#cw: talk of suicidal thoughts (fictional) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aimfor-theheart · 5 months

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Why is it that dc such as r@pe, sa, and incest is totally okay to write about and romanticize but y’all draw the line at racism, fat phobia, and homophobia *talking about the writings creators make, not personal beliefs*? Whats the difference between these things? All of them are hurtful and affect people in real life, so why is everybody on here choosing and picking one and not the other? Do writers on here think that they are not comparable or that one is okay to romanticize and the other is going way too far?

Im just genuinely curious as I have seen this topic be brought up again and again, which has made me realize this and Id like to see it from someone else's pov.

hi! there is a lot to answer and unpack here and i have every intention of doing so underneath the cut. forgive me if this gets long, but you’ve asked me 4 very massive questions that i think warrant detail, nuance, and thought. there is a lot i’d like to say here.

that being said, mind the content warnings and protect yourself.

cw: mentions of rape, incest, racism, homophobia, fat phobia, discourse in general

firstly, i am going to choose to give you the benefit of the doubt in assuming you are actually curious in hearing another side and you are not simply looking to stir a pot or pick a fight with beliefs you have no intention of changing or having an open discussion on. your accusatory tone in the first half indicates otherwise and kindly, i am not an idiot. but i want to earnestly talk to you about this and again, will think better of you than you perhaps have indicated you think of me.

secondly, you do not have to censor words like rape in my inbox. that sort of censorship has become wildly popular because of tik tok and other money-hungry social media that also desperately want to silence people. do you know why you have to censor words like that on tik tok? or words like genocide? suicide? racism? 1. so that they can make money and market and push their squeaky clean algorithms but 2. and perhaps worse, so they can silence victims. if social media platforms and capitalism and the systems of powers had it their way, you would never utter these words again—whether to call someone out for justice or to have an open discussion like this one. i encourage you greatly to think critically about this and how you choose to use censorship and why.

now, to your questions.

to preface, i am interpreting this ask as being anti-dark content in fiction as you state that ALL these subjects harm people in real life. or at least, you are being critical of all dark content in fiction and the way writers engage with them, effectively ‘picking and choosing’ which are deemed acceptable and which aren’t, when they are all hurtful. i apologize if that wasn’t your intention/what you believe, but regardless, i’ll endeavor to answer you.

i personally have drawn no lines about dark content nor spoken about any of these topics specifically really, which indicates to me you have a different narrative and/or are coming from more inflammatory arguments that are always circling fandom lately. in the post i most recently reblogged, i spoke mostly of violence. which, of course, all of those things can be. but i didn’t name one of those topics in particular.

regardless, i don’t believe in the censorship of any dark content in art, but rather advocate strongly for critical analysis on a case-by-case basis. in general, i encourage thinking critically about every aspect of the world around you.

i do not believe that rape, incest, and sa are okay to write about or create art about but racism, homophobia, and fat phobia are not. i believe all of those topics are ones that can, should, and will be explored in the safety of art. all to varying degrees of success, earnestness, impact, and intent. you’re right that these are real things, that can hurt people, and the fictional work about them can have impact on our society that is tangible but the actual art or fiction created is not real. and again, this is all to varying degrees on a case-by-case basis.

art and fiction also historically and massively do discuss these dark content topics and have actively swayed the public’s opinion on matters, whether for better or for worse. throwing away all dark content in art and fiction because it is ‘harmful’ is deeply, deeply dangerous and reductive. a lot of art that engages with dark content actually makes very succinct points about it—i think of vladimir nabokov’s lolita or octavia butler’s bloodchild or speak by laurie halse anderson.

this is where we must exorcise critical thinking. some pieces of work will handle dark content poorly—white saviors making art on racism. men making art about a woman’s experiences that (as you are so interested in) romanticize her pain. etc. etc. and some art will handle it’s dark content incredibly and be transformative, perhaps even revolutionary in how we talk, perceive, or acknowledge systems of oppression, violence, and dark content in this world. some dark content in fiction will have damaging beliefs and effects on society, some will not—we must also look at scope for this, at the writer perhaps, the historical moment, their audience etc.

(for example, there is a significant difference in a main stream male writer, writing of a woman’s experience with rape in a published book in a way that makes it sound romanticized, sold to thousands and thousands of general public vs. a woman using fanfic to explore rape, take control of it, or whatever in a fanfic for a small online community where there are warnings on it. indicating she is aware of its potential damage in a way her male counterpart is not…)

but i still believe in dark contents’ existence in art. of course there is differences between all of these topics you brought up, but i don’t think their differences matter in this answer. i believe in their right to be explored in art. i am talking broadly of media/art here, which i think is the more relevant conversation, but i think you are actually more interested in a much smaller scale of people. ie. fandom. ie. mostly marginalized people in small communities online writing and creating dark content.

people will choose and pick which ones they’d like to create art over and which ones they don’t, which ones they read and which ones they don’t. there’s no ‘hard line’ drawn anywhere. and i can’t control it and neither can you. perhaps you think violence is okay to be explored in fanfic, but racism isn’t. someone else will have different preferences. i do not believe in its censorship.

now, let’s move onto your interest in romanticization and what i think you are more pointing to, which is fandom. you are specifically referring to people in fandom who write about rape, incest, etc. and ‘romanticize’ it—ie. they write about it in a way that is a fantasy. it is perhaps supposed to be horny or sexy. so let’s talk about it.

i must remind you that these topics you’ve brought up (rape, incest, sa) being written are fiction and it is (most often) done by someone marginalized who has either experienced this or is in threat of experiencing this under a patriarchy. i assure you, they are aware of its harm. hence the copious warnings in fandom spaces.

if i can be candid, sometimes i think that people forget how systems of oppression work when discussing fandom and whether dark content being created should be allowed or not.

for example, i sometimes think people who are anti-dark content in fandom believe that a woman or afab person writing a fictional fanfic about rape or sexual violence then influences people to go out and rape people or that women actually like it. when the reality, in fandom spaces, is that rape and sexual violence happen frequently under the patriarchy and then these women in fandom write fictional fanfic in response to cope, explore, take control of, etc. etc.

to insinuate that women or afab people (which fandom mostly is) exploring dark content safely in fiction then causes their own oppression and harm or trauma is rather victim-blame-y to me. fandom exploring dark content does not cause these things to happen in our society….these actions (rape, incest, sa) happen in our society or systems of power and fandom reacts to them in their art by exploring it in dark content. do you understand what i’m trying to say?

it’s not a matter of what is ‘okay’ to romanticize and what isn’t. i do not think the romanticization that fandom does with dark content (ie. my kidnapper actually loves me! or this sexual act that i did not consent to…maybe feels good) is not actually romanticizing but coping because of the systems of power that i described above. and this can be coping with anything—shame of sexuality, shame of fantasies, trauma, fear, etc. etc.

as i said in my tags in that post i reblogged and as plato said, dark content in art is a safe place to explore what would otherwise be harmful and dangerous in real life. it is cathartic. potentially even, a purging.

and even if it isn’t all that—maybe it just is trashy fantasy. it is still playing pretend. it is still fiction and in fandom spaces, it is still most likely being created by a marginalized person. and again, even if it isn’t, we don’t get to censor it. we can be critical of it or wary or whatever, but to censor it, is a slippery, slippery slope. do deem some topics as “acceptable” and others as “unacceptable” is dangerous.

just like kids play pretend where they ‘fight’ or ‘kill’ or ‘kidnap’ or ‘shoot’ each other in games of cops and robbers or heroes and villains, they are safely exploring adventure, dark content, fantasy, tragedy, and higher emotions. adults can do the same in fiction and with adult topics like sex.

and at the end of the day, we don’t get to demand the credentials to do so either. we don’t get to censor them or control them and nor should we be allowed to. i cannot stress enough that i encourage you to be critical of censorship or the absolute disgust in dark content and at those (again—often marginalized people) who engage with it in fandom. i believe it is deeply puritanical, conservative, and dangerous.

you don’t have to like dark content or consume it at all and fandom makes it easy not to with all the warnings and tags, but you cannot control others or police them. nor should you want to.

and at the end of the day, i have some questions for you. you don’t have to respond to this, perhaps they’re just things to think about. what is the end goal here? what is the point in harassing, shaming, attacking, criticizing, or interrogating people in fandom spaces who create or support dark content? do you believe that if it is purged from fandom, it will be purged from our society? if you want it purged from society—shouldn’t you start there rather than in the inbox of marginalized writers in fandom? people in fandom did not create rape, incest, and sa nor do they in their exploration of fiction…they are merely reacting to a world that did create it.

i hope at no point i came off as rude to you, as was not my intention. i intended to stand up for myself and respectfully state my opinions and thoughts on this matter. i’m sorry it got long, but also i don’t believe in being brief on such complex matters. i am a writer who engages critically with the world around me and sometimes, things cannot be made into short, snappy answers. sometimes, we must unpack.

genuinely wishing you well.

