweet when it came to him. But he didn’t deserve such sweetness. Jason stood his ground, stubbornly ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest, begging him to turn around and pull her into his arms and never let her go again. But then she continued.

“I need you,” X whispered, her voice so desperate - the same kind of desperate that had curled around his heart and squeezed when he’d woken up that morning without her soft curves filling all the empty spaces inside of him. Jason clenched his fists, struggling now to maintain his resolve … but somehow, he managed to stay in place.

She forced down a shallow breath, doing her hardest to breathe around the lump in her throat. The relief she’d gotten from talking to Dick had quickly turned into determination after he’d hung up and it had only taken her a few minutes to put on her vigilante outfit and follow the tracker Jason had let her put on him back to his old apartment. But if he shut her down - if he pushed her away and disappeared like he’d never even been there at all …

“Please?” Her voice cracked as she said it and the pained sound ripped his heart right down the middle. Jason sighed and turned around to face her, unable to hold his ground any longer. He walked over to her, his steps slow and careful, and stopped a few feet in front of her so there was still a bit of distance between them. X waited as he studied her from behind his helmet, but her body trembled as she looked up at him, her hands noticeably shaking despite her best efforts to disguise it. And suddenly, Jason felt all the hurt and the anger leave him. He closed the distance between them and lay his hand on her lower back, nudging her in the direction of her apartment. And this time, he was the one stopping to place a hand on her back every time they scaled another building or landed on another rooftop.

She gazed up at him as he took his helmet and jacket off and lay them on her dining table, too scared to even blink lest he disappear. So, Jason took a step closer to her and reached up to tug her mask off. He sighed when he saw the expression on her face.

She looked so scared. Helpless and vulnerable and terrified as she clutched her hands to her chest, curling into herself like she was trying to physically hold her heart together. Jason took her hands in his and rubbed his thumbs across her skin, trying to soothe her. But she was still shaking. He guided her hands to his chest, laying them there so she could feel his heart - his warmth and the solidness of his body beneath her fingers - then he slid his hand along her cheek.

She whimpered softly when his lips landed on hers, his tongue brushing against her mouth to seek entry. She parted her lips for him, trying to drown herself in the taste of him - in the feeling of his body surrounding hers as he held her close to him - but her muscles were still tense with nerves. Jason kissed her slow and sweet, seeming to understand what she needed from him right then, and X tried to let herself relax as his hands travelled across her body, stroking her tenderly. She slid her hands up his chest and gripped his shoulders tightly as he began walking her backwards to her bedroom, and his fingers moved to undo her clothes, peeling them off one by one until she was standing in her bedroom, completely bare before him.

He sucked in a breath as he ran his fingers up and down her sides, still unable to get over how beautiful she was, then he took her hands and brought them to his waist. Her hands continued to shake as she started to remove his clothes, so Jason covered them with his and guided her patiently, unbuckling and unzipping until there was nothing left between them anymore. Then he lowered his lips to her shoulder and began walking her to the edge of her bed.

His lips swept across her bare skin, licking and tasting her while his hands kept her pressed up against his body, and X felt herself relax even more as she breathed in the comforting mint and grass scent of him. But she startled when her legs hit the edge of her bedframe and the panic quickly rushed back into her body. Jason straightened when he felt her tense up, one arm still wrapped around her, and cupped her cheek in his hand to bring her mouth back to his. He brushed his tongue against hers as he sat her down on the mattress, trying to bring her focus back to him, but she continued to tremble even as he lowered himself to his knees and settled himself between her legs.

He trailed his fingers along her curves, trying to ignore the wave of guilt that threatened to swallow him whole at any second: he didn’t deserve her sweetness - her sweet, sweet, sweetness - but his feelings didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that she needed him and what mattered was that he was there. Jason leaned forward and flicked his tongue across her nipple, teasing her to a peak while his hand gently kneaded her other breast, assuring her of his presence. He licked and sucked on her slowly, making sure she felt every stroke of his tongue, every brush of his fingertips and finally, her heart slowed a little.

She sucked in a breath as a healing warmth bloomed in between her thighs, finally easing some of the tightness in her belly, then she lifted her hand and slid her fingers into his hair as he began trailing his lips down her abdomen. X scratched Jason’s scalp lightly, focusing on the familiar feeling of his soft strands catching beneath her fingernails, and her best friend let out a contented sigh before pressing soft kisses to the inside of her thigh. Then … oh god, then he licked a line right up her centre and her entire body shuddered violently in response.

He lifted her thighs and wrapped them around his head, holding her steady as he licked and sucked on her pretty little nub. She was so sweet and so lovely and he wanted to beat himself up for hurting her so badly last night - for being so cruel to her when all she’d ever done was love him entirely and without question. He didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve her. But it didn’t matter what she did or didn’t deserve: what she needed was him. Jason delved into her core, begging for her forgiveness with each brush of his tongue until she was gasping and moaning with pleasure, her fingers digging into his scalp to hold onto him as she rocked her body against his mouth. He pulled back only when she’d finished, her soft pants slowing down as she caught her breath, and regarded her with a cautious expression. Her eyes were glazed over as she looked at him - filled with lust and desire - but her body still trembled slightly as she came down from her high.

He sighed as he stood up, but she couldn’t read his expression as he held his hands out to her. X swallowed down the ball of fear still trapped in her throat and placed her hands in his, letting him pull her to her feet. She waited as he trailed his fingers down her body, his touch so gentle, so apologetic, then he lifted his gaze back to hers. Her best friend lifted her up onto his waist and held her close as he crawled onto her bed and X gazed up at him with wide eyes as he lay her carefully down onto her mattress. He settled himself on top of her, sliding his bare skin against hers, and X reached up to cup his face in her hands, tracing her fingers lightly across the faint scars along his jaw, his cheekbone, his lips …

He sucked in a breath when she brushed her thumb lightly across his lips and her eyes glazed over again at his reaction. Shit, she was beautiful. Jason covered her hand with his and brought her fingers to his mouth to press a soft kiss to the tip of each. Then he guided her hand to his shoulder and pressed his lips to the inside of her elbow. He continued making his way across her body, licking and sucking under her arm, across her breasts, along her shoulders, down her abdomen, until there wasn’t an inch of her skin left untouched, unmarked - unloved - by him.

Her back arched off the bed, her body responding with excitement to the tender way in which he absolutely worshipped every square centimetre of her skin. God, she didn’t think she’d ever felt so beautiful before; so appreciated and admired. Her best friend made his way back up her body, his lips and tongue lingering on her soft curves - on the parts of her she’d quickly realised granted him the most solace - and she relaxed into his touch, letting him take what comfort he needed from her.

“X …” She opened her eyes when she heard him murmur her name and found his eyes gazing down into hers, the beautiful moss-green of his irises swallowed up by his desire for her. X shivered at the intensity of his expression, then she reached up to cup his cheek in her hands.

His eyes flickered down to her lips and stayed there, watching intently as they moved closer and closer to his. But he didn’t rush her - he wasn’t there to take anything from her, he wouldn’t ever take anything from her … But give; he wanted to give for once, give good and nice and love and sweet. But how could he ever give her such sweetness like she’d given him? How could he ever give her such good when there was none left in him at all? His best friend pressed her lips to his and traced his tongue with hers … but even when she was kissing him - even when she was licking and sucking and drinking up the taste of him - she was still giving him all of her. Jason swallowed down a sob and crushed his lips harder against hers, taking and taking and taking everything she would give him - every nice touch and every sweet taste and every loving stroke - in the only way he knew how. He didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve her … but like the damned fool that he was, he would take every precious scrap she threw his way.

She wrapped herself around him, holding him close to her as he kissed her. She could feel the apology in every movement of his mouth, every swipe of his tongue and every pained tear that dripped down his cheeks and onto hers. X slid her hands along her best friend’s body, stroking and rubbing him and letting him know that it was okay; it was okay, it was okay, it was okay. It was okay, because she loved him, she loved him in spite of it all - because of it all. She’d loved him when he’d agreed to split his stolen coin with her, when he’d convinced Bruce to bring her into his lavish lifestyle, when he’d fought with Batman for being too harsh on her and then spent the time after tending to her wounds and bandaging her up carefully. She’d loved him when he’d left her for The Joker, when he’d abandoned her in favour of his stubborn righteousness and infallible morals and even now, when he was too trapped in his grief to realise that he was about to put her through it all over again. She’d always loved him and she always would - she couldn’t remember what it had been like to live in a world in which she didn’t love Jason Todd and she didn’t think she could ever go back to one.

He rolled his hips against hers as they continued to kiss, his body begging, begging, begging to take even more from her - to take all of her, until there was nothing left of him at all, but her. Her, her, her. Jason pulled his lips away from hers, separating himself from her just long enough for him to line his tip with her entrance. Then he delved back into her - his tongue diving into her mouth, his length burying itself inside her body. X held him tighter as he thrust himself into her, giving, giving, giving him everything he asked of her, even when he was pressing her deep into the mattress, trapping her between his arms - even when he was so f*cking greedy for her. Jason wrenched his lips away from hers and hid his face in the crook of her neck, trying to wrestle back control of his thoughts: for her, he was here for her. Not for himself - not for anything else but to give her anything she asked of him.

Her hips pressed up against his as he grinded himself into her, his strokes deep and desperate, his hands travelling all over her body as he soothed her with his touch. “J-Jay! J-Jason … Jason …”

“I’m here, baby,” he assured her, murmuring the words softly into her hair before pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m here, dove. I’m here for you, X, my nightingale. I’m here.”

She bit her lip as his words lifted her to the peak of her pleasure and held her there, the firmness in his voice bathing her in safety and warmth and love. Love, love, love, so much love. Then she tipped over the edge and fell into his arms, already waiting to catch her. She bucked her hips against his, pushing herself to stretch out her high until he came too … and then he was filling her up with more love - more warmth and more safety and oh, the love.

He tucked her against him as he finally gave - as he filled her up with everything he wanted to say to her, everything he wanted her to make her feel - and finally, finally, she stopped shaking. They lay there for a minute, an hour, an eternity, then Jason rolled onto his side, giving her some space to move.

She curled up against him as he propped himself up on his elbow and he brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers continued to make their way down the side of her neck, his touch careful and appreciative, and she watched quietly as his eyes flickered over her, taking her in entirely. His hand landed on her breast and he cupped it gently before flicking his thumb across her nipple, causing her hips to press against his. X held her breath as Jason’s breathing grew shallow, but she waited patiently while he gathered the courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say to her. “Are you still gonna take his side?”

“I’m not taking his side, Jay,” X sighed, knowing exactly who he was talking about. She sucked in a breath as her back arched off the bed in response to his long fingers brushing against her sensitive skin, then she turned onto her side, facing away from him. Jason moved his hand to her arm as she curled up in the bed sheets and continued to stroke her ever so gently. Her breathing grew heavy as she thought about her next words, the panic flooding her chest until she felt like she could drown in it … but then her best friend wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. He slid his other arm under her neck and rolled her back around to face him, holding her close to his chest. X buried her face in the crook of his neck and pressed gentle kisses to his skin until she was sure that he was there and that he was safe. But her voice still cracked when she spoke. “I can’t- I can’t lose you again, love.”

She gulped down a breath, forcing some air into her lungs to stop a sob from escaping her throat, and Jason’s chest tightened with guilt all over again: he didn’t deserve her. He pressed his lips into her hair and rubbed her back gently, calming her down until she was able to breathe again.

“Somewhere out there,” X continued, “are two little kids, wandering the streets of Gotham, promising to defend each other no matter what happens.” She paused to tilt her head back and look up at Jason, but his expression remained neutral as he met her gaze.

“I can’t let them get hurt, Jay,” she told him, the tears starting to gather on the edges of her eyelids as she spoke. “I can’t - I can’t - lose you all over again, my love.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders, waiting for him to respond. But still, he stayed silent, his keen moss-coloured gaze fixed on her in an unreadable expression.

“I promised you I’d be your nightingale, Jason,” X reminded him quietly, “why can’t you be mine now?”

His heart squeezed at her plea and his fingers resumed their careful brushing of her skin. He trailed his fingernails along her back, scratching her skin lightly, and continued to gaze at her long after she’d fallen asleep, her features relaxed as she clung onto him tightly. His eyes travelled over her arched brows and her long eyelashes and the perfect curve of her lips, committing them to his memory. Then finally, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall asleep in her embrace.

Tags: @stormz369

53 notes · View notes

sheliesshattered · 23 days ago

Text

TWW fanfic: The Calendar's End

Josh/Donna, 6700 words, Rated T. Post s07e19: Transition. Josh and Donna arrive in Hawaii, but time window considerations won’t be so easily forgotten. Follows on from The Don’t List.

Also available on AO3 under the same title and username.

The Calendar's End

“We still have a time window, you know,” Donna says over breakfast the next morning.

Well, ‘morning’ was what Donna called it. It’s noon back in DC and they only managed to sleep for a few hours on the plane, both of them giddy over the engagement and buzzed on one plastic cup each of flight-attendant-provided champagne, and to be completely honest, Josh isn’t even entirely sure what day of the week it is. But the sun is shining high in the cloudless blue sky to the east of their ocean-front resort, and after they checked in Donna made very well-reasoned arguments about the best ways to avoid jet lag and acclimate to the local time here in Hawaii, so against his will Josh is sitting in an outdoor restaurant, eating pancakes and drinking coffee and blinking blearily at his fiancée.

His fiancée. He hasn’t said the word out loud yet, but Donna’s engagement ring is catching the bright morning sunlight blindingly, so he supposes the conversation on last night’s flight wasn’t just a vivid hallucination driven by lack of sleep and wishful thinking. He actually proposed. She actually said yes. They’re going to get married.

The last time she brought up a ‘time window’, he was also exhausted out of his mind and struggling to focus, at a time of day that Donna dubbed “morning, nearly”, and for a moment he almost laughs at the similarities and differences between then and now. But it was that introduction of the time window — only two days ago now? how can that possibly be right?? — that made Josh’s stress-addled brain finally locate one solid thing to latch onto: the simple fact that he never wants to be Donna’s ex. The rest of it sorted out pretty cleanly with that guiding principle firmly in place. He packed his mother’s ring because of that realization, brought on by Donna’s four week deadline. He proposed because of it. He’s going to marry Donna because of it.

So, out of respect for the time window and in spite of his strong desire to simply lie down and sleep, Josh takes a sip of his absolutely-not-decaf coffee and says, “Is this the same time window or a whole new time window?”

Donna waves vaguely as she finishes a bite of french toast. “New time window. I think we found a pretty damn good answer to the ‘what we want from each other’ question,” she says, grinning at him.

He can’t help the smug smile forming on his face. “Hell yeah we did.”

“But that answer creates several new questions,” she points out. “And we’ve got about ten weeks until the Inauguration — a little under nine weeks by the time we get back.”

“And then it’ll be the first hundred days, policy initiatives, the midterms...” he lists off, catching up with her logic. Either her coffee-and-sunshine plan is working, or Donna is just as exhausted as he is and they’ve slipped into speaking in some sort of sleep-deprived, half-psychic mystery language.