#i cannot guarantee that i’ll have the time patience or energy to answer every ask like the one above in such detail #going forward #but i do support open discussions and i wanted to be kind to this anon #these are just my 2 cents on all of this #cw: rape #cw: incest #cw: racism #cw: fat phobia #cw: homophobia #discourse

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moody-alcoholic · 25 days

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Chapter 13 - The Gun

Summary: Simon x reader, 4.4k words. When retail therapy turns into needing actual therapy. CW: descriptions of weapons, fictional terrorist attack, blood, death, use of a weapons, vomit, bombs, implied suicide bombings, PTSD, I’m European I know noting about guns, hurt/comfort.

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Enjoy <3

You spend the whole morning watching videos on how to use a pistol. You think you’re getting the hang of it. It’s not too difficult, there’s the safety and then you pull back on the barrel to load it, or something. You’ve seen that in films people pulling back on the barrel. It’s harder then you think, maybe it’s because it has no magazine in it.

You spend the next few hours almost turning the flat upside down looking for some, eventually you find one in the sock door of all places. It has bullets in it, you take them all out and count them all before putting them back. So there are 10, you don’t know if that’s a lot or not.

You teach yourself how to load it and ‘cock’ it with bullet in it. You don’t even dare touching the trigger when there are bullets in it out of fear of it accidentally going off. After another hour or so of getting used it it you decide to do something else.

You look on your phone for nearby activities even though you don’t know what you want to do. There’s a shopping centre nearby you decide thats a good idea a little bit of retail therapy to take your mind off missing Simon. Maybe you’ll buy him something nice. That makes you smile, now it’s a mission; find something nice for Simon.

You go to put the gun back in the drawer but stop yourself. You should take it with you. It’s an intrusive thought if you’d ever heard one, it would be kind of cool though. Like spies from TV. No it’s dangerous. You feel a race of adrenaline at the thought of going out in public with a weapon hidden on you. Maybe this is good to get you over your awkwardness around them, exposure therapy.

It makes you smile, okay you’re going to do it. You go into the bedroom pulling clothes out. Tight jeans and a long baggy shirt. You stand looking in the mirror in the bathroom. You place it in the back of your jeans first, it’s uncomfortable and sticking out, besides if you bend down it would be easy to spot.

You take it out looking at it in your hand. You shove it barrel first down the front of your jeans against your hip. It feels better there and the baggy shirt hides it well enough. You grab your bag, yeah if you carry your bag on that side you wouldn’t even know. You feel an excited buzz run through you. You were actually going to do this. You smile psyching yourself up. You’re just going to the store, 20 minutes tops. No one will ever have to know, especially not Simon.

——————————

It had been longer then 20 minutes but you didn’t feel as worried as you thought you would on the walk to the centre. It's busy early evening people on their way home from work stopping off to do some shopping on the way home. You don’t really know what you want to get for Simon, you’re basically window shopping until you get drawn into lush just from the smell alone.

“Need any help?” The chipper employee asks. It’s the first time someone has talked to you. It makes the weapon feel suddenly heavy in your jeans. You move your bag to cover it.

“Just looking, thank you.” You say nodding back at her. There’s that spike of adrenaline again. You like the feeling of having something on you that no one knows about. It makes you feel strangely powerfully. You’re looking at the tubs of moisturiser as your phone rings It’s Simon, it makes you smile as you pull the phone up to your ear. You don’t even get chance to say hello.

“Where are you, I tried calling the flat you weren’t there.” He says, he sounds annoyed.

“Yeah I went out, I’m shopping.” You say stopping to look at the body soaps. Maybe you’ll buy Johnny one, his nickname being Soap, it makes you smile.

“Where?” He asks.

“I don’t know some shopping centre down the road.” You say frowning, now you can definitely hear an edge of something in his voice. It sends a shiver up your spine as you see a person running past the front of the store.

“Which centre is it called Mayland?” He asks quickly. You try to look out the front of the store to see but there are more people running. Then you hear it loud pops, people screaming. Your breath catches in your throat.

“I don’t know Simon, what’s wrong?” You ask. The woman in the store grips your arm making you jump.

“Hey,” You shout at her as she pulls you in the store hitting the button to close the store front.

“There’s a shooter in the centre.” Her voice shaking eyes wide. You don’t believe her for a second then you hear more popping making you gasp. The weapon you have stashed feels heavy and cold against your skin. You swallow hard as the metal grate slams shut on the ground.

“Simon there’s a shooter in the shopping centre.” You say following the woman who’s pulling you to the back of the store.

“I know we’re on our way where are you?” He asks. Your minds blank you can’t remember. You look at the employee as she pulls you behind the counter. You can hear screaming and more shots.

“Lush,” you whisper as she shushes you.

“Stay exactly were you are okay? We’ll come find you.”

“Okay.” You reply. “Come quickly.”

“As fast as we can.” He replies then hangs up. Your hands are shaking as you put your phone away.

“Do you think I should turn the lights off?” The woman next to you asks, she’s young probably the same age as you. Her name tag says Hannah, you look at her her makeup running down her face. You don’t know what to do.

“Where’s the switch?” you ask as quiet as you can. There are still shots going off, glass shattering, people screaming.

“In the back.” She says.

“Maybe we should hide in there.” You say, she nods. You both get up slowly creeping across the floor to the employees only room. You look out the windows as you pass. You can’t see anyone. There’s another scream another shot. You feel sick. She reaches up with her shaking hands punching in the door code.

The door clicks open and you follow her in closing it behind you. There is no window on the door so you can’t see out. She turns the light off going over to the computer.

“We can look on the security camera.” Her voice is still shaking as she types in the password to the computer.

“Where does that door go?” You ask pointing at the other door in the room.

“Access to the store room. like a big warehouse.” She says as she pulls up the security camera up. Good, there’s another way out we won’t get trapped here. That makes you feel better, the weapon on your waist doesn’t feel as heavy now. You have a way to protect yourself. And Hannah, you’ve decided you need to protect her too.

You look at the security camera, you can just about see out the front windows from the angle. With the lights off it makes it easier to see shadows of people running across past the windows.

“Should we call the police?” She asks. You don’t know, maybe you should. You have no idea what to do you just want to get out of here. Then you remember Simon is coming, which means the police are probably already on their way.

“I think they know about it. My boyfriend he’s.. army, he said he was on his way. We should stay were we are.” You say trying to sound reassuring. She nods looking back up at the cameras. You can still hear noise outside, not so much screaming any more but pops and smashing.

“How many do you think there are?” She asks.

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. You don’t want to speculate. There is a loud crashing noise so loud it makes you both jump and turn your heads to the door. It sounded like a bomb. Maybe that's it, it’s over. There’s more screaming. It’s not over. You look back over at the monitor.

Hurry up Simon, please hurry up.

You see movement on the camera, you have to squint to look but there is definitely something there. You’re holding your breath as the glass window of the store smashes. Hannah lets out a screech, you almost want to shout at her to shush her. Your heart is pounding too fast for you to think. You should leave, this door is only made of wood. It’s not going to hold off a man with a machine gun.

“We should leave.” You whisper, pointing at the door behind her. Your eyes are still glued to the monitor as the man steps into the store.

“What about your boyfriend?” She asks her voice catching in her throat. Shit, he did tell you to stay where you are. Maybe if he knew the guy was in the store he would tell you to move. You watch as he walks up to the counter, the out the range of the camera.

You sneak up to the door pressing your ear up against it. You can hear his steps. You’re holding your breath again, listening to each step, you close your eyes. Each step sounds almost deafening you’re listening so closely.

Then a phone rings. Your eyes snap open looking at Hannah.

You don’t have time to think, you don’t have time. You push yourself up to your feet rushing for the door in the room as you yank it open. Hannah is still fumbling with her phone. Shit shit shit. You don’t think you just run down the corridor hearing Hannah sobbing behind you.

There are loud shots behind you, your heart is going so fast you feel like you can't breathe. You realise maybe she should have been leading cause the next door you go through leads you back into the shopping centre. You feel sick seeing bodies with blood pooling on the floor. You don’t have time to stop grabbing Hannah's wrist as she sobs, pulling her through into the centre.

You’re looking round for an exit, your head focused on the ceiling as you hear more shots to the left of you. You slowly start to move to the right realising you’re still gripping Hannah’s wrist.

You see an open door to what looks like a service corridor. You pull her over to it. You pray this leads to the loading dock and you can get out. You go through the door at the very end it opens into a store room. It’s dark automatic lights flick on as you walk in.

That’s good it means no one is in here. You let go of Hannah’s wrist, she sits down on a box sobbing in her hands. You start making your way across the room weaving round the shelves, maybe you could just stay here, the room is big and it’s at the back off the centre. You see another door with exit above it.

You turn to call Hannah but when you do a door opens. You panic jumping over boxes tripping over goods as you hear screaming, then an explosion. You throw yourself behind a shelf the smell of smoke filling the room. You take a step forward tripping over a box. The gun flies out from the spot you hid it. You'd completely forgotten about it.

“Shit,” You cough feeling around for it while smoke fills the room. Your fingers find the cold metal and you pull yourself up. You take a look back as the other side of the store room, there’s a small fire starting you think.

You feel sick the smell of burnt flesh in the air. You’re too scared to look, you should look, you should check if she’s still alive. You know she’s not, deep down you know. You need to move that would have been loud people could be on there way over to you. You force yourself to move pushing open the door.

It’s another corridor. Maybe you should head back to the Lush store, wait for Simon. You walk through a door it leads into a room that’s clearly being renovated. You hear shouting, it makes you jump you look at the weapon in your hands. You can see the what would be storefronts are borded up. The place smells of paint and wood. There are temporary walls around the place.

You press the safety off and pull the barrel back just like you saw in the video’s you watched. It feels wrong in your hands. There’s more shouting, you’re not thinking just heading towards it. You don’t know why the voice sounds familiar, everything sounds wrong, sounds muffled in your ears the only thing you can hear is your pounding chest.

“On your fucking knees!” Someone shouts. Johnny? No way, it almost doesn’t seem real. You’re weaving round the wall’s as you see movement ahead of you. You freeze in place you see the back off a man, a terrorist. You don’t see Johnny but you hear them all shouting. There is another voice too. You bring the weapon up, its shaking in your hand, you aim for his back and fire.

The weapon goes off as you watch his body fall to the floor, you killed someone you’ve never done that before. You’re not paying attention your ears still ringing. You grip the weapon as hard as you can, it feels heavy in your hands, the metal cold like the first time you picked it up. You walk over to the man eyes locked on him as you watch the blood pooling out the mans chest. You did that. You killed him.

“Soap! Clear the room!” It’s Simon’s voice, it’s Simon’s hand on your shoulder. He pries the pistol out your hands standing in front of you. You look up at him, his scary mask all of a sudden doesn’t look that scary. His eyes are wide looking down at you, you can’t tell what he’s thinking, if he’s mad or scared. Maybe he’s happy, he doesn’t seem happy.

“I-I- didn’t-t-” You stammer as Simon holds your shoulders up, you feel tears come as your legs start to shake the smell of blood in air fills your nose. There’s a chill in the air it makes you shiver.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you you’re okay.” He wraps his arms round you, you’re not expecting it. Your pressed up uncomfortably against his vest but you don’t care. Your legs give way and you fall to the floor being guided by Simon’s arms.

“There was a bomb they killed Hannah, they found us in the lush store, I don’t know there was a fire.” You say sobbing into his chest. Your voice catching in your throat, all you can think about is the smell of burning flesh.

“Shh, it’s okay. You're safe.” You look over his shoulder tears still streaming down your face as you see the body laying still on the floor. He probably had a family, he probably had a wife and kids. You killed a father, a husband, a person. You feel sick, gripping Simon’s vest tighter.

“It’s clear.” You hear Johnny as he comes back into the room. You look over at him, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You don’t care.

“What happened!?” You hear a voice behind you, a door closing. You’re still being pressed into Simon’s arms as you start to shiver feeling suddenly cold.

“She shot him.” Simon says.

“Shit, get her out of here. Gaz, Soap I want this place secure and no police til we’re ready.” You hear John shouting orders. Simon helps you too your feet, you look over at the man laying in a pool of blood as your legs feel like jelly and you’re forced to grip Simon’s vest.

“The weapon is it registered?” You hear John walk up behind you. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, or any of them.

“It’s mine.” Simon nods.

“Then how the hell did she get hold of it?” John says you hear him gritting his teeth as you shiver.

“I stole it.” You croak, you hear him sigh.

“Get her out of here.” John says before walking away. You hear him shouting in the distance as Simon leads you out the room.

“I’m sorry.” You say. He doesn’t say anything. The place is mostly cleared out now. You’re walking to the side of Simon with his arm round your waist. You wipe tears from your eyes as he leads you to the main exit of the shopping centre, there is a police cordon set up and you can see people looking around. His hand leaves your waist and he sits you down on a bench.

“Are you angry at me?” You ask still shivering. He sighs like he’s trying to choose his next words carefully

“What you did was incredibly dangerous.” He says, he doesn’t sound angry, his voice is low almost like he’s disappointed. It makes more tears well up in your eyes. You see an officer and paramedics come over. You don’t need them, seeing the officers makes you feel sick.

“Listen,” Simon says bending down in front of you forcing you to look in his eyes, they’re hard digging into you. Maybe he is mad, his hands grip your shoulders like he wants to shake you.

“You didn’t shoot any one okay? It’s really important you understand that.” You swallow hard nodding.

“Say it, tell me you understand.” He demands.

“I understand.” You nod as the officer makes it over to you, Simon’s hands leave your shoulder.

“She’s fine, just shock.” He says as he stands back up, his hands leaving your body make you feel sick and unsupported. Bile rises in your throat as you look up at the officer. You can’t stop it just having time to part your knees as you double over vomiting your stomach up.

You barely have time to regain your composure before you hear loud pops from back inside the shopping centre. Your head snaps in that direction as you see Simon already running back in. You feel the officer grabbing your arm trying to pull you up as you watch Simon disappear round a corner. You want to call out to him tell him to come back.

“Come with us love,” You hear one of the paramedics say as they drape a blanket over your shoulders. It distracts you reminding you how chilly you feel. The popping has stopped. You let the paramedics lead you to the back of an ambulance.