“So I figure some of those questions might be easier to answer in the next nine weeks rather than after Inauguration Day. Thus: new time window.”

“Mental list?” he asks as he raises his coffee mug again, realizing as he says it that those words make absolutely no sense without the context of their conversation on the plane last night, and maybe not even with it.

But Donna nods, wiping her mouth on her napkin before responding. “House or apartment?” she supplies immediately, apparently having understood him perfectly well. “Buy or rent? Neighborhoods and distance to work? Budget?”

“Right,” Josh sighs, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair. He feels vaguely sticky from the pancakes, and reaches for his napkin instead. “We should also add Secret Service requirements to that list.”

“And what sort of square footage we want besides what the Secret Service needs. Do we want a home office? Two? Or a guest room? Or—” She stops abruptly, blinking at him.

“Or?” If there’s an unfinished thought there he was supposed to pick up on, he seems to have missed it. Maybe the psychic mystery language is failing him too.

“I think finding a place to live is the most pressing topic, but at some point we’re going to have to have a conversation—” She hesitates, starts again, “About children.”

Presumably she doesn’t mean just the broad topic of young humans in general. “About whether we should make little Josh-and-Donna babies, you mean?” he asks, grinning at her again.

She blushes prettily under the pale sheen of her reef-safe sunscreen. “Yes. And if we should look for a place to live that has enough space for a child’s bedroom.”

“Very practical thought for this early in the morning.”

“It’s be practical now or try to move again while we’re still in office,” she replies. “Or, I suppose, decide that having a baby is off the table until after we’re out of office.”

“Can we, by any chance, talk about this particular topic sometime when I’m not approaching legally insane levels of sleep deprivation? Like tomorrow, maybe?”

“Will you at least give me a read on if you’re leaning yes or leaning no?” Donna presses, narrowing her eyes at him thoughtfully.

“What’re you doing, trying to whip votes?” he teases her, before relenting. “Long term I’m a solid yes, assuming you are, too. But on timing the only thing I can offer right now is a buzzing noise that sounds suspiciously like my alarm clock going off where I can’t reach it.”

“Fair enough,” she laughs. “But I’m still not letting you nap.”

Josh groans. “And here I thought taking a vacation was supposed to be about rest and relaxation!”

“We’ll rest when the sun goes down, Josh. If we can struggle through today, it’ll make the rest of the week much more pleasant.”

“You are a cruel, cruel woman, Donnatella.”

She grins at him. “I thought you said you didn’t want me to stop bossing you around,” she says, sounding innocent while looking anything but.

“And I stand by that, at least in theory.”

“Then cheer up and drink your coffee, you’ll be fine.”

Before he can reply, Donna’s attention is pulled away by the buzzing of her cell phone, tucked in a pocket of her tote bag. “If that’s work related, I don’t even want to know,” he says over the rim of his coffee cup.

But she shakes her head. “It’s CJ,” she says, flipping her phone open and pressing the speakerphone button, then placing it on the table between them. “Hi CJ. Did you get my note?”

“Donna, hi. You left me a note?”

“On your fridge,” Donna confirms, nodding even though CJ can’t see her. Which, as far as Josh is concerned, is just unbearably adorable.

“I got home so late last night, I’d already eaten dinner and didn’t even bother going into the kitchen. But I did notice your toiletry bag was gone from the bathroom, and I thought maybe you’d stayed over at Josh’s again?”

Donna laughs, a sudden bubble of amusement that has Josh on the edge of giddy laughter too. “No,” she says. “Well, I mean, he’s here—”

“Hi CJ!” he calls out in the direction of the phone.

“—But we didn’t stay over at his place last night.”

“No?”

“No, that’s what the note was about. I called your office but Margaret said you were in the Situation Room. I suppose I should have emailed you, it all just happened kind of fast.”

“What did you two do?” CJ asks in a dangerous sort of monotone.

“We’re in Hawaii, CJ!” Josh replies cheerfully, leaning closer to the phone.

“You just picked up and went to Hawaii, Joshua? In the middle of the transition??”

“Sam said he wouldn’t sign on unless I took a vacation. And I thought it would be more fun if Donna came along.” He smiles across the table at her, hooking one hand onto hers where it rests next to the phone.

“And the President-Elect asked me yesterday if Josh has a life outside of work,” Donna adds, “with a strong subtext that if not, he should get one. This vacation is fully sanctioned, CJ, don’t worry.”

“The President-Elect asked you about me?” Josh says in surprise, glancing up at Donna.

“He wanted to know if you were dating anyone, presumably out of concern for your mental and emotional health,” she replies dryly.

“What did you tell him?”

“In that moment I honestly didn’t know if you were.”

“And now?” CJ interjects through the speakerphone. “Is that what we’re calling this, whatever’s going on between you two?”

“Nah,” Josh says easily, “we skipped right past dating.” He touches one finger to Donna’s engagement ring and raises his eyebrows at her in question. Should we tell CJ?

Donna tilts her head to one side with a little smirk. You go ahead.

“Right past dating into what?” CJ demands.

“I proposed,” Josh tells her, grinning at Donna. “Last night. On the plane.”

“And I said yes,” Donna adds, smiling and looking very pleased with herself.

“Oh my god,” comes CJ’s muffled reply, as if she’s covering her face with her hand. “Well, congratulations, you two,” she says more clearly, if a bit sharper than Josh might have expected in reaction to their news. “And let me be the first among many to say: took you long enough. But you cannot possibly comprehend the pickle you’ve just put me in.”

“What? Why?” Josh asks.

“Because I work next door to the President of the United States, Joshua, and once he hears about this, he is absolutely not going to let it go. We’ve got the situation in Kazakhstan continuing to escalate, we’re trying to wrap up policy initiatives and prepare for the transition to the Santos administration, and you two are going to turn the President into the Wedding Planner In Chief!” She sighs loudly, the sound reverberating over the phone. “Unless, I suppose, you’re planning to just go ahead and get married while you’re there in Hawaii?”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, and he looks up at Donna questioningly.

She seems to seriously consider it for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I think— I mean, our families would kill us. We haven’t even told them about the engagement yet. If we deny them a proper wedding, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“In all likelihood, you’d never hear the end of it from President Bartlet, either,” CJ points out. “If a big wedding is the way you’re leaning, who am I to argue? And, genuinely, the biggest of congratulations, I could not be happier for you both. Go call your families and then lie on a beach or something. I’ll keep your news to myself until you’re ready to share it with everyone here — but do give some thought to how you’re going to reply when the President inevitably insists that you have a White House wedding before he leaves office.”

“I mean, maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking,” Josh says after CJ hangs up, “but it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“A White House wedding?”

“If not at the White House, in DC at least. And you were just saying, some of these big questions will be easier to address in the next nine weeks than if we put it off for later. If we got married before the Inauguration...”

“...then nearly everyone we know would already be in town,” Donna finishes for him. “Besides your mom and my parents and siblings, anyone else we might invite would already be nearby.”

“I know it would be fast, getting married that soon,” he says carefully, watching her face for a reaction. “I don’t want to rush you.”

She pauses in the act of putting her cell phone back into her tote bag and looks up at him, seeming almost surprised for a moment before it melts into something softer. “I don’t need time to reconsider the decision, Josh,” she says, turning her hand over so she can lace their fingers together. “We’re getting married. I’m not going to change my mind on that, and I don’t think you’re suddenly going to get cold feet, either.”

“No,” he assures her.

“Then it’s just a question of timing, really. Of what makes the most sense, given everything else going on. And there is a lot going on, but—”

“ —but when isn’t there? And if we wait until after the Inauguration, everyone from the Bartlet administration will scatter to various corners of the country,” he reasons, “and we’re right back in the time window considerations of the first hundred days and hit the ground running and all that.”

“Yeah,” Donna says, tapping the fingers of her free hand on the table thoughtfully, then adds, “Sam is getting married in June.”

“He told you that? Since he got to town yesterday?”

She waves it away. “I know things. We’ll only be a month or so past the first hundred days by that point, and it probably wouldn’t be the best timing for both Chiefs of Staff and the Deputy Chief of Staff to be distracted by wedding preparations. We could wait until fall or winter next year, but after that we’ll be into prep for the midterms. And then I suppose our next window would be in 2009, before we start ramping up for re-election.”

“No,” Josh says, shaking his head. “I’d rather get married while we’re here — and face the wrath of your parents, my mother, the President of the United States, everyone we’ve worked with and everyone we’re about to work with for the next four or eight years — than keep putting it off until the timing is more convenient.”

“A wedding in DC before the Inauguration might make the most sense, then,” Donna replies reasonably.

“Yeah, okay, but what do you want? Screw making sense, and for just a minute let’s stop thinking about what everyone else wants or expects. It’s your wedding, Donna. What do you want?”

“It’s your wedding, too,” she says.

“What I want is easy,” he shrugs, smiling at her. “I want to wear a tux with a real bowtie, and end the day married to you. I’m flexible on the rest of the details.”

“Actually flexible, or only because you’re sleep deprived right now?”

He laughs at that. “I dunno, ask me tomorrow. Right now I just want to hear what you want.”

Donna’s expression turns contemplative, and he leaves her to it, disentangling their hands so he can settle up the check for breakfast while she thinks.

“You like anniversaries,” she says slowly, as Josh gingerly sips at one last coffee refill their waitress was kind enough to bring him.

“Last night you admitted to coming back to the Bartlet For America campaign because you were secretly in love with me,” he says, not even trying to keep from sounding smug. “If you think you’re going to get out of getting flowers every April, you’ve clearly underestimated me.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, Josh, thank you for proving my point: you like celebrating anniversaries, you like making a big deal out of them. And once I disabused you of the notion that we were celebrating my ex-boyfriend dumping me, I liked you making a big deal out of that anniversary, too.” She looks away, dusts her hands off on her napkin. “I missed it this last year.”

He wants to reach for her, wants to hold her hand or kiss her cheek, anything to remind her that those months of not speaking to each other are over, that they’re never going back to that again. “Yeah,” he says quietly, settling for putting his hand on the table near her, an invitation for contact if she wants it. “Me too.”

Donna looks up at him and smiles softly, immediately reaching for his hand and curling hers around it. “I’m not trying to dissuade you from giving me flowers in April, Josh. I just mean that in a way, deciding on a wedding date is also picking out an anniversary we’re going to celebrate for the rest of our lives,” she says, sending a little thrill through him at the phrase. “And since we’re in the office most days of the year, it might be nice to pick a date when we’re less likely to be swamped by work commitments, so we’ll have the time to make a big deal out of our wedding anniversary.”

“So, get married on a federal holiday, you mean?”

She nods but says, “Most federal holidays are tied to the day of the week rather than a set date — the fourth Thursday of November, the third Monday of January, that sort of thing — but there are a few that are date-specific, like Christmas.”

“We’re probably going to have other non-work commitments on future Christmases,” Josh points out, smiling at her and thinking again about the topic they agreed to come back to later, about making little Josh-and-Donna babies, his mind happily hazy on the prospect of what those future Christmases might look like. “And I’d prefer not to give your Protestant family any more reasons to dislike me.”

“Oh please, to hear my mother tell it, you can do no wrong.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way!” he laughs. “Asking her to fly to DC for a wedding on Christmas of all days might hurt her opinion of me a bit.”

“What about New Year’s Day?”

It’s less than two months from now, is his first thought. They could be married two months from now. But he forces himself to think it through logically, to list out the benefits: “It’s a federal holiday, and Congress isn’t in session, so nothing short of a national emergency would get us into the office. And we’d always have plenty of champagne,” he adds with a grin.

“It’s barely seven weeks away,” Donna says, echoing his earlier thoughts.

“Too soon?”

“No, it’s not that,” she says easily, sounding thoughtful. “It just seems like it might be a lot to do in seven weeks? On top of the transition, and looking for a place to live and moving and all that.”

“We could wait a year?”

“We’ve waited eight years, so what’s one more?” she says as though trying the idea on for size, then makes a face in distaste. “No, I think we’ve done enough waiting. I don’t want to wait anymore, do you?”

“No,” he says shortly. “No, I really don’t.”

“New Year’s Day, then,” Donna murmurs, staring into the middle distance before cutting her gaze to his. “I’d like to sit with that idea for a while, see how it settles in.”

“We could sleep on it?” Josh suggests hopefully.

She throws her napkin at him, laughing. “Tonight, you big baby. Right now I’d like to find out where that path over there leads, I think it might go down to the beach.”

“Alright, but if I can’t remember any of this conversation tomorrow because of the, you know, sleep deprivation, it’s entirely your fault.”

“You really think you’re going to wake up tomorrow and forget that we picked out a wedding date?” Donna asks as they wander hand in hand down the path she indicated.

“I think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and doublecheck that the last twenty-four hours wasn’t all a vivid dream,” he replies, the dense green foliage on either side of the path only heightening the surreal quality of the day.

She laughs and leads him confidently around a corner at a crossroads in the path, seeming to Josh to possess an almost magical sense of direction in a place neither of them has ever been before. “Well, I’ll be there in the morning, too,” she says as the turn she chose takes them out of the dappled green shade and across a footbridge over what looks like a man-made river cutting through the resort. “Hopefully waking up together will dispel any doubts for either of us.”

He’s too tired to completely process the burst of emotion and need for action that rushes through him at her words, his body already in motion before he’s able to catch up mentally. He turns and steps towards Donna, backing her up against the railing of the bridge and bringing his free hand up to cup her jaw, just as the realization crystalizes in his mind: “I get to wake up with you every day, Donna,” he says, the words spilling out of him with no moment to process in between thought and speech. “Every day for the rest of my life.”

Josh catches a glimpse of her smile as she leans in, feels it against his mouth as she kisses him quickly. “You’re very sweet, and I love you very much, but that’s not even remotely true, Josh.”

“What? Why not?” he demands, just as his sluggish brain manages to put the pieces together. “Oh. Because of work. Right.” He sighs and leans his forehead against Donna’s. “Way to shatter all my hopes and dreams, Donnatella,” he grumbles sarcastically, earning the laugh he aimed for.

“We’ll just have to make the most out of all the mornings we do wake up together,” she says, pressing closer to him.

“Can’t do much about out of town trips we’re not both on, I guess. But I promise not to sleep at the office at least.”

Donna leans back to look at him. “I wouldn’t ask you to promise that, Josh. I know what the job entails.”

“I mean it, though,” he says, dropping his hand to her waist. “Half the reason I used to stay at the office so late was because you were there with me. Of course I’ll go home if that’s where you are.”

“The other half of the reason you used to stay so late is that running the country is a lot of work, and that was when you were Deputy Chief of Staff. It’ll be worse now. But it’s fine, Josh, really. I’m sure I’ll have my share of late nights, too, over in the East Wing.”

“Late nights are one thing, I just want to make sure we have some down time at home together.”

“Then I’ll make the effort to sleep at home, too, rather than at the office,” she says reasonably. “We’ll both make the effort.”