——————————

It feels like forever waiting for Simon to come back. You sit in the ambulance and get checked over while an officer interviews you about what happened. You tell him everything, well almost everything. About hiding in Lush, then running through to the store room, the explosion, then bumping into the masked man. You keep the fact he’s your boyfriend to yourself. And the fact you killed someone.

He was a terrorist, he deserved to die. Hannah didn’t deserve to die. You should have gone back and checked. You shouldn't have left her. What if she was still alive and you left her to die. Then you might has well killed her.

When the officer is done he offers you a lift home. You decline, telling him you’ll walk. Simon’s flat is just a few streets away anyway. You hop out the back of the ambulance when the paramedics give you the all clear. They give you some leaflet about mental health resources and ask if you would rather stay with a friend for the night.

You tell them you don’t live alone and they let you go as you hand the blanket back to them. You don’t want to go to the flat. You want to sit and wait for Simon, your body betrays you though forcing you to walk towards the flat. You don’t remember the walk clutching the flyer in your hand.

You make into the flat, it feels cold, empty. You take your phone out your pocket you see a missed call from Simon. You don’t want to call him back. You stand there looking at your phone not knowing what to say. You text him to say you’re at the flat then throw your phone on the sofa.

You don’t remember how you ended up on the bathroom floor dry heaving into the toilet but that’s where you are. You strip your clothes feeling like they’re sticking against your skin. You get into the shower turning the heat up and sinking to the floor pressing yourself up into the corner. You let yourself cry, sobbing as loud as you want letting the hot water sting your skin.

“Baby?” You open your eyes, the shower has been turned off and Simon is standing over you. You shiver as he turns round to grab a towel. You move going to stand up, your legs feeling stiff. He reaches down helping you to your feet, wrapping the towel round you.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks pulling your chin up to look at him. His brow creased as he looks round your face.

“I killed a guy.” You say, you killed Hannah too.

“I know it’s okay,” he wraps his arms round you pulling you up to his chest. His hand strokes your hair. You close your eyes breathing him in, he smells of smoke.

He leads you out the bathroom to the bedroom. You sit on the end of the bed as he brings your bag over passing you your pyjamas. You take them sitting with them in your hand like getting dressed is going to take too much energy. You look up at him standing over you.

“I’m sorry,” You say. He bends down in front of you his eyes not leaving your face. His hand lands on your knee.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Okay?” You look in his eyes you don’t know if you believe him. You just stare at him.

“I’m not angry at you no one is. You did what you had to do, you don’t get to feel guilty about that.” You nod at his words. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and he leans over kissing you. It’s a long kiss slow, one you let yourself melt into.

When he breaks away you change and crawl into bed. He gets in behind you wrapping you up in his arms. You feel his chest on your back as you stroke his arm, he plants little kisses on your head and neck. He lays there with you until you fall asleep.

——————————

Simon doesn’t sleep, at least not for a few hours. As soon as he was convinced you were sound asleep he slipped out of bed. He’s not sure what to do, he’s gone through the anger phases, the panic phases. Now he’s on self doubt.

It’s his fault you got the gun, he’s already had the bollocking from Price. He’s mad at himself for forgetting it was there, for letting you go out when they knew an attack was coming. He shouldn’t have bought you. It’s too late now, and now you’ve killed someone.

He picks up the leaflet about mental health thumbing through it. Maybe you’d be fine, maybe you’d just get on with life. When he came back after not being able to get hold of you and found you curled up asleep in the shower he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

He sighs putting it down. Price won’t be mad at him for long in fact he’s probably already over it, Price would know what to do how to play this. Simon has no idea, PTSD isn’t really talked about much, besides when you get used to the killing it’s not a problem.

He was going to shoot him. Simon reminds himself. A second before you did he had already moved his finger to the trigger. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He moves out onto the balcony to answer it, it’s Price.

“Hey,” Simon says not knowing what to expect. It’s late he didn’t think he would hear back from him until the morning.

“Congratulations lieutenant, they want to pin medals on us all.” He says. Simon can hear the smirk in his voice.

“I don’t want any medals.” He replies.

“You and me both.” Price sighs. Simon just wants to get back to normality. Maybe this is the new normal now. Being called up anytime the government needs help. He matches Price’s sigh.

“How’s she doing?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“She talked yet?”

“No.” There is a silence on the line. Simon can hear Price inhaling, Simon smiles. Smoking a cigar after a job well done.

“Take her back down to London tomorrow, just be with her, try and get her to talk.” He says. Simon knows what he needs to do. He needs to figure out how broken you are. If you’re going to need therapy.

“What about debrief?”

“I’ll get MacTavish to take notes.” Simon smiles.

“Thanks cap.” He says, he’s happy, he wants to spend time with you be with you, close to you.

“Yeah well, could have gone a lot worse.” Price says, he sounds sad. It could have been a lot worse. You could have missed, killed him or Johnny. You could have been killed in the attack. Simon grips the balcony rail looking out over the city. A city that has once again been destroyed by another attack. He lets out a sigh.

“Get some rest Simon, don’t be too hard on yourself.” Simon smiles, Price knows him too well.

“Will do.” Simon says before Price hangs up. He walks back into the flat, through to the bedroom. He looks at your sleeping form curled up in the bed. He pulls his shirt off climbing into bed behind you pulling his arms back around you.

You murmurer pressing yourself up against him. He shushes you nuzzling his head into your neck, breathing you in. She’ll be alright, I’ll make sure she’s alright. He silently promises himself, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

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#call of duty #cod #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #ao3 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost x you #simon riley

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astranauticus · 6 months

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orv 🤝 asteroid city

stories about stories that left a surprisingly large impact crater in my brain

anyway some more (frankly far too extensive) thoughts under the cut for an au i dont forsee myself drawing for again (cw: mention of suicidal thoughts and lots of talk about death)

for anyone reading this who hasn't watched asteroid city: it's a movie documenting the making of an in universe fictional play called asteroid city written by conrad earp (kdj) directed by schubert green (hsy) lead actor jones hall (yjh) who plays augie, very emotionally repressed guy whose wife (lsh, kinda) just died and is trying to figure out how to tell his children about it. anyway jones shows up at conrad's house for auditions and the two fall in love, then conrad dies from a car crash 6 months into the shows run and jones is left to play a character mourning the death of his wife while irl mourning the death of his lover and it drives him up a wall trying to figure out if he's doing conrad "right" (hence 'i still don't understand the play')

anyway for this au like everything that happens in the movie also happens i think but the character motivations are a little bit different like in the movie conrad earp writes the play before he ever meets jones hall so we don't really know why it's Like That but i think in the au kdj is either like. having suicidal thoughts or just fully believed he wasn't gonna live for very long in the like cptsd symptom kinda way lmao. so like it's not really that he wrote the play to help yjh process his own death (i think if that were the case the message of the play would be way different lmfao) but it's more like he just had death and grief on the brain and was also writing stuff. and like the answer he arrived at was that he didn't actually arrive at anything in the end. sometimes tragedy just happens and there's no meaning to it you just kinda have to live with that. like i know this is not how the process of play production works but if there's one change to the original movie plot in this au i want to make it's that kdj still dies by car accident but before the script is 100% finished or after he's been talking about rewriting the ending or something because i think he also doesn't figure out an answer he's satisfied with in the end about like death and grief and mourning. like you just know that in kdj's ideal world his loved ones wouldn't mourn him at all if he dies because he doesn't want them to be sad because of him and maybe he still hasn't fully 100% internalised that he has people who would care if he dies. anyway i think yjh kinda understands like subliminally that kdj was trying to Say Something with the play he just isn't sure what because he's looking for An Answer like some kind of meaning to everything that's happened but the point is there isn't one and if there is kdj hasn't found it either lmao. and like i think hsy understood immediately like as soon as she heard the news of his death she's figured out what kdjs thought process behind the play was and like she's absolutely not holding it together as well as she appears but she also sees yjh driving himself insane every night trying to find The Meaning or whatever and like whether or not she even agrees with kdj aside this is the only way she can think of to help him get out of that hole bc she can't exactly tell yjh like 'the point is that there is no point you just have to live with The Everything' so she's just trying her best to make him understand on his own. idk i just need someone who's watched asteroid city to see this and tell me if ive gone completely insane LMAO

#omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #kim dokja #yoo joonghyuk #han sooyoung #joongdok #art i made #my contribution to the time honoured jdj fanwork trope of kdj pairing yjh with lsh against his will #that one last hsy looks so much like qiao ling from lc what the fuck #took some liberties with the outfits and the poses bc #ok honestly for most of this i was just drawing whatever felt right based on my memories of the movie like i only looked it up near the end #so i can get all the lines right #and also. im not drawing that fuckin outfit margo robbie was wearing in that scene christ alive #god some of the anatomy is so wack

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cepheusgalaxy · 8 months

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Webtoon recomendation!

Do you like comics? Do you want something to read? Well, that's great coz I wanna ramble about my favorites so be welcome! Take a seat.

Note - CWs because in the series descriptions there might be sensitive topics: domestic abuse mention, human trafficking mention, suicide mention, noncon mention, torture mention, death mention.

Total: 13 webtoons featured, of fantasy, thriller, romance, sci-fi, mistery, the superhero genre, paranormal mistery and adventure. Some are very light, others are very whumpy.

Castle Swimmer (ongoing)

Genre: Fantasy

What is it about: In an underwater world, different merpeople live with their kind in castles. In an isolated castle, the shark people suffer from a curse, and their only hope is their prince Siren, as there is a prophecy stating that he will kill "the Beacon" and free his people. Meanwhile, Kappa, a rogue mer, is a messiah sent by god who was born to fullfull prophecies. He is known as "the Beacon". The duty of his life is to fullfill them, and he never said no to none. One day, the Beacon arrives at the shark castle; the people are cheerful! Their suffering has come to an end! Prince Siren heads to killing the Beacon, but... he isn't like he expected. Can he really kill him? If not, then what should he do? Both of them were born for one reason and one reason only. What if they can't fullfill their duties?

Notes: Romance subplots and lots (I mean lots) of queer characters! General trigger warnings for blood and some violence in certain chapters. All of the chapters have cws. Sometimes there is a panick attack.

2. SHELTER (ongoing)

Genre: Fantasy, thriller, science fiction

What is it about: Ruka lives with his mother and his uncle/stepfather in a small town. From the outside, they seem like a neat happy family. But no one seems to notice what happends inside closed doors. Ruka's uncle is a violent and unforgiving person, and whenever he takes a misstep, there is a punishment. He dropped out of school and works at his uncle's diner, trying his best to protect his mother from the person she married with. One day, his only and best friend Pom gives him a gift: she left the town for college and they can only talk to each other by phone. The gift is a virtual reality gear--she says "try it out! I'm sure you will find out something cool there." Ruka tries the VR out and dives into the world of Vahana... he ends up finding out more than he initially thought.

Notes: I absolutely love this series and the art style evolves a lot from the first to most recent chapters. General trigger warnings for despictions of domestic abuse, human trafficking and censored noncon. There may be mentions of suicide as well. Apparently no queer characters at all, uncertain if there is a romantic subplot, but I like to think that no. Oh, and in the first 50 chapters or so I don't think it has many cws. If something specific happens, there may be one (I can't remember) but after that all chapters have a general trigger warning and sometimes a chapter-speficic one.

3. Housekeeper (ongoing)

Genre: Science fiction, adventure (?)

What is it about: In an alternative world where humanity has achieved great technologic advancement still in 1930 or so, the government of all the nations was unified in one and most of human labor was replaced with AI work. Navil is a kid who lives with his grandmother, and one day, he finds a broken maid robot and asks her to fix it. He names the AI as Hasty and they grow to become dear friends. One day, however, humanity faces a threat: A misterious disease has spread around all the world and is turning humans into zombies! When her master Navil is turned into one, and there seems to be no hope, what will Hasty do?

Notes: Don't stop reading when the boy gets turned. Do not. General trigger warnings for mild fantastical violence. I'm not very far in the series so I'm not sure but it doesn't seem to have openly queer characters. No romantic subplot. No cws as far as I've got. Oh, and there is some blood too, so take care.

4. Lovebot (ongoing)

Genre: Sci-fi

What is it about: In the far future, technology has advanced and humans have travelled deep into space. A certain renowned company has trademarked one of technology's most impressive advances: Artificial partners! Lovebots are advertised as "better than real" and the perfect companions for you. They are customizable to be whatever you want them to be, from appearence down to personality traits. Xada, also known as Jackalope, is a hacker who used to be hired to customize people's lovebots for a lower price, but for the new version released it is actually illegal to do so. Even though, a customer calls Xada to customize his brand-new lovebot (he wants to desactivate the sutdown response for when the bot is in too much pain?? wtf) and he accepts the job. When he arrives at the customer's place, though, the lovebot seems unsettlingly... human. When he comes back home from the modifications, he doesn't know yet, but Xada unlocked a secret that might evolve to a whole series of conflicts... with he and the lovebot right in the center of it.

Notes: Lots of openly queer characters (you can notice in the literal 1st pannel), HUGE romantic subplot, I think I shouldn't even call it a subplot coz it's a big part of the story. General trigger warnings for domestic abuse mentions, violence, toxic relationships, panic attacks, blood and...oh yeah, both noncon/dubcon mentions and consensual (just implied, thankfully for me) sex.

5. The Ember Knight (ongoing)

Ehhh, disclaimer: This seems to be set in the same world of another webtoon by the same author, a few years later. It seems like the previous webtoon is called Gilgamesh but I haven't checked that out. It seems like some of the characters appear in both webtoons and some of the lore is only shown there. I haven't read it yet but it's not preventing me form enjoying the story, so I'd say it is optional.

Genre: Fantasy

What is it about: The Knights are the country's greatest military force. They have powers beyond human comrehension and protect the people. Nagyuun's brother, Najin was training to become one of them; he was talented, strong and kind, like any Knight was supposed to be. Nagyuun couldn't be more different than him; even though they were twins, while Najin was extremely talented and considered a prodigium with 100% of chance of becoming a Knight aprentice anytime soon, Nagyuun wasn't much more than a normal guy. He loved his brother, and even though he had hard times, they were as close as they could be. That is, until one day, assassins invaded their home. Najin was murdered, and Nagyuun, just a normal person, couldn't do anything against the Knight-level threat. His brother was dead. Nagyuun could not let them go without revenge, but they were already far away--vanished just as quickly as they had arrived. He then borrowed Najin's identity. They were identical, so the only thing that set them apart, was their names. Nagyuun's plan was to live as his brother and pretend he was the one who died so he could attract the assassins. Your job isn't done just yet. But Najin was an extremely talented person. How could Nagyuun ever pretend to be like him? How could he create the illusion that he was at the level of a Knight aprentice? He didn't knew, but in what he lacks in skill, he compensates in rage. He would not let his brother's murderers get away from that.

Notes: I absolutely LOVE this series, the designs and the colors (the colors) are amazing and I love all the characters and the plot and everything--Nagyuun is such an amazing character, and sometimes the lack of skill he has becomes lowkey comic. General trigger warnings are violence, blood, character deaths (you saw what I said about Najin) and bullying. (And also pretty poor coping mechanisms if you want my opinion.) No romance as far as it is, no openly queer characters either.

6. Señorita Cometa (ongoing)

Genre: Mistery

What is it about: Alex is a young woman who lives in Yoalco, a city with high crime rates with two opposing mafias. She works at the Yoalco police department but she's also a vigilante--Her best friend Lola went missing and now she is going to do whatever it takes--under whatever title she gets undo--to find out the truth about what happened to her--and probably dismantle a whole trafficking web in Yoalco.