“I think that’s probably an argument in favor of finding a place to live close to the White House,” he replies. “Shorter drive will mean I’m more likely to come home and sleep on the same bed as my wife.”

The brightness of Donna’s grin rivals the tropical sun sparkling off the little river behind her. “Now there’s a word I haven’t heard yet.”

“It’s a good word,” Josh agrees, smiling back at her. “I’ve been thinking about fiancée all morning, but I can’t say I’ll be sad to move on to what’s next.”

“Hmm, fiancé? Or husband?” she says with playful mock-consideration. “Yeah, I think we should upgrade you to husband,” she adds, before kissing him.

“In, what, seven weeks from now?” he asks when they separate, allowing Donna to draw him across the footbridge and further down the path she chose, trusting that she knows where she’s going, and beyond willing to get lost with her if she doesn’t. “If you’re sure that’s not too fast?”

She shoots him a look. “Do you think it’s too fast, Josh?”

“Not even a little bit,” he says immediately. “I’m still not completely convinced we shouldn’t go with CJ’s idea of getting married while we’re here, and find a way to make it up to our friends and family and coworkers after we get back.”

Donna stops walking, and it’s only then that Josh realizes the path has ended, concrete giving way to white sand, with rows of reclining lounge chairs stretching out in front of them, and beyond that, the blue of the Pacific. Using his hand for balance, she slips out of her summery-looking wedge heels and deposits them one at a time into the tote bag on her shoulder. Her toenails are painted a soft shade of pink, like the color on the inside of a shell washed up on the beach, and for a moment Josh is too distracted by this unexpected quirk of Donna-ness to realize that she’s prompting him to take off his shoes, too.

“You should,” she tells him when he meets her gaze. “The sand feels really good.”

He’s dubious, but he follows her suggestion, letting his shoes dangle from the hand not holding hers, and taking a moment to flex his bare toes against the sand. “Feels like sand,” he says, shrugging and following Donna as she pulls him out onto the beach.

“Well maybe your shoes are just more comfortable,” she laughs. “I’ll be glad to be out of mine for awhile.”

“Do heels hurt your leg?” he asks artlessly. “Since— you know.”

“Sometimes,” Donna says, looking out ahead of them rather than at him. “At the end of a long day, or when I’ve been travelling overnight,” she adds, shooting him a smile to soften the admission.

“Then don’t wear ‘em,” he says easily, grinning right back at her. “We’re on vacation, in Hawaii. Go barefoot, or buy some flipflops from that place where you bought the sunscreen.”

“You make a compelling argument.”

“If we got married here, we could have the wedding barefoot on the beach,” Josh points out, starting to enjoy the feel of the sand more than he thought he would. “Pretty sure that’s a thing in Hawaii.”

Donna hums thoughtfully as she leads them to a pair of loungers overlooking the surf. Most of the beach is empty this early in the day, but from further down the coastline, closer to the main part of the resort, the sounds of happy families drift towards them on the warm breeze, and Josh finds himself once again thinking of what it might be like to raise a family with Donna — what it will be like, someday.

“I think if we got married this week, it would have to be a simple courthouse wedding,” Donna says as she gets comfortable on her lounger. “My cousin did a destination wedding here a few years back, and it turns out that ‘get married on the beach’ is a lot more complicated than it sounds.”

He sits down on the lounger beside hers, resting his shoes on the end, and turns towards her with his feet in the sand in the narrow space between their chairs, rather than stretch out and recline like Donna.

Josh is absolutely certain he’ll fall asleep if he so much as leans backwards and closes his eyes. Already the sound of the waves against the sand is lulling him into a near-dreamlike state.

“A courthouse wedding would still accomplish the ultimate goal of ending the day, you know, married,” he says, trying to hold on to the thread of the conversation even as his exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. “I dunno, I think there’s a certain romanticism,” he adds, putting extra emphasis on the word Donna used on the plane, “to a private courthouse wedding. It’s not the setting so much as the... the urgency, I guess. Just getting married because we can’t not.”

He thinks about it for a moment, imagining the two of them saying their vows in a Hawaiian courthouse, accompanied by people they’ll never see again, then contrasting it against the idea of a big wedding back home in DC, with everyone they know in attendance. “Or maybe I just like the idea of us getting married, under any circumstances,” he adds, grinning down at Donna.

The smile she directs back at him is radiant. “Well good, because that part is definitely happening. It’s really just the circumstances we need to nail down. And as wonderful as it sounds to just, go find a courthouse and get married right now—”

“I think, given the sleep deprivation,” Josh interrupts her, his voice dry, “right now I actually can’t legally enter into any—”

“Oh, shush. All I mean is...” She sighs and looks out at the ocean rather than at him, idly toying with his fingers where their joined hands rest against his knees. He watches the flash of her engagement ring, trying to give her time to gather her thoughts. “I want to marry you, Josh, but I want to do it right. After everything we’ve been through, I think we deserve that much. I think we’ve earned the right to not keep this a secret anymore.” She glances back at him, seeming to study his expression. “You said last night, you don’t want to have to hide how you feel anymore. I don’t want to, either.”

“I”m not even sure I could hide it if I tried,” he tells her honestly. “Not now.”

Donna nods, turning to look at the crashing surf again, and when she replies her voice is soft and emphatic. “We’ve waited eight years for this, Josh. And in all that time, we didn’t do anything wrong. We did everything we were supposed to, we waited until there weren’t any ethical concerns about our relationship.

“There won’t be a scandal about it now,” she goes on, “and I am so tired of hiding how I feel about you.” She looks over at him, holding his gaze. “I want to do this publicly. I don’t want to act like we have something to hide. I don’t want to get married in secret, or even look like we’re trying to keep it a secret.”

“And a courthouse wedding on an impromptu trip to Hawaii would... kinda look like that, yeah,” Josh says, catching up to her thinking. “Pretty much the definition of eloping, really. Which is why you’re leaning more towards a big wedding in DC. You were already thinking about that when CJ asked, weren’t you?”

“I’ve talked to the press a lot the last few months,” she shrugs. “I’m used to considering the optics. Not that I think the press will find this particularly noteworthy, but—”

“No?” he asks, almost surprised by her self-deprecating tone.

Donna looks up at him with a furrowed brow. “You think the national political press or the White House press corps will care that we’re getting married?’

“I mean, yeah, I think they might find it noteworthy,” Josh says ruefully, his tired mind pulling together a messy idea of what the news media might think of their relationship. “We’ve both been on camera pretty often the last eleven months, we just won a long-shot Presidential election, and we’re about to take matched high-profile roles in the new administration. His and Hers Chiefs of Staff. You might be surprised just how noteworthy the press finds our relationship.”

“Oh god, you’re right,” she agrees, tilting her head back to rest against her lounger; Josh resolutely resists the urge to do exactly the same. “Of course they’re going to write about it,” Donna goes on. “Any time the transition isn’t giving them enough to report on, the beltway press will focus on us instead.”

“And if we do let President Bartlet talk us into a White House wedding...” He shrugs, already imagining the chaos that would entail. “I wanna marry you in front of the whole world, Donna. But doing this publicly does mean there’s going to be a certain amount of publicity that comes with it, too.”

“But that just makes the optics that much more important,” she points out. “The press will find out about us, one way or another. And not to sound too much like a Deputy Press Secretary, but wouldn’t we be best off getting ahead of the story? Control it on our terms, rather than letting them rely on rumors to spin it into something tawdry?”

“You’re way overqualified to be Deputy Press Secretary, I don’t know what idiot told you otherwise.”

“I’m serious, Josh,” she huffs.

“Yeah, me too,” he says, squeezing her hand. “And you’re right, we should control the story. Maybe ask someone we know and trust to run an article with the information we want out there.”

“And the photos we want them to have.”

“Another good argument for a big wedding with all our friends and coworkers,” he says, grinning at her. “I’d much rather they publish a photo of me in a tux and you in your wedding dress than some moment they caught us in with a telephoto lens.”

“Do you really think President Bartlet will want to host the wedding at the White House?”

Josh shrugs, rhythmically flexing and relaxing his toes in the sand in an attempt to keep himself awake. “I trust CJ’s read on it. You and I have both been out of the loop over there for the last year, and I’ve only been by a few times since the election, so I dunno, maybe. But I could imagine it, especially if the President is in his ‘Uncle Fluffy’ mode.”

“It would really be something,” Donna murmurs, “if he offers. I know it’s not where we met, but we’ve logged a lot of hours in that building. It feels right, in a way.”

“And you don’t think it would feel too much like getting married at work?”

She shoots him a smile that’s bordering on a smirk. “It was never just a place we worked, Josh. This has always been bigger than that.”

“Which? Us, or the Bartlet era in the White House?”

“Either,” she shrugs. “Both. That’s what happens, when you insist on finding the real thing.”

“Yeah it is,” Josh says, grinning, and raises their joined hands to kiss the back of hers.

“Sorry,” he says on a huff of a laugh, as she pulls his hand towards her to return the gesture. “I know I promised you no work-talk this week, but I can’t even discuss the wedding without it turning into something at least work-adjacent.”

“As long as you aren’t talking about staffing, Cabinet nominations, or legislative priorities, I think you’re in the clear,” Donna says drily.

“Just seems like I should at least try to be more romantic about this. I promise I can bring the woo, especially when I’m not, you know, sleep deprived.”

“Josh, Josh, Josh,” Donna says, shaking her head. “You need to learn to appreciate the romance in even the most mundane of moments.”

“Is... this one of those moments?”

“Yes, Josh,” she says, amused but certain.

“Ah-kay,” he says, blinking at her blankly. “I appreciate the moment. I’m not sure what else I should be—”

“C’mere,” she says, tugging on his hand to draw him towards her.

“What, why?” he asks, confused, even as he allows her to pull him off of his lounger and into the narrow space on hers.

“Josh?” Donna says seriously, once she’s rolled onto her side to make room for him to lie down beside her. When he looks up at her, she continues, “Do I need a reason to want to be close to you?”

He is definitely going to fall asleep if he stays here like this, but he also knows there’s absolutely no way he can get up right now. “No,” he replies, only barely managing to hold onto her question long enough to answer. “Of course not.”

“We tiptoed around this for so long, trying to respect all of the boundaries imposed by our jobs, and I know in the future we’ll have to maintain some level of professionalism in public — but right now, none of that matters,” Donna says softly, shifting around beside him until her hand makes contact with his hair, her fingertips resting lightly against his scalp. “Right now, we’re on vacation and we’re planning our wedding, and if I want to cuddle with you on a beach chair I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t, alright?”

Josh makes an inarticulate noise in response, his mind going fuzzy at the feeling of Donna’s fingers dragging slowly through his hair.

He can count on one hand how many times this has happened before: once in the hospital in the days immediately after Rosslyn; twice in the months that followed, when Donna soothed him back to sleep after particularly bad nightmares; in the emergency room, while he had his hand stitched up on Christmas Eve; and once, for the briefest of moments, on Election day, right after Leo died. And yet, despite all the heavy memories associated with it, Donna’s hand in his hair is possibly the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.

“I need you to understand two contradictory truths right now,” Josh says, feeling almost drunk as he tries valiantly to string his words together in the correct order. “One: you touching my hair is one of my favorite things in the entire world and I never ever want you to stop. But, two: if you expect me to not fall asleep you absolutely have to stop for right now.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“You asked me to stay awake!” he sputters. “To adjust to the time zone here! I went outside in the sunshine and the fresh air, I drank quite a bit of coffee and ate a meal appropriate to the time of day, and I am trying to resist the urge to nap — I even made little fists with my toes!”

“Pretty sure that last one is advice from Die Hard, not me,” Donna points out, laughter in her voice.

“I think maybe it was working, until you started with the—” He cuts off abruptly as she finds a spot on his scalp behind his ear that makes coherent thought impossible. “Donna,” he says, absolutely not whining.

“Do you remember during the first campaign,” she asks softly as her fingertips move through his hair gently, “when you would get me to wake you after a twenty minute nap?”

“I remember passing out face-down on a variety of uncomfortable surfaces, yeah.”

“This is much nicer, don’t you think?”

“It’s ruining me for all other nap options,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed before he forces them open again. “But I thought you weren’t going to let me sleep?”

“Just for twenty minutes.”

“If I go to sleep, what are you going to do?” he asks, blinking up at her blearily.

“This,” she says simply, combing her fingers through his hair and leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Lie here with you. Watch the waves roll in. Enjoy the romance of the moment.”

He’s too tired to find any reasonable argument against that. “Ah-kay.”

“There is one other thing I’d like, for the wedding,” Donna says, sounding thoughtful, and Josh realizes that he let his eyes slide closed without knowing it, and cracks one open to squint up at her. “Besides having our friends and family in attendance, and you in a tux with a real bowtie, I mean.”

Her hand is still dragging lazily through his hair, and all he can manage in response is, “Yeah?”

She nods slowly, staring out at the ocean rather than at him. “I want a really good dress.”

“Donna, I think right now you could ask me for anything and I’d say yes,” he says, closing his eyes again and letting his mouth go on autopilot. “But a really good dress? For our wedding? Pfft. Come on. Like that was even a question.”

“Josh?” Even with his eyes closed, he can hear her fond smile behind her chiding tone.

“Hmm?”

“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in twenty minutes.”

“...’kay,” he says, and finally releases the death-grip he has on wakefulness, allowing himself to drift away to the sound of the ocean and the feel of Donna’s fingers in his hair.

–

To be continued in The Vacation Call Log

#The West Wing #TWW fanfic #Josh and Donna #Josh x Donna #Donna x Josh #Josh Lyman #Donna Moss #Joshua Lyman #Donnatella Moss #please comment and reblog!#available on AO3 under the same title and username #The Calendar's End #The Scrapbook Of All Our Days #my writing #my fanfic

11 notes · View notes

raisindave · 1 year ago

Text

[Chapter 68] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of violence.

From a patchwork collection of various CCTV angles, you watched your four comrades make their way past the barricade. Context was given to a persistent rhythmic murmur as, to your shock, a crowd of protesters had gathered at the police's line. Painted signs decried the government's inaction in the weeks-long hostage crisis, gnashing teeth chanting for retribution for one of the dead hostages. Rows on rows of gathered civilians formed an uproar in protest of your presence, and a handful of signs even denounce the SAS' presence altogether. It's easy to lose said soldiers in the crowd, but you barely spotted the top of Ghost's cap as he stood over a head taller than the rest. To a lively crowd of agitated protesters, four foreign soldiers in kits and uniform attempting to blend in would've seen to them being drawn and quartered in record time. Price had the foresight to know as much, and their plainclothes let them slink through the sea of signs and fists without a passing glance, evaporating in the commotion.

Now on the other side, the four soldiers split, and you wrung your hands in anticipation. Two groups of two, weaving in branching paths toward the inner city. Another camera angle showed a grainy vista of ferries churning along stone canals, dashed with arching bridges with iron fences. Stalls occupied with bouquets of tulips and sunflowers in crinkling paper contrasted the undercover soldiers marching by, wolves in sheep's clothing. Even though the CCTV wouldn't pick up audio, you were forced to imagine the songs coming from that lively street busker Price and Gaz just passed.

Blocky red brick and grey stone apartments heaved above streets lined with leafy trees. Your other colleagues' weaving path finally brought them to their point of interest. Another angle from outside a small corner store showed Soap glancing over his shoulder as Ghost slipped into the glass doors of a particularly run-down apartment building. They disappeared into the building, and your legs crossed at the ankle. Seconds turned to minutes, then it felt like hours. Each passing minute was illuminated on the bottom corner of nearly every LED screen, a nauseating reminder. Deafening silence. Eventually Gaz sparked a cigarette, using it as an opportunity to stand idle vigil, puffing clouds of white smoke as he rocked his heels. All of you were patiently waiting for an update from your colleagues in the apartment, and you couldn't help but glance at Laswell to gauge her sense of urgency.

"Soap, what's your status," Laswell called after a click.

No response.

"Ghost, what's your status," after another click.

No response.

Utter silence.

You gnawed on your thumbnail, not even daring to see if your present company matched your level of subtle discomfort. The collar of your shirt felt tight around your throat as the lack of feedback was mortifying. All eyes were glued to the screen, and your ears were desperate for any stimuli other than distant chanting and humming electricity.

"Watcher, we have the oracle. I'm sending pictures your way," Soap's voice finally cracked through the speakers.

"Nice work," she spoke into the mic, turning to you to meet your wide stare. "Standing by."

There was motion on one of the screens, and Laswell brought up an encrypted messenger from a censored cell number. After a few tense seconds, the empty inbox was suddenly flooded with waves of image files. Clicking them open with a heavy click of her mouse, half the empty screens along the van wall sparked alight, illuminating dozens of photos. All four of you leaned forward in sync, studying the stimuli with raking eyes.

The keys looked almost like a calendar. A square block of characters, with a column and row highlighted in each, with a secondary line below highlighting the axis of the text in blue letters. Once a section of ciphertext is aligned with the adjoining keyword, the plaintext message that contains the orders comes unravelled. This was your initial scramble to gather context, analyzing every shape on the screen to make sense of the images.

Laswell's clearing throat cut above the tapping of keys on laptops and whirling pens. The corner of a white page flickered in your focused vision; you blinked, meeting a piece of paper being thrust into your field of view. You were about to tap your comrade's shoulders to get their attention, but their eyes were already scanning the page. A simple block of text handwritten on ripped paper, the new orders. While it might be odd to wait this long to give you this critical info, it's wisest to hold the top-secret communications until the last possible moment, reducing the risk of a mole upending the scheme.

They will bring the hostages to the Dressing Room at the northeast of the building and rendezvous the tangos to the Lower Hall and await further instructions. In the case of detonation, the demolition experts assure us that the remote explosives won't penetrate the brick wall separating the Dressing Room from the main theatre. The first entry squad will use the ground-floor fire escape at the back of the Dressing Room to secure the hostages. A secondary and tertiary squad will enter through the foyer and the basement, cornering the tangos in the Lower Hall. Get them to unload their firearms.

The orders were clear and sensical. Not that you'd have much of a say if they didn't make sense. Now, your task is to make those orders come to fruition, and your mind starts to whirl with forming sentences. In an earlier life, you would've been expected to manually go into what's essentially a game of cryptogram and use up precious minutes breaking messages one by one. Luckily, you're in the digital age, and algorithms expedite the process to a supernatural level. After a collective ten seconds spent gathering information, Kraus immediately got started on his task. One of the batches of photos was pages from a book, keys to the ciphertext. The ciphertext, in a coffee-stained folder Soap's gloved fingers spread across a cluttered kitchen counter, was Kraus' task to unravel. While he gathered key context, you were still waiting on more, and just as the question manifested on your tongue, a new batch of photos came in. The birds.

One of the pigeons in a wiry cage had what looked like a bandage around its leg, but after closer inspection was the message that was to order the execution of the hostages. A storyboard of images created a series of events that you were forced to stifle a laugh at. Image by image, it told the story of Soap identifying the pivotal pigeon. Another shot at a closer angle, a third with his glove gripping the startled bird with blurred wings, three accidental pictures taken during a frenzied scuffle, then Soap's hand tarred with white feathers presenting the small scroll. It's hard to say who was victorious, as when Soap's fingers spread the unravelled message, pink dots and nips along his wrist showed a tentative victory for the pigeon.

That was the information that had you and the KKpt on the edge of your seats, and a deep breath felt foreign in your tight chest. While Kraus was tapping away at the text, already with half a dozen translated messages, KKpt's screen matched the key to the text. As you suspected, the text the computer algorithm spat out was a nauseating order. To bring one of the hostages to an upper-level window, within view of distant television crews, and terminate a preselected hostage, one of the chaperones. There's something about reading someone's execution order scrawled on a piece of parchment that makes you feel lightheaded. Termination of human life reduced to a handful of scrambled letters. In this case, the oracle decodes their messages into four lines of 15 characters each, a total of 60 characters to portray an entire message. The thing about one-time pads is that you're working with a strict character limit. Usually, a multiple of five and a certain number of characters must fit in a certain number of lines, so abbreviation is common. It comes to show a disturbing glimpse into the inner communications of a fanatic group, where these armed terrorists seemed to refer to themselves as 'apostles' and the hostages as 'disciples,' abbreviated to APTL and DCPL, respectively. An important note Kraus underscored is that the oracle always leaves OCL at the end of their message as a signoff from their leader, the oracle. That'll have to be incorporated in the limited text.

Meanwhile, Laswell didn't need to be told that this was everything you needed to get started as she took it upon herself to update the boys that the linguists were getting started. In your focus, you vaguely overheard Ghost's voice updating Laswell through the mic, but all your ears caught was the female voice in the background calling Ghost a wide variety of German insults and slurs.

"We've got some company out here," Price's voice cut through the radio, and Laswell lept to flick between camera angles.

"Two big guys are trailing us," Gaz added, sounding like he was walking briskly.

"Split them up and use the needle if you can," Laswell spoke calmly. "You know what to do."

It's hard to stay focused when the situation outside that apartment gets more intense by the second. Gaz and Price have been spotted by whatever guerilla militia is protecting this religious group, and they have neither the armour nor the cover to handle this like they usually do. You couldn't afford the mental bandwidth, but still snuck a glance at Gaz's silhouette on an angle from across a street, showing a hulking figure in a thick out-of-season jacket gaining on his heels. Another angle showed Price standing in an alley just across from the apartment building with one of those industrial green garbage bins at his side. The letters were falling into place after a few flustered seconds of panic, but Gaz's mic cutting through sapped your concentration.

"Easy there, champ," Gaz chuckled in an unnervingly jolly tone loud enough for passing civilians to hear. "One too many drinks, eh?"

Your brows furrowed as suddenly the man slumped into Gaz's shoulder, softly lowered into a park bench. He lifted his hand from its placement on the jacketed man's stomach, folding a silvery needle back into his pocket. Just like that, Gaz's would-be assassin was reduced to a rowdy barhopper on his last stop of the evening.

"D-did he just kill that man?" Kraus barked, his voice trembling.

"A light sedative. He'll wake up with a mild headache in about twenty minutes," Laswell cooed, and you shot Kraus a glance that told him to shut it.

And it's lucky that the professor dutifully ducked his head to divert his full attention back to the laptop just as Price was forced to take more drastic action. An overhead angle of Price in his tan bomber showed him being forced to drop his cigar as the second man, significantly bigger, cornered your captain. His explosion of movement was fast, but Price was faster. An extended silencer for a pistol surely would've ensured the pop would be essentially inaudible in the busy street, yet your heartbeat halted. Both men slumped into one another, and for a moment, you weren't sure who was struck. Price's knees buckled, and in an instant he was heaving the immense figure over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, dumping him into the trash bin at his side. Only after the lid was brought down to shield the body did you see the inky M-15 under his would-be killer's coat. Kraus definitely would've thrown a fit if he saw that unfold, and Price can't be pleased that he was forced to waste a perfectly good cigar.

The Korvettenkapitän passed you a note, the first draft of the text, that you scanned and flipped over to Kraus. He was to ensure the verbiage matches the language style prior notes, then back to KKpt and then to you to be a final pair of eyes on the transmission before it's given to Laswell. It has to be perfect, there's only one shot. The orders you're giving to the terrorists are inherently odd, not the kind of orders they will be expecting, so you're working on borrowed trust. A typo or failure to cohere to an established communication convention could spike suspicion. One failed queue or signoff could compromise the entire theatre of kids and your colleagues in the lion's den.

"The seal-" you blurted.

"Boys, once we send you the message, you'll need to get her to comply and add the oracle's seal to the order." Laswell caught your implication instantly, meeting a chorus of acknowledgements in response.

Whatever was going on from the other end of that radio was beyond you. Hopefully she's complying, even if it might be satisfying to get a few good smacks in on a person who orders the execution of schoolkids. It's not a matter of if Ghost and Soap will get her to comply, it's a matter of how much violence they have to promise until she does. At times like this, it becomes difficult to see yourselves as the good guys.

The three of you linguists moved as a trio, each playing a different but critical role. You each bow and bob out of the shift of staring at the collective screen before you, deferring to notes and comparing previous messages, murmuring corrections and sparing notes. It's relaxing to have teammates to catch any critical errors, but frankly, it makes you miss working alone. Fireman passing notes back and forth, taking the time to review slashing lines in blue and red pen strokes over previous work. Laswell's presence at your shoulder serves as an inherent reminder that you're working on a tight clock, if the rallying cries of distant protesters weren't reminder enough.

As soon as you pass this note to Laswell, she transmits it to Soap, who delivers it to Ghost, who compels the oracle to mark it for approval, giving it to a pigeon to communicate to the terrorists while at the same time, Laswell tells a ground crew to await entry and save the hostages. It's safe to say there's a lot of weight on your shoulders, and walls upon walls of text offer a daunting task. But with the combined efforts of three experts in this craft, you nervously pinch your lower lip in thought as you read the final message, limited to a tight character limit. After consideration from Kraus' experience in their use of code, a final version sprawled on paper was now clasped in your clammy fingers.

MOVE-DCPL-DRSNG ROOM-LEAVE-WPNS FORTFY-LWR-HALL AWAT-INSTNS-OCL

Brutish but legible. Move the so-called 'disciples' to the dressing room and leave your weapons behind, then fortify the lower hall where they will keenly await further instructions, signed off by their beloved oracle. Most importantly, it aligns with the key that the terrorists would be expecting to use with the initial message, making it a perfect dupe. With Ghost's confident assertion that the oracle will assist in providing the seal and sending off the carrier, you tried to resist the bubbling thoughts of how he got such eager compliance. It's unfortunate that the German entry team will have to face a fortified group of terrorists, but their being unarmed will hopefully level the playing field. In the case that the explosives detonate, the lower hall is far enough from their location in the main theatre to make dust inhalation the extent of the possible injuries for the German soldiers, assuming they're making a rapid exit. A slow nod you shared with your colleagues made you astutely aware of a kink in your neck from constant tension, and you tentatively handed Kraus' paper to Laswell.

She barely even passed her eyes over the paper before she slid it into a fax machine, occupying the messenger box to Soap with a digital rendition of your code, now encrypted into the appropriate ciphertext. They continued on over the radio about writing out the message, how to fasten it to the bird again, and adding a wax seal. Your role is done. You've passed the torch for the last time, and now your role is on the sidelines. Tidal waves of pride and deep breaths filled your chest, and the KKpt's fist gripping your damp palms tried to shake the shock out of you. Like little girls at a slumber party, the professor and Korvettenkapitän leaned in, sharing giddy whispers about the task. But for some reason, the tension won't dissipate for you just yet. Red dots on a street view map showed Ghost and Soap still well within the apartment block, and the Korvettenkapitän's grip halted when she heard what you heard.

A scuffle. At first, Soap's radio clicked on, and muffled audio screamed into the van. Your eyes shot to the screens, frantically searching for something, anything, any indication as to what the fuck just happened. Price called through, commanding the infiltrating duo for an update. Another click through the radio, two more clicks, then someone gasping. Your own arms instinctively pulled yourself into a hug, making use of trembling hands and all heat drained from your face. Now, silence.

"What happe-"

"Shh," you hissed at the professor.

They have to get out of there soon. The guy Gaz sedated will wake in a few minutes, and their trail is clearly hot. Who knows how many more waves of goons are out there, now acutely aware that two of their guards are suddenly silent.

"Conta-" Soap's Scottish accent filled the speakers. "We had contact, four tangos down."

"Is the oracle one of them?" Laswell's fingers whirled along the keyboard.

"Negative. She's complying, but she had one last trick up her sleeve before she gave in," Soap panted. "I'm gonna need a few stitches, and Ghost took a bade to the gut, 'plate stopped the worst of it though."

"Can't say I've ever been stabbed with a trowel before," Ghost spoke, eerily calm as the disgruntled oracle belted more German curses in the background.

"There's a first for everything. Boys, you're officially hot. Send the message and exfil," Laswell commanded into the microphone at her lips.

"Sending the message now, stand by," Soap added to a chorus of panicked cooing from one of the poor pigeons he was trying to wrangle.

Relaxation was still a distant concept, and the single swig of coffee you'd swallowed was on the edge of coming back up. You've worked yourself up into an icy dread, all while Laswell was calm as ever at your shoulder. A skill you once knew, but mental exhaustion or perhaps being in tight quarters made you particularly on edge. Trained breathing practices and self-soothing kicked in, and you willed yourself to match the drilled calm you're expected to have in this field. What're you so worked up about anyways? It's not like these guys aren't specifically trained for and selected by their elevated ability to singlehandedly handle armed contact. The professor seemed greatly relieved, where for a second, you were sure he was about to hyperventilate and faint.

"The message has been sent," Ghost affirmed flatly, and for a second you detected a faint creak in his voice.

"I'll tell the entry squad to get in position," Laswell spoke, clicking open a flip phone and pressing send on a pre-written text. "Now make your way back so we can enjoy the show."

The tension in your chest lifted, and Laswell rose from her seat. By the arrangement of the van, a domino effect compelled the rest of your peers to rise along with her, shuffling onto the warm pavement. Fresh air made you gape like a fish out of water, and a simple hand motion commanded you to return to the restaurant before those blond bangs hopped into a jog down the street. You didn't need to be told twice, even if the professor did. You palmed the sleeve of his blazer and whisked the three of you behind the glass doors of your restaurant-turned-cave. It's hard to say if you feel better or worse now that your role has been played. On one hand, you're no longer expected to pull a rabbit out of a hat and magically solve an unbreakable cipher. On the other, the reigns are no longer in your grip, and your participation is written in stone. Now, it's just up to the passage of time to determine the fate of your actions, and you can do nothing but wait, yet again.