Notes: This webtoon is phenomenal, there is music in some episodes and the lighting and the drama--I love this one sm. It's more of an epic sometimes lighthearted mistery than an edgy story. General trigger warnings for some mild violence, blood, human trafficking and mentions of noncon. A few romantic subplots, no openly queer characters for now.

7. Realta (on hiatus)

Genre: Fantasy

What is it about: Many ages ago, the Signs decided to share their magic with humans--by giving them their blessing according to who they were born under, humans aqcuired fantastical powers. Fourteen special ones were chosen by the signs: The Realta. Each sign has one (aside from gemini and pisces, which have two) and the Realta would always reborn under the same sign. Ellowen, our protagonist, is a virgo who lives in a little cottage with their grandfather since they were a little kid. The last time they saw their parents was so many years ago... because around the cottage there is a magical barrier that is meant to keep any dangers away. One day, Ellowen's grandfather dies, and the barrier that kept them safe and isolated from the world for so many years vanishes. When they take the courage to leave their home, they decide to reunite with their parents after so long--but the problem is that Ellowen has no idea of where the virgo village is. They soon find a capricorn girl that seems like she can help them, but what will have changed them while Ellowen didn't see what was happening to the world?

Notes: This story makes me SO HAPPY because there are not only openly queer characters, but it's normal courtesy to introduce yourself with your pronouns, and you will see lots of characters doing this. There is romantic subplot and a lot of characters I really like, and it is on hiatus for a while. I can't wait for when it gets back >//////////< The plot is not centered around any of the characters queerness though, and everything about Realta, from the worldbuilding down to the artstyle is simply beautiful. And it has such magical vibes to it as well. General trigger warnings are character deaths and some violence.

8. PARA-Professional (ongoing)

Genre: Paranormal mistery

What is it about: Two friends decide to explore what it is said to be an old haunted house. One of them pays no mind to the rumors at all, but the other knows something is going on... They both find out more than what they thought they would in there. And it doesn't stop there.

Notes: Some romantic subplot, openly queer characters, and honestly, everything about this series is so charming. The author also has another series (also ongoing but shorter and with fewer updates I think) that you may want to check out: Cryptozoology. General trigger warnings for... Blood and death mentions. It came back from hiatus a while ago.

9. Castoff (on hiatus)

Genre: Fantasy adventure

What is it about: Vector means no harm to no one, but it's not like people believe it. He's not quite human and seems to have some elfic heritage... but aside from that, anyone who sees him treats him like a monster. He lives with his adoptive mother, a librarian, hidden away from everyone for everybody's sake. That is, until a weird customer arrives at the library, and when, despiste his best efforts, she sees him, she doesn't seem afraid at all. And from there some chaotic things take place... what is she up to?

Notes: Amazing. Awesome. And it has its own site with more frequent updates, even thought it is still on webtoon. I don't think there is any romance or openly queer characters but for me some of them are pretty much queer-coded-ish. There is a lot of characters and the magic system and worldbuilding is awesome too. General trigger warnings for mild violence, a little of blood, death mentions and mentioned accidental domestic violence.

10. Cinderella Boy (ongoing)

Genre: Fantasy

What is it about: It's summer, and even though Chase doesn't have any part-time job like his relatives advise him to, he's buisier with other things: A while ago, he found a magic key that allows him to travel into books, and for every tale he finishes, he gains some drops of this misterious substance called narratonin. As soon as he finds out what it serves for, he decided: This summer, he'll gather narratonin enough to make a wish. Some people don't want him to have it easy, though.

Notes: No romance, no queer, it's pretty lighthearted and fun. There are a lot of misteries still unsolved and I'm honestly eager to find out.

11. Uriah (ongoing)

Genre: Thriller, mistery

What is it about: One day, a boy wakes up in the back of a car, bruised, restrained, and with absolutely no idea of where he is, or what is worse, who he is.

Notes: HEAVY trigger warnings for this one, and for most of the chapters this series has no cws. Blood, violence, extreme violence and lots of blood, domestic abuse mentions, sexual abuse mentions, human trafficking, character deaths, death mention and torture, honestly, like someone got heavyhanded on the whump sauce for this one. I actually love this one, but it can get pretty dark. I love most of the characters and it seems like there is some romantic subplot going on. Some of the chararcters are openly queer, including the villains. You're going to be very confused for a lot of the first season if you read it, and as the story goes on, you'll have to decide who is the good guy and the bad guy on your llist again.

Oh, and that person with the motorcycle is a girl (she/her), just so you know. Don't let the comments section confuse you.

12. Our Walk Home (on hiatus)

Genre: Romance

What is it about: In a city, two great and renowned schools have a sworn enemyship. None of their students are friends with each other, and the rivalry is so strong that it sometimes gets unhealthy. Akihiko is a top student in one of those: He has a big social circle, amazing looks, is athletic and smart. Everybody on his school loves him. He values his position, and he got a lot of effort in to get there. Even if... even if he has to pretend to be someone he's not, be extra friendly with everyone even when he's emotionally drained and give away some of his mental health. On the other school, they say there is a worthy rival for Akihiko. Harumi Kurose, who comes from the overseas. They say he's a genious with an ice heart, who looks down on anyone who isn't worth his time. Akihiko is told he will have to face Harumi one day, and despiste not showing to anyone, he is completely terrified of the guy. One day, they meet. It didn't go as Akihiko expected, though.

Notes: I love the art. Like, really really love. The art in the other ones is cool as heck but this one is really special because it is. So so so so gorgeous. And light. And refreshing. Love everything about it. CWs for this series: Death mention, toxic relationships, and, uh, burnout I guess. It's very gay. Not many openly queer characters, tho.

And last, but definitely not least:

13. Jupiter-Men (on hiatus)

Genre: Superhero

What is it about: In Jupiter City, there is a urban legend of a misterious vigilante called Jupiter Man. In a school in the city, it studies a young boy called Quintin, alongside with his twin sister, Jackie. Quintin is a big fan of Jupiter Man, and, when there is a rumor that he went missing Quintin decided to look for him. Jackie tries to put some sense into her brother's head, but he won't listen to her. Despiste not wanting to, she ends up going with him. But instead of Jupiter Man, they find another thing, and that may be a key to a misterious chain of events that will give them more than what they initially hoped for.

Notes: The art. Style. The designs. Amazing. Okay, so, there is no romantic subplot, no openly queer characters until now, and Jupiter-Menis entering its second season. It was when I was reading this I noticed that I actually love the superhero genre. The characters are amazing and compelling, the lore is very very fun and everything is pretty engaging. Cws include fantastical violence, some blood and death mentions. There are also some references to greek mythology, and, yeah--if I was to describe this in one word, it'd be "fun". It's a great one.

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anonymous-dentist · 9 months

Text

CW Heavy Topics

So Spiderbit angst fics are getting out of hand.

I feel like there’s a lot of angst writers in the Spiderbit fandom rn who don’t really actually get qCellbit’s perspective at all on the whole “Staying behind in Purgatory” thing. But, more importantly, there’s a lot of angst writers who don’t understand what it’s like to be suicidal or how to talk to suicidal people, because let me tell you that this line from a popular fic is NOT how you talk to a suicidal person!!

Because there are a lot of fics right now coming out from qRoier’s perspective that entirely villainize qCellbit for staying behind and use qRoier’s grief over past familial deaths to excuse character bashing and it’s legitimately fucked up because not even qRoier is doing that, and he’s the one actually affected here. Because he doesn’t know that Cellbit chose to stay behind, but we the audience do, there’s a real temptation to absolutely lay into Cellbit’s character through Roier’s mouth via fic, but all these fics are doing are bastardizing the characters and treating a suicidal character (Cellbit) as a total irredeemable monster.