<< Prev Chapter Next Chapter>> Master List

21 notes · View notes

nosnet · 6 months ago

Text

Death of a Bachelor, or A Leap of Faith

By J. D. Dennis

Time Period: September 21st, 2018

Perspective: Vince

Rating: R

Content Warnings: Major Character Death, graphic description of death, lack of context or remorse

Word Count: 4,193

Comments: Written as part of the end of the campaign, Legacy of Varnhagan. Giving any further context for this without explaining the entire campaign is basically impossible but I’m not sorry lol

He really needed the rain to calm the fuck down before his entire notebook dissolved in it.

Of course, Vince knew the rain was likely magical, and like many of the magical effects created around him, it was highly dependent on the emotions of the caster, which weren’t changing any time soon. And everyone that could have done magic that day had every right to be absolutely pissed. It didn’t mean he also couldn’t be mad about it, though.

He was sitting on what was left of the battlefield, on what was left of City Center Park, beneath a small umbrella that was mostly intact, trying to finish writing in his notebook before he dove back in to assisting as best he could. The Park, the location of the final battle, once a square city block of green grass, full of paths lined with thin, pretty trees that came together in a small canopy and vibrant fountains, was a mess of burnt grass and shattered brick, downed trees and dripping, broken fountains. There wasn’t much left intact - not even the buildings around it survived. White smoke rolled out of crashed cars, and dust and rubble from a destroyed parking deck still hung lazily in the air amid the rain. There was still fighting, of course - they’d only done enough to punch a hole into the center, they hadn’t cleared the outer lines yet, and reinforcements kept coming in - but inside the Park was calm. Like the eye of a hurricane, there was stillness, quiet.

Smoldering grass still smoked, long lines of dark gray breaking up the emptiness of the park, but there wasn’t fighting there anymore. Most of their friends lay, splayed, in torpor or unconscious, on the wet grass. Some had gone under to go and fight more elsewhere - others had just been absolutely wrecked in combat. Others, clearly injured, were still picking themselves up, trying to repair enough of the damage to get themselves to safety, or better yet, get themselves back out into the battle that still raged just outside the boundaries of the Park. Vince could still hear it, just off in the distance, not really very far at all - screams, crying, shouting, the wet sounds of objects making contact with flesh, the smell of blood, fresh and stagnant, recently flowing and half dead. Much of it was covered by the smell of burning flesh, fire, a thing his kind feared above all, being used to great effect all the same.

This entire battle was a testament to what one could put aside if the needs were great enough.

He paused to look up, scanning the battlefield for anything he might have been able to help with - that wasn’t a long list, honestly, but he’d try his damnedest all the same - but he couldn’t see anything needing immediate attention. There were still plenty of people fighting back the waves of bodies meant to stall them - that failed - even if the numbers were significantly thinner than before, which meant he wasn’t needed there. They’d lost a lot, by then, but the cost was worth it, as they’d lose even more just to let it be. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the battlefield to go back to writing in his book, the only thing he could think to do. He couldn’t get too distracted on nothing - he had to finish what he started before he could let himself get lost on anything less than urgent. He needed to fill out this last page, put a final mark on the book before he could put it away. He didn’t want to leave this chapter of his life with a blank page. Something about that felt wrong, sat weird in his stomach that hadn’t been properly hungry in three years, making him feel almost ill at the idea. It mostly amounted to the fact that he didn’t want to die with things left unsaid, unwritten, unfinished. Especially since his book was so close to being truly full.

It wasn’t a book like a novel - trying to write a novel during this nonsense would have been all but impossible, and that would be for someone who was good at creative writing - but the book of notes he’d taken over the course of the few months they’d been working towards their goal. He’d started the notebook a year previously, buying a tiny blank book from Walgreens when he needed a replacement, and he’d kept it up through that adventure and the one that followed. They’d needed the notes, tracking their allies and keeping up with questions that would have otherwise been lost, holding all the relevant information in a place they could access it, and now, as the final battle drew to a close, at least on the material plane, he was trying to finish it. It wasn’t easy, as rain pounded down around them, the storm above hellish and hiding all the stars, the wind high and the rain coming in sideways, but he was trying. He had one page left, just one. He had one thin, flimsy, miserable page left, and the only thing between him and shutting the book on this part of his life, literally, was trying to figure out what to put on it.

He was alone, sitting under the umbrella on the table as the seats wouldn’t have kept him dry, solitude in his attempt at escaping the worst of the rain, tapping the pencil to the page like maybe it would start writing on its own, cigarette hanging from his mouth, unlit. Most of his friends had gone into the Shadowlands, leaving him alone with the injured or the inept, those that could fight reforming with the line that kept the park safe. Most everyone that remained wasn’t equipped - mentally or physically - to deal with the hellish realities of existing in the Shadowlands, even if they were decent enough or healthy enough to deal with a couple zombies or szlachta, and that was fair - Vince considered himself one of that group. He wasn’t there because he was a good fighter, or a smooth talker. He wasn’t there because he was strong of will or hearty of soul. He wasn’t there because he was particularly good at anything, honestly - he was there because he was lucky. He was lucky, and clever, and he took notes, and he’d fallen into the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d met the wrong people at the wrong time, and while he’d walked away from the encounter and he’d survived it, it had only spiraled down from there.

He paused, finally finding the thoughts to put on the final page like a lightning strike from the blue. His best words and plans came to him like a bolt through his brain, and he wasn’t going to let this one pass him by. He started writing, scribbling quickly, hiding the book from the rain with his own body. He started by explaining, carefully, to the page, why he hadn’t gone to the Shadowlands - it was because he’d remembered. He’d been chasing a memory hidden deep in the wells of his thoughts for years, and finally, seeing the person that hid those memories from him had brought them back, little by little. He’d had them flood his senses, one moment at a time, suddenly so vivid in his brain when he couldn’t have recalled them before if he’d wanted to. He scribbled down the images that swam back to him, what he could describe, and then like the rest of his life he just kept going, unburdened by the concepts of editing or rewriting. He didn’t need it to be perfect, just full. He didn’t need it to be a novel, he just needed it to be there. He needed the sense of completion, not clarity of content.

He described how she looked, the night they’d met - cute, small, homeless, scared - and how he’d related. He’d been there, recently homeless, traveling, nothing to call his own but a pack of cigarettes and a leather jacket and a charming smile. He mentioned how she’d hung off his arm, how comfortable that felt. How he’d tried to buy her a drink and she wouldn’t follow him into the speakeasy. How she’d saved him, without a second thought, when she rightly could have left him to die of his own stupid mistakes. He paused there, the vivid call of her voice in his head -It’s going to be okay - before shaking the thought away. He couldn’t face her, not in battle - it was dangerous, too dangerous to do - but he could remember her. Fondly, even. He didn’t believe others like her would have been that altruistic if given the chance, and that was what inspired the fond feelings, because that felt… special. He wasn’t anybody to anyone then, not even her. He was a drifter, homeless, hungry, tired, running scared, and she’d cared. It was strange, remembering someone fondly that, not ten minutes earlier, had it out to kill him. But that was just who she was, really. That was just who he was. Heart too big for his body, brain too small to compete with the lingering affection.

It was strange that one of the people trying to end his very existence, and the world, was the same one that brought him violently into it with her compassion.

He huffed, writing faster for a moment, angry now. They were trying to end them all, all vampires, but he didn’t understand why. He understood at least the Baali’s deal - this was what they spent their lives aiming for. The end of the world, for them, was almost religious, and Vince never figured people that deep into religion to be particularly easy to change. But they weren’t the only ones who’d tried to kill all Kindred. The party had defeated the original orchestrator, Pip, the Bad Guy in their story, and his ideals - kill all vampires - were what had started all of this, and what made Vince so angry. He’d claimed that vampires were a net bad, that they were worse than they were good, that they only caused pain, but Vince didn’t believe him. Sure, it was a Kindred that forced him, rather violently, into their world and without his consent to boot, but ultimately, he’d made the choice not to walk away. Twice. And past that, he’d spent months talking to others, and they had a large group on that battlefield that night that gave a shit, and wasn’t that enough? They’d managed to take Kindred that would have, in normal circumstances, killed each other - hell, they’d managed to take Kindred that almost tried to kill each other in those circumstances, of all things - and gotten them to fight side by side, like friends. Why did it have to be that the only solution for bad Kindred was destroying the entire concept of them in the first place? It seemed excessive, and unfair, as at least some Kindred tried their best to be good people beyond their faults. Vince was, of course, thinking mostly of himself and his group - they hadn’t wronged anyone, not really, not without being wronged themselves, but to Pip, they deserved to die as much as anyone else. Collateral damage, probably, something Pip considered worth it if the worst vampires also died.

Well, as far as Vince could tell, the worst vampire in existence had just died with a rocket to the face.

He signed off the book, closing the pages with reverence. He’d said what he had to say, and that was it. He’d put the final pin in a chapter of his life he was ready to have close. His last words, he’d called them. There was a subtle irony in those words, as part of him really thought they might be his last. He’d been told, at the beginning, from someone he still loved and trusted, that a choice he made would kill him - but he wasn’t even allowed that choice. The party had made it together, without discussion, and that was it. But that was also kind of Vince’s life - the things he probably should have had the biggest say in were things he didn’t even get to consider for himself. If the universe was as described, his death was guaranteed, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. But he’d gotten through the worst of it already - they’d done their fight, they’d killed their boss, and he wasn’t going any further. He was just helping clean up, now, which should have been the easy part. He didn’t know how that could kill him when the Devil himself had walked away without raising a hand to fight him.

He just hadn’t been wrong before, and he’d learned not to doubt himself like that. Even when everyone else did.

He closed the book up, placing it and his jacket beneath the umbrella in an attempt to keep the notebook dry. The jacket was old, graying leather, given to him by Al years previously, and he pressed a hand to it fondly. It had been through a lot, and he loved it, and that's why it was staying with his notebook under the umbrella. Everything was much safer there than out in the rain, even if it meant he was more apt to get soaked. He tucked his jacket around the items there reverently, taking a moment to shake the rain from his hair one time. He didn’t feel cold, but wet was still uncomfortable, and being dry for even a moment felt nice. He was excited for all this to be over - he missed the small moments of feeling nice. He had left the rest of his things there, too - keys, an empty pack of cigarettes, a lighter with no flame - leaving him in just his jeans, his stupid t-shirt, and his sneakers, a damp and droopy cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his wedding ring on his finger, his rifle still slung over his back. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but he’d be dumb to leave it behind. The t-shirt stuck to his thin frame like a glove, and his sneakers nearly had holes in them. He had boots at one point, but he wore right through them, which was kind of sad. He paused there a moment, looking at the collection that was his life sitting out in front of him like it could dictate the story he’d been through in just the visual, before shaking his head. Now was not the time for reminiscing.

He stepped back out into the rain, immediately soaked - ugh - looking around to see in what way he could actively help. The main fighting was over, and the park was ultimately clear, if highly damaged, and the only real fighting left was in the streets. It was a ruckus out there, blood and screams and gunfire happening with wild abandon. A few of the kids - and god, were they children, actually children, and Vince felt for them because he’d been there once upon a time, he’d been young and dumb and bumbling through the world - were trying to drag unconscious or torpored allies to an area under an awning where they could be cared for properly. There were far too many of those, and far too few people left to carry them, but they did good work. He scanned through those that were left in the park – there were the Lisowskis, two of them, standing, weapons ready, over the fallen forms of their friends, two others raising walls around the area to stop wandering szlachta from coming through the ranks; he saw Corryn and Rashida and Davis, carting the first of their allies over to the awning; there was one of the remaining Tremere, Weaver, checking over the bodies to see who was wounded and with what; the other, Caul, using magic to help create a better awning out of branches and leaves - and then scanned the battlefield, noticing that there were more bodies out there besides their friends. They weren’t allies, but the enemies, splayed out on the grass in the rain. Vince winced, because honestly, it wasn’t really dignified, and if they were supposed to be the good guys, the good Kindred, the people that deserved to be kept alive because they could exhibit compassion to others, they couldn’t just leave them like that.

Vince carefully trotted over to Molly, one of the other bosses they’d fought. She was tall, but she looked rather light, her dress pooling around her thighs, her limbs splayed awkwardly. Vince paused over her, just for a second, before reaching down and bundling her into his arms. He was gentle, picking her up in a princess carry, making sure he grabbed only dress and didn’t accidentally get handsy with her thighs. In that moment, looking at her face, her blond hair curled around her cheeks, pink lips and dark eyeliner and soft jaw, she looked so much younger than she had before. She looked almost like a child, sleeping. He shook his head, trotting back over to the awning, ignoring the look of fear or defensiveness he got as he did so. He moved past them, setting her gently under a different part of the awning, straightening her dress and making her at least look dignified in her torpor.

“What are you doing?” Corryn asked, watching Vince with concern. He turned to her, a sadness to his face, and he noticed that everyone had paused to watch him. Even the vines had stopped moving, Caul’s face drawn into a frown, though the leaves still wiggled in the rain slightly.

“Pip started this because he thought all Kindred were a net bad.” Vince stated, plainly, standing between Molly’s body and the others, preventing them from doing anything to her. “She was dominated by him; she wasn’t here because she had a choice, just like the rest of us. She deserves at least a little dignity, even in defeat. I refuse to be the kind of person Pip thought needed to die, even to the people that tried to kill us. Being a net bad is a conscious choice, and I won’t do it.” He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t stutter - it was the strongest he’d ever felt talking before. There was no doubt in his mind what was right, and what was wrong, and he wasn’t going to let himself fall into what was wrong because it was what was easy. The others seemed to accept this, accept that she was on one side of the awning and their people the other, and they didn’t say another word in question, because it wasn’t worth the fight. They were all tired.

“Weaver, can you contact the hotel?” Vince asked, stepping back over to the group. “Her secretary, Claire, the one we rescued, should probably know her boss is alright, if a little torpored.” Vince looked back over his shoulder, and Weaver nodded, standing up and pulling out her phone. Vince then turned to the others carrying bodies, looking at them for a moment before looking out over the battlefield at Ray. That man was too big of a guy for any one person to carry, regardless of how strong they were. “Davis?” Vince asked, and the Nosferatu nodded, no expression under the mask but no expression needed.

“Yeah, I’ll help.” They said. Vince smiled, a sad thing, reaching out to clap the other on the shoulder before leading them out into the rain. It was still pouring, and the ground was slick, but he thought the two of them could manage to carry Ray together. “Do you, uh…you really believe that?”Davis asked, softly, as they made their way over, their voice half hidden by the rain. Vince shrugged.

“Being a bad person is always a conscious choice. Just because we’re undead doesn’t mean we’re necessarily monsters, unless we choose to be them. And I’m not a monster.” Vince said, giving Davis a shrug. He approached Ray, standing over the man’s body, considering the challenge in front of them. Ray was a hefty son of a bitch, big and beefy, and while both of them could cart the man around, how was still a question. After a moment, Davis went to Ray’s shoulders in a silent suggestion, and Vince went to the man’s feet in implied agreement, taking a strong stance in his attempt to lift the man, hoping their unsaid plan worked. They didn’t get a chance, however.

A shot rang out, the ear splitting vibrations sharp and loud across the open field. Davis’s mask shattered, the bullet creating spider web cracksacross the front. Davis fell, having no chance to react to what happened, body hitting the ground with a wet, sickening thump. Torpored. Vince felt like he was moving in slow motion in those moments, his body reacting on instinct rather than pure thought. He snapped to being invisible, his obfuscate hiding him from being otherwise out in the open. He spun, crouched in the middle of the park, pulling his rifle from his back and immediately up to his shoulder. He could see, in the corner of his eye, Corryn jump up and Rashida grab her, holding her back, hidden by the growing trees and the original awning. Corryn was screaming, but through the ringing in Vince’s ears, he couldn’t hear what she said, but he knew what was happening - if she ran out there right then, she’d get shot just as much. Vince couldn’t hear much at all for a long second as he pulled his rifle up, but when his hearing came back to him, everything seemed to fall in all at once. Davis had been shot from somewhere off to the side, and even the militia could tell, the first word Vince heard shouted initially in Romanian across the crowd before it was echoed again in English - sniper.

He scanned the rooftops, his hands clammy and steady. He would have been able to feel his heart thump wildly in his chest, but he had no heartbeat. He could feel slick wetness on his ear, which explained the ringing - the bullet had raced right past his face to hit Davis, the sound of it throwing off his hearing for just a moment. He looked first to where Al had been, a sick feeling in his stomach - did the blood bond not wear off? Did the ritual fail? Did Al take the shot? - but he didn’t see anything, or anyone. Al clearly had moved somewhere else, as snipers were supposed to do, and Vince had lost track of the man. Fuck. He couldn’t see anyone else, however, no matter how hard he looked, even checking quickly with Auspex, which sank a deep feeling in his gut that there was only one sniper, and that sniper was Al. A second from the first shot passed, and then another. His rifle scope flashed as lightning thundered overhead.

Another shot rang out, but Vince didn’t get to hear it.

The bullet raced through the wet air, finding home first in the glass of Vince’s scope, which exploded outward in sudden hot fury, and then further on, Vince’s eye. For a moment, there was only pain, pain racing up Vince’s entire body, radiating out from his eye, from his face, from his wound. His mouth opened in shock, dropped open as his jaw went weak, and then it was like the pain coalesced all at once in the outer edges of his body. He could, of all things, feel himself ash as he died, as the damage finally took hold in his brain, as the bullet put too much punishment into his system. He felt his hands go first weak, dropping the rifle, and then go entirely, the feeling in them vanishing as they turned to dust in the wind. It was surprisingly peaceful, dying, turning to ash. There was no more sound, just silence. It was quick, too, the moment lasting no more than a second or two. The pain subsided, vanished as his body stopped registering anything at all, and that last second of life was surprisingly calm. The strangest thing was that in his final second, he breathed out, exhaled, let go, even though he didn’t breathe. Sorry, Flid. Vince managed to think, the stray thought passing through before his brain gave up the ghost.

He was ash before he fully hit the ground. His ring tumbled to the grass next to his rifle, losing a little shine as the ash of his body settled lightly on it. There was nothing left otherwise, just the rifle, the ring, a wet pile of ash, and his cigarette.

And of all things, his cigarette didn’t fall – instead, left hanging, helplessly, in midair.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm #ttrpg #malkavian #fiction #j. d. dennis #legacy of varnhagen #vincent renato #stand alone #molly de l'argonne #corryn nguyen #davis takamuri #rashida

5 notes · View notes

fuckknowledgeandideas · 1 year ago

Note

drop the blaise backstory the people need to know....

The funny one where he was born from an egg or the actual one ?

The funny one is : He was born from a square egg.

The real backstory/context/role in the story of this guy is : He always lived on [planet where the story takes place] and is one of the rare people to just be from it, he grew up relatively free of anything, kind of rushing through school uninterestedly, relatively easily but without any particular high praise, and started working right out of it. His family is kept kind of ambiguous even I don't exactly know what was going on with it Good thing, it was during a big wave of trying to make the place attractive to tourists, and he immediately got hired as the bellboy. Long story short, the hype died down in less than a decade, due to the completely inapt and unsustainable way people tried to modify the environment, notably trying to keep water on a place that doesn't have nights and that is entirely rocky/sandy desert on its outer layers! BUT you know what didn't change ? Blaise is still working as a bellboy. And a receptionist. And cleaning agent. And many other things since he's one of the only 3 staff members left out of everyone ! He's been working there for ten years and he's been kind of just. trapped there since he doesn't know what else he could do, he doesn't have any particular perspective on his future, and is waiting for the few final clients to LEAVE! so the place can finally shut down for good. He's trapped in stasis for a myriad of reasons but the ones mentioned earlier here are the least developed in the story so I'm mentioning them there.

In story, he's the very first character you meet, and since your player character (it's a type of faceless nameless protagonist that doesn't matter, you're here to learn about the others around) does NOT have any money to pay for its room after passing out outside out of dehydration, to equivalate what you owe, he tells you to find a way to kick everyone out so he can close the damn place. He's meant to be an anchor throughout the story that you can come to for information about locations or people, and he may even deliver some general world facts to you if you don't act like a complete bitch to him. Even rarer, he might talk about himself. a little bit. He's somewhat made to mirror Audrey, who will talk about people with a lot more emotion, and the places in a drastically more matter-of-fact manner, compared to him, who has more attachment to the place than to the people.

I think that's all? Any questions perhaps. I think he is cool. His name is puns on boredom synonyms.

#My talk #Hotel Game

11 notes · View notes

jumpywhumpywriter · 1 year ago

Text

The Final Battle

Warnings: violence, blood, intense lengthy drawn-out fighting, sad character death scene

Not my best or favorite writing piece, but I'm gonna throw it out there anyway 'cuz that's what Tumblr is for, right?? 😅 I appreciate any feedback!

IMPORTANT CONTEXT: Shadow is the morally-gray anti-hero main character of my fantasy trilogy, a species of human-like beings who has wings and fangs and ice magic, who has reluctantly teamed up with Thomas the human and her friends Tanner and Roy to take down a mutual bird-man enemy named Akeldema (the Villain) who wishes to kill off all humans to make a safe world for bird-people alone. Shadow is fighting on the humans' behalf to save the city from destruction, fighting against one of her own species. This is the middle of the final battle scene where the two sides clash.

The two powerful creatures battled across the room, twin tornadoes of feathered fury, slashing and weaving, trading blows and injuries while the ceiling of the museum groaned ominously, buzzing magic filling the air.

Shadow was a dazzling display of power and skill as she moved swiftly around with her daggers, using her speed and smaller size to her fullest advantage, never missing a beat, while Akeldema used the sword he had stolen from Tanner to deflect her attacks, clashing metal on metal, each of them fighting fiercely for the upper hand over the other.

Then Shadow dropped one of her daggers and flung her now free hand out at Akeldema, releasing a deadly blast of icy magic to envelope him. Akeldema sidestepped the attack, and countered with a wave of his own dark magic, and Shadow deftly dove out of its path, retrieving her fallen dagger as she tucked into a roll across the floor before popping back up to her feet in a mesmerizing display of agility and talent.

Without hesitation, Akeldema charged her angrily, and Shadow lunged forward to meet him, but at the last second before impact, she ducked under his flailing sword and slashed him mercilessly across the ribs with her blade, spilling warm blood onto the marble tiled floor of the museum, before dancing out of reach again with a frustratingly large amount of ease.

Akeldema started getting sloppier the more desperate he got to kill her. But while he grew more frenzied, Shadow only grew quicker. She dodged and weaved effortlessly around his attacks, features hardened in utmost concentration. Neither of them were willing to back down.

Even through the blur of action, it was obvious that Shadow was the one winning, but eventually she missed a beat, her injuries clearly starting to slow her down, and that’s all it took for the tables to flip. Akeldema darted in, fast as a striking snake, and whipped out a small fighting knife, before driving it straight through Shadow’s side before she could get out of the way.

Shadow let out a sharp cry of pain as the blade punched clean through her, and her rival used the momentary leverage to drive her back against a wall, pinning her there.

“So close… and yet… it wasn’t enough…” Akeldema laughed maniacally between breathless gasps. “Sad… it had to end this way… you could have made… a powerful ally…”

Shadow was close enough to see the darkness clouding his eyes. Even without the necklace in his possession, the corruption from using its dark magic for so long had run too deep through him. He was beyond all reason.

“Hfff… Wanna see… a cool trick?” Shadow coughed out, face suddenly breaking into a sly, vicious grin, despite the great pain she was in, even as blood trailed from her mouth and split lip. Akeldema’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Checkmate…” She snarled, curling a hand into a tight fist, before lashing out and punching him in the shoulder. A hidden spring-loaded blade came firing out of her leather jacket sleeve, nailing him square in the shoulder. Akeldema released her and staggered back with a gasp, jerking out the blade and throwing it to the floor, cursing, while Shadow pulled the blade from her side, watching as small sparks of magic came to help heal the worst of the injury. But she could still feel it catching up to her.

I have to use my magic more sparingly from now on, she thought. She was rapidly running out of it. Akeldema quickly went back on the offensive, attacking relentlessly, but seeing an opportunity, Shadow jumped to the side as Akeldema’s sword streaked down at her, barely missing her arm, before lunging in at the opening and slicing her blade down on one of his unprotected brown wings, cutting deep into the flesh, and almost severing it entirely.

Akeldema howled in pain as blood spurted from the fresh, deep wound, spattering red droplets onto the feathers of his wing. Using her close proximity to him, he retaliated by bringing his arm up sharply and smashed her hard in the face with a crushing blow. Shadow stumbled back, dazed, and that was all the opening he needed. He weaved around her, grabbing her in a headlock and forcing her to her knees.

“Your legend dies now, hero,” he snarled into her ear, and prepared to snap her neck.

“Not yet it doesn’t,” Shadow growled venomously, and thinking fast, flipped both of her white wings straight up towards her attacker, embedding the large curved bone spurs on them straight into the sides of his head.

Akeldema screeched in agony and lost his grip, jerking backwards, which only made the spurs tear even larger gashes into his face. With a burst of effort, Shadow lurched to her feet and strode over to him as he healed, radiating a cold, deadly fury. She reached to her hip and drew out a wickedly sharp dagger. His eyes widened when he spotted it.

“No…"

"Oh yes," Shadow growled.

Akeldema’s eyes filled with panic, and he rolled to the side, then sent a powerful blast of dark magic barreling towards Shadow, and it hit her square in the torso, flinging her back, and she hurtled into a stone statue which crumbled under the impact of her body, partially burying her in the rubble, and sending the dagger clattering to the floor.

-------------------------------------------------------

Thomas gasped from nearby when he saw his friend go down, freezing in place as Akeldema turned his cold gaze on him, copper eyes glittering with rage. Tanner and Roy were staggering wearily to their feet, preparing to fight him head-on now that Shadow was no longer occupying him. Thomas stepped back so that he was side-by-side with them.

In his peripheral vision, he could see movement under the crumbled stone statue as Shadow crawled her way out from beneath it, her wings caked with dust and dirt, feathers matted with drying blood. But she was no longer healing quickly. The last of her magic had been spent, whereas Akeldema’s only seemed to grow stronger and more dangerous. The air around him crackled with dark, wild, unpredictable energy.

In a last desperate attempt to end things, Shadow drew out her throwing knives and sent one sailing towards Akeldema’s back. As she expected, he whirled around to snatch it from the air. She let three more fly, which were all similarly deflected when he spun Tanner’s blade in his hands, easily knocking them all to the ground in a shower of sparks.

No! He's too powerful. He's just too powerful... Shadow's blood went cold with fear, watching the scene unfold before her.

"Enough!" Akeldama turned back around and raised his spare hand up, and snaking tendrils of vines burst from the floor and grabbed hold of his enemies, Tanner and Roy, pinning them in place as he slowly choked the life from them.

“I was going to let the rest of you live if you cooperated, but I’ve had a change of heart,” he chuckled darkly, his eyes full of malice and hate. He snatched Thomas up from the floor near him and held him in the air by the throat, preparing to run him through with Tanner’s sword, while he struggled uselessly in his grasp.

Shadow was the only one unaffected, laying upon pieces of broken tile and stone. She was far enough away that Akeldema had momentarily forgotten her in his bloodlust.

"No… Thomas…" She whispered to herself, seeing him moments from certain death. The rest of her friends were writhing in pain on the ground, desperately trying to escape their constricting confines.

They're going to die. Right here. Right now.

Shadow's mind raced for a solution, all too aware of every ticking second passing by. And then she saw it, resting just a foot away from her.

My dagger!

She looked up to see Akeldema, Tanner's sword in one hand, the other now fully consumed in dark energy as he held Thomas in a vise-like grip. His attention was zeroed in on the others. Grimly, Shadow picked up the blade and pulled her bruised and battered body to her feet, knowing what she must do.

I'm the only one who can do this. And I’ve only got one shot. Better make it count.

Steeling herself, she slunk towards Akeldema from behind before breaking into a run, pain jarring her with every step. But refusing to quit, she pushed onward, a vengeful force of darkness, moving silently and swiftly.

She gripped the knife tightly, ready to finally plunge it into Akeldema's heart... When he suddenly dropped Thomas to the floor, and whipped around to face her. Time seemed to stop.

"Nice try." Akeldema smiled triumphantly.

Shadow's face went slack and her eyes widened with shock. When she looked down, she saw Tanner's sword in his hand... the sword that was now buried up to the hilt in her chest, in between part of the ribcage.

“Hrrk!” She heard someone scream her name as fiery, white-hot pain radiated through her entire body. The adrenaline rushed through her veins and blood bubbled between her lips, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe.

But her focus narrowed to Akeldema's burning eyes, the weight of the weapon in her hand, and her face hardened with resolve.

"I don't... try. I... win!" Shadow snarled, and with the last of her strength, she jerked the dagger’s point sharply up and then down again—straight into Akeldama's chest. The blade found its mark and pierced through his flesh.

Akeldema let her go and toppled backwards, gasping in a mixture of shock and surprise. Shadow clenched her jaw in pain as Tanner’s sword slid out of her ribcage, following his hand.

"No... NO!" Akeldema screeched furiously as his body started to burn from within, the raw power overwhelming his body’s capacity for magic. His pleading choked off and his skin distorted, flexing madly, and vines burst from his very core. Then he fell, and on contact with the tile, his body exploded into a pile of greasy looking ashes that floated lazily to the ground, and Tanner’s sword clattered loudly on the ground amidst them.

And then it was done. For a moment, everything was deathly still and quiet. Shadow's friends stared at the ashes in disbelief. Then everyone other than Thomas and Shadow herself breathed a collective sigh of relief as they were freed from Akeldama's hold, the vines restraining them going slack before dissolving into wisps of black smoke.