Grief is a tricky thing. So is long-term suicidal depression. Trust me, I know. There’s no way to navigate it in a clean way, and the emotions involved are always going to be raw and human. It can be hard to understand these topics if you’ve never experienced them in real life or studied them extensively, which is the problem with a lot of the angst fics that have come out post-Purgatory. Because people are writing angst for the sake of angst without putting any proper care or attention into their writing, and it’s all spreading harmful ideas about mental health even if the authors don’t mean to do so.

These Spiderbit Reunion Angst fics almost all consist of Roier yelling at Cellbit about how he broke his heart and made him feel like shit by staying behind without any actual thought into how Actual qRoier would act upon hearing that Cellbit stayed behind on purpose, and these fics all end up painting Cellbit as a terrible person for wanting to die.

Like:

Bad characterization aside, the implications this paragraph has in regards to mental health are BAD. Because this implies that suicidal people can’t love, and so do almost all these post-Purgatory angst fics, and people have been getting called parasocial for calling these fics out for the harmful tropes they’re persisting, but as someone who has experienced both terrible grief and depression on this level, I’m just going to say that sometimes fiction does affect reality and people need to be really careful with how they approach these topics. These kinds of ideas are extremely harmful, especially in a fandom with a fanbase as young as this one is.

It’s always going to be messy, and that’s fine. Write messy. Just do some research first so you can present messy in a tasteful way, okay?

#tw: suicide #sorry I just feel really REALLY strongly about this stuff #I’m a real mental health advocate and people are going too far for the sake of angst

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yukidragon · 1 year

Note

The pregnancy AU is so dark but good. Realistic.

CW discussion of abuse and suicide mention

What Ian is doing to Alice in this AU is called post-separation abuse (and arguably stalking). Using child support money and visitation to keep his hooks in her are particularly dirty tactics, as is trespassing in to the hospital to hound her while she’s vulnerable after the birth, and the fact that his suicide attempt injuries are creating guilt in her.

He’s taking advantage of her inability to set boundaries and completely ignoring those of the hospital that are set for patients safety and wellbeing.

Ian paying for the flat trying to get Alice to move back in is favour sharking and trying to maintain control over her through financial means.

I do know exactly how dangerous Jack is after what he did to Nick. And that he’s also 100% manipulating MC/Alice, and half considered the theory that he may want to take over MCs body. I don’t think things will end well. But in this particular instance I’m actually more on Jack’s side and despite his ulterior motives think him hitting the call button to help Alice/talking to her about Ian’s manipulation is super reasonable.

Even from source material I genuinely don’t think Jack is the only shady manipulator in the game. Unstable yandere Ian is plausible.

Canonically Ian’s got his own issues resulting from abuse and is pitiful but he’s still got the upper hand financially and whether consciously or not he can be a manipulative softboy. Ian’s crying and incessant calls pressure MC, he talks about their history and grabs for any emotional hold he can get. They can’t afford to cut ties by moving out of the flat he knows the location of and presumably still has keys to, and he doesn’t give MC any choice around him returning to try and get back together. He knows the calls are unwanted as he “didn’t think you’d answer”.

He’s scary persistent. Abandonment issues are making him irrational. This is beginning to border on post separation abuse/stalking.

Plus to me Ian’s ‘intimacy’ while together seemed very one sided, kind of forced or forceful with what he did at the end. You’re welcome to disagree but I found it pretty difficult to listen to that encounter. His wants trumped her comfort level.

It’s ok if anyone likes him as a character, he’s cute, nobody is all bad and it is fictional.

I’m just saying I buy this AU because personally even canon Ian gives me bad vibes.

This is a very thoughtful analysis on the pregnant with Ian's child AU I posted here and here, but also MC's relationship with Ian as a whole. I'm also glad that you enjoyed the AU, even if it's pretty darn dark.

I have actually touched on Ian's personality in several past posts, particularly in this in depth one where I examined why he might have cheated. I do agree that Ian is being manipulative with his phone calls, from the way he words things to how he reminds MC of their past together and how much he loves and needs them. How far he'll go to get them back is something we'll have to wait and see, as the demo only gives us a glimpse into his desperation.

I do agree that Ian's sex scene was a bit rough to get through. You're not alone in thinking that he was being too forceful since he wouldn't let MC stop, pleading with them and even physically taking control away from them. Even MC thinks of it as them being used.

It was like being used. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t care if he WAS using me.

I won't go as far to say it's dubious consent, but it did feel like MC's ability to say no or stop was denied because Ian was horny and really wanted them to get him off.

Some people like being choked/suffocated during sex, but that's not everyone's fetish, and MC wasn't given a choice in the matter, nearly blacking out from lack of oxygen at the end.

It's possible that this is a similar situation to the sex scene in the "no" route where the writing didn't quite convey the tone intended. I'm willing to accept that may be the case and reserve my judgement for intent with the scene for when the updated demo comes out and reexamines that scene in particular when it comes to MC and the player's ability to make choices.

However, as we've seen in the demo, Ian gets pointers on how to have sex from ecchi/hentai. I don't know about you, but those sex scenes tend to have the penetrating male partner be excessively forceful, with the submissive partner at times protesting or even clearly saying "no," only to have it be framed as them actually being shy and wanting to be dominated so forcefully. It's a "romanticized" view of sex that lacks real communication for the sake of keeping the action going, as it were.

There are plenty of people who learn misinformation from hentai/ecchi/porn/word of mouth, especially if they're inexperienced, as MC and Ian are. Often times these types of porn are meant just to satisfy the straight male audience without considering other genders or orientations. There's plenty of bad lessons about toxic masculinity in these types of fiction and how much focus and glorification there is on the dominant male partner to get off. If the media shows that the other partner is satisfied by these actions that mostly just gratify the dominant male, and Ian is not getting feedback from his partner to tell him what they disliked, he can just happily think nothing is wrong with his technique.

This is especially true when it comes to having a partner who struggles to advocate for their own comfort if it might make the other partner feel bad. This is the narrative I'm exploring with Alice and Ian in Sunshine in Hell, and is part of why their relationship turned toxic. Lack of communication on boundaries, and Ian taking more from Alice than she should have been giving, ultimately led to an unhealthy dynamic between them.

As we've seen in the demo, while MC did take the lead at first during the sex scene, wanting to make Ian feel good, when they tried to pull back, he stopped them, giving them pleading eyes and saying it's the first time they got so far and it feels so good. They love him, so they give in to his needs. They're used to taking care of him and his needs, as we saw a few times earlier in the demo. He's sensitive, cries easily, and is very apologetic. Someone who is empathetic will have a hard time wanting to do anything that might upset him, like, say... telling him that what he's doing is hurting or suffocating them. They might even just skip asking him to return the favor by going down on them next since he's tired.

That's the case with Alice. She consented to sex with Ian, but there was this undercurrent of pressure to it. They're in love, it's what he wants, he says such sweet things, and it's something natural that couples do, right? If they don't have sex, well... isn't that just saying that she isn't attracted to him, like those bullies that mocked his looks? Isn't that comparing him to the people who forced SA on her? Isn't that saying that his sex drive is wrong like his mother always told him? I don't think pressuring her was a conscious choice on Ian's part, but when Alice struggled to deny him what he wanted and was so used to helping and taking care of him since he needed her... there's this undercurrent of obligation that encouraged her to just, well, "lie back and think of England" as the saying goes.

In their relationship, Alice's comfort and needs were sacrificed over and over for Ian's sake, because he needed her. He needed her to be the strong one, to support him. He had a shitty life and was all alone. He couldn't face the world without her. Without her, he had no one who loved and cared for him, no one to find him desirable. He got spoiled by her in ways... so when he no longer had her and he suddenly had to stand on his own... he felt very lonely. And very horny.

So it's really not any wonder that Ian was tempted when other people, besides Alice, started paying attention to him, liking him, and finding him desirable... especially in a place where Alice simply wasn't around to fulfil all his needs.