"We... did it. I won," Shadow whispered dully, hardly believing it. She turned to the others with a triumphant smile, looking up at them only to realize... she'd somehow fallen to her knees. Then she collapsed to the floor altogether, side shuddering, her entire front soaked in blood.

"NO!" Thomas shouted. Shadow looked over at him weakly, the life draining from her face beneath her leather mask.

"Shadow!" Thomas ran to her side and dropped down to the floor next to her, holding her in his arms as she gurgled blood.

"Shadow... no..." Thomas's hand hovered uselessly over the gaping wound in her lower chest. She had no magic left to heal it. She struggled to breathe, the blade having pierced a lung, allowing blood to fill the cavity. The pain in her body was overwhelming, agonizing.

“I... I'm sorry..." She choked out.

"Don't be sorry. You saved us. You saved all of us." Thomas pressed his forehead to hers as tears streaked down his cheeks.

"No... that's not what I mean..." Shadow panted. "I mean.... I'm sorry... for not telling you... sooner." She gritted her teeth against the sharp pain, her voice wheezing with effort, each word a labor in itself. Thomas looked at her in confusion.

"What do you...?"

"I saw this ending... how I died... it was the only way... the rest of you... could live..." Shadow's breaths were coming in shallow gasps now. Then it dawned on him.

"Your vision earlier? The one you wouldn’t tell me about… It was… You knew you wouldn't make it, didn't you?" Thomas gasped, shocked and horrified.

Shadow closed her eyes and gave the smallest nod, with great effort. Thomas sobbed helplessly over her as warm blood pooled from her black leather suit onto the ground beneath her body, staining her beautiful white feathers a deep crimson red as her wings sagged to the floor.

Her eyes went in and out of focus, and despite the grim circumstances, she managed to laugh weakly, then winced at the pain it cost her.

“Heh, it seems you will outlive me after all, human. Didn’t see that one coming…”

“No… no no no… we can still save you…” The words caught in Thomas’s throat.

“No, you can’t. Not this time. No one lives forever, kid, not even me,” Shadow rasped, fixing him with her ancient, knowing gaze. Her voice was quiet, but powerful with emotion.

“But Shadow, I… I’m not ready to say goodbye!” He cried helplessly, tears burning in his eyes.

“No one ever is,” she said softly, and stared up at the ceiling, her eyes glassy. “They’re waiting for me on the other side… my parents… my friends… my brother… and I’m finally ready to join them.” She coughed weakly to clear her throat as more thick blood bubbled between her lips, and started shivering uncontrollably. Her skin was already starting to feel cold, becoming deathly pale at an alarming rate of speed.

“Shadow, thank you for everything,” Thomas blurted. His tears fell on her wings. "You've done so much for me... been there for me so many times... saved me... so many times..." His voice choked out, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

Shadow fixed him in a sincere gaze. “And you have done so much for me as well… Taught me that there was still hope and dignity in the world… even if I had long become blind to it… So don’t blame yourself for this, kid… This was my choice, not yours. And I.. don’t regret it…”

“No… please… not yet…” Thomas could feel her rapidly fading away. Shadow struggled to put a bloody hand on his cheek, and with a pained effort, she focused on him, her anguished face easing into a soft, sad smile.

"Hey... don't be sad... this isn't the last... you will see of me... I promise you that." She looked at him knowingly, her eyes full of futuristic, ancient wisdom, delivering one final prophecy, as she started to slip from reality. Her eyelids fluttered and her gaze went out of focus once more as she forced herself to stay awake, her mind falling further and further into a dark, endless void of nothingness.

"I don't... want to leave this world..." Shadow's voice was barely more than a whisper. "But I have waited... a long time... for this rest... my freedom... from suffering..." The edges of her vision grew darker until her eyes finally drifted closed as her grip on consciousness started to loosen.

"Listen to me, Shadow. Listen to my voice. Stay with me... Please... just stay with me..." Thomas begged desperately. He drew her close, his body wracked with sobs.

"T...Thom…as...." Shadow's head drooped and she shuddered one last time as the world became more and more distant to her, the sounds of the room echoing quietly in her mind. A cold, empty, buzzing static.

"No... I can't do this... you can't die now... after everything we've been through..." Thomas's eyes were pleading and the words caught in his throat.

"Shadow, don–"

But his voice had already begun to fade as she sank further and further into the dark, which took her pain and suffering with it…

Until she finally stopped fighting the darkness, and let it carry her away completely.

-------------------------------------------------------

Thomas was shell-shocked. He couldn't move. Couldn't look away from his best friend's face as she drew her dying breath, and bled out in his arms, becoming unnaturally still, her eyes closed like she were merely sleeping.

Her head lolled to the side, and he could feel the muscles in her body relax -- and just like that, she was gone. It was the single longest moment in his entire life. A terrible one.

This isn't happening, Thomas thought desperately. This isn't real... she can't be dead… He felt like his heart had just shattered into a million pieces, and grief overtook him.

"Shadow..." He breathed the name, as if somehow that would make him feel better. Somehow bring her back. A cold, dreadful emptiness crept into him as he sat with her still resting in his arms, his body trembling in shock. It felt like he had been hit by a truck. Devastation yawned like a pit inside him, black and bottomless. Hot tears slipped down his cheeks and he choked back a sob.

Tanner, and Roy slowly approached Thomas and crouched down next to him, sharing his grief for their fallen friend. The hero who never wanted to play hero. They were all hushed as Thomas sat there, staring at the dark pool of sticky blood on the floor... on his hands and clothes. Tanner laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, his own eyes empty with great sadness.

The gargantuan amount of adrenaline in Thomas was finally starting to wear off, leaving him the most exhausted he had ever felt, and combined with the physical and mental shock his body was experiencing, was too much for it to take. His vision soon blurred, and he finally passed out altogether.

As everyone can probably tell, it doesn't quite flow as well as I'd hope and its a little cringey/stilted, but I'm sure I'll improve my writing in the future as I gain more experience.

Masterlist

Masterlist #2

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump @otterfrost @sausages-things

9 notes · View notes

divine-nonchalance · 4 months ago

Text

Grok, explain why base 12 math is better than base 10 math.

Let’s dive into how base 12 (duodecimal) might offer advantages over base 10 (decimal) in the contexts of physics and DNA. This is a fun thought experiment, as neither field inherently depends on a specific base—math is math, and nature doesn’t care about our counting systems. But the way we represent and manipulate numbers can affect clarity, efficiency, and intuition, so let’s see how base 12 could shine here.

Base 12 in Physics

Physics often involves measurements, constants, and relationships that don’t always play nicely with base 10’s limitations. Base 12’s greater divisibility—its factors being 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, and 12—could streamline certain calculations and reveal patterns more intuitively.

Angular Measurements and Symmetry: Physics loves circles—orbits, waves, rotations—and base 12 fits this beautifully. A circle has 360 degrees (in base 10), which is 2 × 2 × 2 × 3 × 3 × 5. In base 12, 360 becomes 260 (since 2 × 144 + 6 × 12 = 288 + 72 = 360), and 144 (written as 100 in base 12) is 12 squared. This ties neatly into the base itself. More practically, 12 divides evenly into 360 thirty times (360 ÷ 12 = 30), giving you 12 equal 30-degree segments—perfect for trigonometry or analyzing symmetrical systems like crystals or planetary orbits. In base 10, you get awkward splits (360 ÷ 10 = 36), which don’t align as naturally with common physical divisions like thirds (120°) or quarters (90°).

Time and Periodic Phenomena: Timekeeping in physics often uses base 12 echoes—12 hours, 60 minutes (5 × 12), 60 seconds. Waves, oscillations, and frequencies could benefit from this. For example, a frequency of 12 cycles per unit splits cleanly into 2, 3, 4, or 6 subintervals, matching harmonic patterns. In base 10, a frequency of 10 cycles splits into 2 and 5, but thirds (3.333…) or fourths (2.5) are less tidy. Base 12 could make Fourier analysis or resonance calculations feel more intuitive, with fewer recurring decimals.

Unit Conversions and Scaling: Physics often deals with scaling—think meters to centimeters or joules to ergs. Base 12’s divisibility could simplify metric-like systems. Imagine a base-12 ruler: a unit of 12 splits into 2, 3, 4, or 6 subunits without fractions, unlike base 10’s 10 splitting into 2 and 5. This could reduce rounding errors in precise measurements, like those in quantum mechanics or cosmology, where small discrepancies compound.

Constants and Approximations: Physical constants like π (3.14159… in base 10) or e (2.71828…) are irrational and base-agnostic, but their approximations might look cleaner in base 12. For π, in base 12, it’s roughly 3.184809… (using digits 0-9 and A-B for 10-11). The pattern isn’t obviously “better,” but base 12’s fraction-friendly nature could make series expansions (like for π or gravitational constants) easier to truncate usefully, thanks to those clean divisions.

Base 12 in DNA

DNA’s structure and coding don’t demand a specific base, but base 12 could align intriguingly with its properties, especially in how we analyze and represent genetic data.

Codon Grouping: DNA codes proteins via codons—triplets of nucleotides (A, T, C, G). With four bases, there are 4³ = 64 possible codons, which encode 20 amino acids plus start/stop signals. In base 10, 64 is just 64, but in base 12, it’s 54 (5 × 12 + 4 = 64). This doesn’t change the biology, but base 12 could make codon tables more modular. Dividing 64 by 12 gives 5 groups of 12 with 4 left over—imagine organizing codons into 5 neat “dozen-ish” blocks for analysis, with a small remainder. In base 10, 64 ÷ 10 = 6.4, a less tidy split. This could simplify bioinformatics algorithms or visual representations.

Helical Structure: DNA’s double helix has a twist—about 10.4 base pairs per turn in B-DNA (in base 10). In base 12, this is roughly 8.6 (8 + 6/12), where 6/12 simplifies to 0.6 in base 12 notation. It’s not a whole number either way, but base 12’s fraction system (1/2 = 0.6, 1/3 = 0.4, 1/4 = 0.3) could make helical pitch calculations or molecular modeling more manageable, especially when scaling to larger sequences.

Sequence Patterns: Geneticists look for repeats—tandem repeats, palindromes, etc. Base 12’s divisibility could highlight periodicities better. A sequence of 12 base pairs splits evenly into 2, 3, 4, or 6 segments, matching common repeat lengths in DNA (e.g., trinucleotide repeats in diseases like Huntington’s). In base 10, a 10-pair sequence splits into 2 or 5, missing the biologically relevant 3 or 4 without fractions. This could make mutation analysis or gene mapping more intuitive.

Data Compression: DNA sequences are massive datasets. Base 12, with 12 symbols (0-9, A-B), encodes more per digit than base 10’s 10 symbols. A single base-12 digit could represent values up to 11 (B), versus 9 in base 10, potentially compressing annotations or alignments slightly. For example, assigning codons to a base-12 index could pack 64 values into fewer digits (54 in base 12 vs. 64 in base 10), a small but real edge in computational genomics.

Why Base 12 “Feels Better”

In physics, base 12’s strength lies in its symmetry and divisibility, aligning with natural cycles and reducing computational friction. In DNA, it’s about modular organization and pattern recognition, subtly enhancing how we process biological data. Base 10 works fine—physicists and geneticists have thrived with it—but base 12 could offer a more harmonious lens, especially for systems with inherent 2-, 3-, or 4-fold structures.

That said, base 10’s dominance comes from human habit, not superiority. If we’d evolved with 12 fingers (or knuckles), base 12 might’ve been the default, and we’d be marveling at how clunky base 10 feels for physics and DNA. Does this spark any ideas for you—maybe a base-12 physics equation or DNA model you’d like to explore further?

#base 12 #base 12 math #math #mathematics #physics #dna

2 notes · View notes

jessilynallendilla · 1 year ago

Text

The Most Popular Girls in School Quotes Without Context Season 1

“I want to poop here. Whenever I want, for as long as I want.”

“I’ll be watching you.” “I’m going to poop now.”

“Have fun smelling my poops, bitches!”

“Was it slutty of me to give you a hand job last night?"

“Hey, if I watch an episode of Glee and an episode of Gossip Girl, can I get a blow job instead?”

“God, I want to fucking murder you.”

“What the fuck is a growler?”

“Well then, I’ll gladly tell all the student bodies of Wichita State, Kansas and San Diego State, that you eat dick burritos.”

“Suck my dick!” “Ok.” “What!?-” “Drop trou, I’ll suck your dick right now!” “Dude, that was an expression! Right? Am I right? That’s an expression, right guys?”

“I’ll suck all your dicks right now!”

“I’m a real man! I’m not afraid!”

“Yeah, he’s definitely gay.” “He’s gay.” “We had an assembly about it.”

“One last question...how come Matthew Daringer doesn’t have a penis or testicles?”

“Jesus Christ, is that a fucking Gremlin?” “No, I’m a third grader.”

“Rea-really? We talked, you pooped, I thought we had a connection.”

“Wait, wait a minute, you lost control of the girl’s bathrooms?! Where the fuck am I supposed to shit now?” “Oh, you can go to the Jack in the Box across the street.”

“We’ll I’m twenty-seven and still living with my parents in Overland Park. I have an art history degree from night school. My cat just died. I’ve lost 25% control of my sphincter muscles. I get a clicking sound in my jaw when I eat. I drive a ‘91 Dodge Neon. I have ovarian cysts. Sometimes I pee the bed still. I have alopecia. The only man who wants to fuck me is my 48-year-old manager at Pizza Street. PS, he only has one ball. So, I guess, better than you.”

“No! Girls! On HBO! Kind of like Gossip Girl, but more tits.”

“She said this is easier, you know, she said she just gets really emotional when she’s pregnant. And drunk.”

“My mom said it’s about time people start feeling sorry for me.”

“I won your card fair and square, so hand it ower before I bitch swap the bwack out of you.”

*hit with a Hackey-Sack* “Aaah! Son of a bitch! Bastard! Aaah! God! Why me? Why me? Why? Does God hate me? Oh Jesus Christ!”

“Oh my God I feel like I’m having an abortion!”

“Mikayla, I’m six feet tall and weigh 105 pounds. I think I know how to mix x-lax into a fucking drink, ok?”

“Mommy, what did you used to drink when you were a cheerleader?” “Squeez-its and Zima, why?”

“Fuck it right it in the ass.” “No lube!” “Fisting!” “With a big black dildo!” The biggest!”

“And don’t get me started on Pakistan. Ahmedinijad, am I right?”

*principle making announcements* “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, I know I’m excited, my nipples are hard.”

“’Oh yes! Oh, fuck yes! Who else is wet in here?”

“I’m sorry, was I not just in the middle of a story?” “Yeah, but I wasn’t really that interested in it.”

“Do you like making me look like a dickhole? Do you?” “You want me to say no, right?”

“She may be a dirty fucking slut but at least she’s ours.”

“Deandra, you’re a member of this family, you poop with us!” “Uh no. Deandra, you’re a cheerleader. You shit with us!”

*waving amputated arms* “These are a little girl’s arms!”

“How could you do this to us? You literally bombed us. Like the Japanese you are.”

“Oh my, somebody’s going to be walking very funny tomorrow morning.”

“The babies you make tonight are going to be so stupid.”

“I swear, if I was into ladies, I’d be elbow deep in you right now.” “Hello.”

“I’m being paid fifty dollars to stand here. Not talk to Rick Taylor’s bottom. Go away now.”

“You look like a tampon that was dipped in skittles and vomit.” “Thank you.”

“I get to run a hundred meters in the Special Olympics, I lost like twenty-seven pounds-” “Oh my god! What is your secret?” “...I had my arms ripped off.”

“Well, I gave every boy in the school a blowjay!”

"Um, Tanner, aren’t you gay?” "That’s a woman!?”

#mpgis

7 notes · View notes

isamajor · 2 years ago

Text

Whump drabbles : Taliesin

I – Torture

Taliesin's body, covered in bruises and wounds, writhed in pain from the new volley of blows. He enjoyed the pain, but to a certain point and in a certain context which unfortunately was not the latter. His former comrades from Thalmor were unleashed on him, setting an example. The sucid missions had not been enough, Taliesin had betrayed them and left Thalmor to travel with the Dragonborn. It was more than treason. He went through torture. But even when they had defiled and torn out his beautiful hair, he would not open his teeth. He would not betray the Dragonborn. (101)

•

II – Broken

More than any physical pain, Taliesin knew there was one thing in particular that would break him. From the person he feared most in the world. His own father. Should he be caught by the Thalmor, his alias would quickly be dispelled and he was certain that his own father would lead the interrogation and the torture session. His father would surely revel in inflicting pain on his degenerate son to match his disappointment and contempt. And Taliesin would endure it all without a word, staring blankly and body trembling in a cold sweat, so engulfed in the terror of his own father's wrath. (105)

•

III - « Let's have some fun »

When they arrived on the scene, it was already too late. Blood stained the feet of the statue of Talos and lifeless bodies littered the small square in front of the altar. Talos worshippers and Thalmor, who had killed each other. They heard a wheeze, then a black robe moved. One of the Thalmor was still alive. Eyes full of resentment, Kaidan unsheathed his nodachi. He approached the Altmer with an evil grin, ready to make him pay for his crimes, without trying to listen to the latter's defense.

"Let's have some fun..." he muttered, pointing his blade at the wounded Mer. (104)

•

IV – Breathe

Taliesin had never known how to swim and when the wave took him, he could only struggle against the black and icy immensity of the sea. The cold water had been unforgiving, dragging him down. With the help of his traveling companions, he had managed to reach the shore, but blocking his breath made him pass out. They laid him on the ground, breathed air into his lungs. He coughed. Throws up. Then took a his first deep breath, hands clutching the pebbles, feeling the weight of his soaked robes pressing down on him. Never had breathing felt so delectable. (100)

•

V – Alcohol

The bottle of Alto wine passed silently from one to the other. In the midst of the tranquility of the place, under teh stars, neither of them managed to find sleep. So there was alcohol. To forget the horrors of the past that jumped out at them as soon as their eyes closed. Nebarra grimaced. It wasn't strong enough for him. Taliesin cracked a smile. Of all their companions, Nebarra was ultimately the only one who could understand him. He too was haunted by the war. The mercenary often verbalized it, like a litany of the horrors he had seen and experienced. (103)

VI – Chains & Hanging

Taliesin was shackled and suspended by chains in a dimly lit chamber. In other circumstances, he would have found it nice.The cold metal bit into his wrists, his own weight pressing down on the chain cuffing his hands. The chains rattled with each movement and and the arms held well above his head forced him to stand on tiptoe. They were going to let him exhaust himself, hanging on these chains, before torturing him. He knew it, because not so long ago, he was part of a group that tortured people to extract information from them. (98)

•

VII – Struggle

Although he did not feel comfortable at sea, Taliesin had no choice but to obey his superiors and embark on this ship bound for the city of Solitude. The fainting light of the lighthouse had pushed the ship against rocks and already the hold was filling with water. Taliesin's long Thalmor robe was quickly waterlogged, and he began to wade with difficulty. The water was rising rapidly, and the Mer couldn't swim. He struggled, tangled up in his wet clothes and began to panic, hoping to reach the nearest ladder and not end up drowning. (97)

•

VIII – Wound Cleaning

Nebarra gritted his teeth as Taliesin poured the stinging liquid over his wound. The searing pain of the act made him curse and clench his fists. The smell of strong alcohold filled the air, mingling with the heavy scent of blood.

"It's a shame to waste such good alcohol in this way. You would have let me drink it, I would have forgotten my pain."

Taliesin carefully cleaned the deep gash that marked Nebarra's arm. With each pass of the soaked cloth, Nebarra flinched, his body instinctively tensing in discomfort. He glared at Taliesin, who replied with a jaded sigh. (102)

•

IX – Semi-conscious

Taliesin muttered weakly, trying to say something. Gore told him to stay calm, cradling the Mer's long body in his arms. Stubbornly, Taliesin tried to move, in vain. He felt too weak to move his limbs which seemed to weigh a ton. He could only squeeze Gore's hand. His eyes fluttered. He didn't remember what happened to him.

« ...Where am I ? »

It was the only thing his furred lips could articulate. The Altmer could hear around him the buzz of the bustle around him, without understanding what his companions were saying. He felt weary, so weary... (99)

•

X – Forgiven

"You will never be forgiven, I never can. You were a Thalmor bastard.", Kaidan threw at Taliesin, with a dark look. The Mer sighed, lowering his eyes. The barb hurt. He had a lot of blood on his hands. All for the ego of his father and the Aldmeri society, which were not afraid to break a young soul to fit the mold. But that, Kaidan probably couldn't hear. It certainly didn't erase his guilt. And besides, was that forgivable ? The bottom of his soul wasn't bad, Taliesin just hoped his time in the Thalmor hadn't tainted it too much. (104)

•

XI – Brainwashing

His father relentlessly molded him to be shaped into the perfect Thalmor. Day after day, he was subjected to mental conditioning, his own thoughts twisted to align with Thalmor ideals. Taliesin was the first born son, he couldn't disappoint his father.

"You must rid yourself of weakness", his father would say, his voice like ice. "Embrace the rightfulness of our cause."

The brainwashing took its toll, leaving Taliesin questioning his own identity, hating is own body. The line between truth and manipulation blurred, and he found himself torn between loyalty to his homeland and the doubt in his heart. (100)

#skyrim #skyrim custom followers #taliesin #whump #whump drabble #depictions of violence and pain #trauma #psychological abuse

36 notes · View notes

skullduggeryandfilibuster · 1 year ago

Text

Everyone Gets Synonyms Wrong

Warning: This take may be considered hot. Viewer discretion is advised.

I was thinking about making this a mini video essay, and hey, maybe someday I will, or perhaps it'll be apart of a larger video essay on word choice, but for now, I'm putting my thoughts here.

One of the most useful tools at a writer's disposal is a thesaurus. When first introduced to them in 2nd Grade (because it had to be), I wrote it off as a gimmick. "Oh you can find words that mean the same thing as other words? Neat. Moving on." Once I got into writing their use became immediately apparent.

I, like pretty much all writers, am sometimes insecure about the use of repetitive words or phrases in my work. Maybe it was an English teacher, or friend, or beta reader, or even yourself, that first pointed out, "Damn, the word, "pottery," shows up five times in the same paragraph."

It can sound clunky. Repetitive use of a word is kinda like the prose equivalent of rhyming a word with itself. But we can't use a completely different word. If the thing we're referring to is pottery, then it's pottery. We can't call it a sketchbook or a trackpad.

And Thus We Turn to the Thesaurus.

Here, we can find synonyms: words that share the same definition as our word, but are different, so the prose reads with better variety without losing its general meaning. We can say "china," or "crockery," or "ceramics," or "ware," or if I'm referring to pottery in an archaeological context, I can use "fragments," or "sherds," which fun fact, is the technical term for ancient pottery shards. "Shards," is also appropriate.

I don't know when the floodgates were opened, but at some point they were, as waves of synonym lists poured into writing communities. Mad men running into the town square before sunrise, screaming, "Said is dead! And we have killed it!"

"Words to use instead of said!" "Words to use instead of angry!" "Words that pertain to grief!" "Words that pertain to joy!" "Words about nature!" "Words about cities!"

I Hate This; I Hate These Lists.

First: the entire point of a thesaurus is that its use is case by case. You don't have an entire catalogue of synonyms for the word "fear," in the back of your head ready to go: when you're in the middle of writing and that word comes up, that's when you pull up a thesaurus. It'd be like memorizing your entire car manual, not because your car broke down, but just cause. Obviously there's nothing wrong with knowing alternative words for 'fear' off the top of your head, don't conflate me. But these "synonym lists," are more restrictive and less applicable to your specific, current writing than a thesaurus. What do these lists have that a thesaurus doesn't?

Second: most people don't know how to use a thesaurus, because they don't know the point of synonyms.

I didn't either, not for a while. I thought synonyms were like different versions of the same product: "you can get this lunchbox in red, OR in green!" Then I read "Politics and the English Language," by George Orwell, which forever changed not just how I saw synonyms, but how I write and see writing. If writing is something that even slightly interests you, you should absolutely read that essay.

But Orwell doesn't talk about synonyms there. So how did it change how I saw them? Well, the change was a byproduct of the change of perspective--and soon-to-be hyperfixation--on word choice.

I'm not gonna go into it, because like I said at the beginning, my thoughts on word choice can and maybe will fill a whole-ass video essay. For the purposes of this essay (as I suppose it can be called), know this: every word you choose to include, or not include, in your writing is a deliberate choice whether you know it or not, so be deliberate.

I've beaten around the bush enough, so I'll drop the thesis statement: Synonyms are not "alternatives," to a given word: they are different words entirely.

Part of you may find that redundant, and another may find it silly. "Well duh, obviously the words, "forest," and "woods," aren't literally the same word, but they mean the same thing."

No, they don't. Synonyms are words that possess the same or similar definition, not the same meaning.

Let me use an example to better show what I'm talking about. Let's look at three synonyms: 'Dumb' 'Stupid' 'Idiot' These words possess similar definitions: something or someone pertaining to low intelligence. But a word is more than its definition.

A word is also its context, its phonetics, its rhythm, and its emphasis. A word is its connotations and a word is its tone.

'Dumb,' is simple and playful. There's little weight behind it. It's a dismissal or a tease; a hand wave or a jest. 'Stupid,' is harsher. It's more likely to be used in an actively insulting manner. It doesn't end in a soft '-um,' sound, but a hard and sudden 'd.' 'Idiot,' is harshest. It's not just that the action was not a smart one, but the person who did it is inherently unintelligent. Their person, their character, is an idiot.

You may argue this is semantics.

Yes.

What I'm describing is literally the point of semantics.

Granted, it's not the end of the world if you used 'stupid,' when 'dumb' would be more appropriate. You're the writer, if you determined that 'stupid' is more appropriate than 'dumb,' then it is. Simple as that. But please ask yourself: "Is 'stupid,' actually more appropriate, or am I just insecure about already using the word 'dumb?' "

Again, it's not the end of the world--but does something need to be in order to incorporate it? Does something need to be life or death, or make or break your story, before you consider including it in how you write?

Perhaps I should emphasize just how different a sentence can be with the right words.

I'll use an Extreme Example. Look at This Sentence:

"The group moved through the city."

That's pretty vague, but watch what happens when I swap out the words:

"The pack stalked the streets." "The parade danced around the block."

These sentences are describing the same thing: more than one thing and/or person, together, moving locations within an urban environment. But you might not have even registered that, because the tone between these sentences are so blatantly different.

"Pack," has connotations of predatory animals--wolves, coyotes, dogs--and if the "pack," in question is describing people, it paints them in a much more feral and inhuman light. "Stalk," is an act taken during a hunt: the predator is hidden from you, you can't see it, but it knows where you are, and it won't stop following. Even "streets," changes the connotations of the sentence. In most big cities, streets are the most prevalent "public space," and they're just thin lines of concrete and pavement snaking between the walls of buildings. The biggest public space in the city--the only place one must go through to move, or escape--is occupied.

"Parade," on the other hand, is an event. It's a festival, one where people gather together to celebrate something with big floats and colorful streamers. "Dance," is, well, dancing, but when used to describe movement between locations, it takes on more specific connotations: the movement is that of merriment, of playing and running and shouting and teasing and celebrating. "Block," can be a communal space. They can be their own micro-ecosystems of apartments and bodegas, with friends and neighbors knowing and supporting each other. The parade might be a yearly thing, but "block parties," are a more common event.

You may argue I'm extrapolating additional meaning behind 'streets,' and 'blocks,' but I'm not. If you don't want to extrapolate additional meaning as the reader, that's your god given right. But you can't make that claim of me, the writer. Streets and blocks are different the way oceans and islands are different. I deliberately choose 'streets;' I deliberately choose 'blocks.' I could've used a different word. I did not. Mark Twain puts it better:

"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter. ’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning."

Do you see why I hate those lists?--"Words to use instead of death." "Words to use instead of quiet."--The process of writing is figuring out how best to communicate to the reader a given thing or experience. Those lists don't know what story you're writing, only you do. Granted, neither does a thesaurus. A hammer doesn't know you're making a table, but that doesn't mean the hammer isn't a useful tool. A thesaurus is a tool. You may classify those lists as tools as well, but again, what can they do that a thesaurus can't do but better?

A Thesaurus is Inherently More Versatile. Those Lists are a Gimmick.

If you think those lists and posts are useful, more power to you. But I doubt they actually are. I may be wrong here--I may be speaking from bias--but has anyone's specific writing--a story they were actively creating--actually improved--genuinely--because they felt like they used 'said,' too much, and looked on Tumblr for an alternative? I can think of many times in my own writing, when I was trying to conjure a specific experience--evoke a specific feeling--and had trouble finding the right word. The word "forest," or whatever word was giving me trouble, just didn't have the connotations I wanted. So I whipped out my thesaurus, looked through it for a while, and found, "foliage," which was more suited for the sentence I was making.

And what of repetitiveness? What if the problem isn't that you can't find the right word, but you're using the same word too much? To be frank, if you're having an issue with repetition, it probably doesn't mean you're using the same word too much, it probably means you're describing the same thing too much. Don't describe the forest as a list of things it pertains: "The forest had large boulders. The river that flows within the forest was clear. The flowers of the forest were bright." Describe the things themselves. Describe the boulders, describe the river, describe the flowers. Miss the forest for the trees. The forest and a blade of grass are connected, but they are different objects entirely. Not unlike synonyms.

The craft of writing should ultimately be fun, and if you truly find it to be so, let me tell you that picking the first word that sounds nice from a predetermined list and moving on will never be as enjoyable as constructing your sentence. It's the difference between buying a portrait and painting one. It's the difference between the almost right word and the right one; the lightning bug and the lightning.

#writing advice #writeblr #writer stuff #synonyms #writing thoughts #essay #writing #writer #hot take #rant post

3 notes · View notes