I think Ian is a really interesting character to explore. I do think his story arc is going to be one of redemption for his mistakes, both with the cheating and with their relationship in general. He's flawed, and I think that's the point. I don't think it's bad to like him or want to give him that second chance. I also don't think it's bad to dislike him and feel uncomfortable by the way he manipulates and pressures MC.

Ian has done damage to MC with his cheating. Whether or not the rest of his relationship with MC was healthy, well, I think that we might have to wait and see and/or do our own headcanons there. I'm sure for plenty of Ian fans, what went on between him and their MC was a lot healthier, just with a few hiccups and one major issue with his cheating.

I do know that Alice and Ian simply weren't a healthy relationship. They won't work together, even if he never cheated. Too much damage has been done and continues to be done. What Ian does with the phone calls is crushing to someone like Alice who only wants him to be happy... even though he broke her heart over and over again... and he continues to do so in a desperate attempt to return things to the way they used to be, when they were happy.

Ian just doesn't understand that there were too many times that his happiness came at the cost of Alice making herself unhappy... while she lied to herself that she was happy just because she made him happy.

To be fair to Ian, he can't exactly understand that he's taking too much when Alice doesn't love herself as much as she loves him.

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur

#Sunny Day Jack #Something's Wrong With Sunny Day Jack #SunnyDayJack #sdj #swwsdj #Headcanon Ramblings #Ask

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just-antithings · 1 year

Note

A person on twitter asked people to share their experiences with becoming profic, and some of the answers gave me hope, so I thought I'd share.

https://twitter.com/Morcoroni/status/1678160747300376579

CW csa, suicide, bullying, lolicon

i was basically anti when i got into fandom cuz i was way young and stupid,it wasnt until 2020 that i realized i was BEING stupid abt restricting myself 💀 i found out abt profic bc a tweet from a profic gimmick account was recommended to me, SO GLAD IT WAS i shudder to think that id basically be guilt tripping myself for forever hadnt that tweet showed up when it did 😭

i was an anti, got dragged into a group of super toxic antis amd lost really close and dear friends, it opened my eyes to see that my behavior was unacceptable and i regret it to this day, i've learned not to judge people so easily and to control my anger issues

Unfortunately mine was when the leopards started eating my face with the jjba ship giomis, then I kinda realized that I was miserable in anti spaces. I’m much happier now :)

I was dogpilled on my diff acc and called "pedo" for saying there should be no big censhorship (as long we are talking about fiction) on AO3 and for shipping otayuri five years prior to the incident. Prior to that I didn't even know that there was smthg like anti/pro divide. Since then I am just staying away from people who are openly antis and I am not posting much anywhere, mainly just lurking.

While not full blown anti i was on that mind set years ago back when i was into she ra. However between a friend explaining things and me seeing jusy how awful antis are i realized what i was doing was wrong and ive never looked back.

Being a CSA victim and harbouring a lot of internalised guilt for reading profiction and imagining myself in that position myself and then just realising hating myself for enjoying that stuff was stupid

I discovered incest shotac0n when I was 13 and fought it for many MANY years. Felt disgusted with myself until Finally told a therapist about it and she was like, "why? Let yourself explore that. It's fictional. Nobody is being hurt" and it just felt so..... freeing.

Japanese artist said he might kill emself because Westerners came to his no interaction pixiv twitter acc and told him he wasva pedophile

When I finally felt the difference between "I don't like it" and "It has to be banned and the creator must die". Censorship would bring me much closer to fascists than a supposed safe place, and I definitely don't want to be associated with these people in the slightest.

I was well into adulthood when the pro-fic movement got underway but I *was* an asshole fic flamer in the 2000s. It wasn't till I saw Klantis in VLD spouting the same reasons of making fandom "better" to be dicks that the weight of my past shittiness really dawned on me.

#mod erin #ask #posted without comment #suicide mention #incest mention #voltron mention #fascism mention #pedophillia mention #shotacon mention #csa mention

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 1 year

Text

24-Karat Harrison | BODY BACK Update #3

THE WRITING UPDATE WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR (I’M WE)!

Let's chat chapter 3 of my literary fiction novella, BODY BACK! Harrison stares at himself in so many bathroom mirrors, gets down to Don't Cha (Pussycat Dolls), tries to forget the man he once was, reclaims himself through excess, & more! Post under the cut!

Logline: After an argument with his mother draws him much too close to the past, Harrison turns to Jeremiah to help him develop a gilded persona.

Update 1 | Update 2

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeastss @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction @keira-is-writing @onomatopiya @dustyplotbunnies @euphoniouspandemonium @rowansghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells

Random thoughts turn into...

A couple weeks ago, I was oversharing in my tags and in the process of doing so, came up with the phrase "24-karat harrison."

#I don't drink but I can positively say drunk rachel would 100% be just harrison like 24 karat harrison #actually going to get him to describe himself as 24 karat harrison in the next bb chapter fantastic this was a productive random thought

AND SO 24K HARRISON WAS BORN!

What does it mean to split yourself into two facets, one polished, one unpolished? What could you do if YOU were "24-karat" for a day? This phrase instantly shaped the entire direction of this chapter.

Also, as a poet, I cannot overlook how wonderfully "24-karat" and "Harrison" match each other. VISUAL congruency?? Syllabic harmony??? THE ASSONANCE?? He was built for this.

The plot

CW: this is the most *mature content* chapter I've written in BB so there are mentions of sex, drugs, and suicidal ideation.

"24-Karat Harrison" jumps right off the last chapter of BB where Harrison's stormed away from his mother after she drives him to Lonan's apartment (lol). He arrives at Jeremiah's place tired of who he is and in desperate need of a major change.

The chapter is split into two simple halves: scenes in Jeremiah's apartment, and scenes in a Las Vegas nightclub. How Harrison manages to get into so many shenanigans in these two locations alone astounds me! :)

Scene A:

Harrison turns up on Jeremiah's doorstep soaking wet from the rain. He's looking for a distraction :) & Jeremiah provides :)

Scene B:

A Haremiah pillow talk moment that ends abruptly when Harrison asks Jeremiah if he has Tylenol???? (romantic king /s)

In scene A, Harrison noticed Jeremiah hosted a party. Here, he asks him why he wasn't invited, and Jeremiah suggests it's because he seems too quiet to party

Scene C:

In an attempt to manufacture a more confident personality, Jeremiah helps style Harrison, complete with a fur coat and cowboy hat (horrifying).

Scene D:

Harrison retreats to the bathroom while he and Jeremiah wait for their ride to the club. He's not confident despite the new outfit and goes feral on Jeremiah's hair products, makeup, cologne etc. He finally sees 24-Karat Harrison in the mirror and is pleased.

Scene E:

At the club, Harrison and Jeremiah run into Biyu, Jeremiah's friend from Chapter 6 of Moth Work. His confidence is shot when she suggests he's quiet despite his new persona.

Scene F:

Harrison dances with Jeremiah, but is unable to shake Biyu's comments. He presses Jeremiah for validation, but Jeremiah wants to have a good night, not therapize the man he's seeing.

As Harrison continues to pester, Jeremiah reunites with his friends and is drawn into a (potential) group make out session. Harrison gets overstimulated.

Harrison flees to the club bathroom for reprieve when he again catches his reflection and doesn't recognize himself. His lack of recognition angers him--he's tired of seeing everyone in his face but himself.

A man--Perry--who is one of Jeremiah's friends, interrupts Harrison at the mirror to flirt. Harrison is agitated but drawn to him nonetheless.

Writing process & themes

I talked about how I structure chapters for BODY BACK in THIS post, but essentially, I orbit each scene around a particular theme.

I didn't really know what the theme of this chapter was until yesterday. I'd noticed I kept "repeating beats" throughout this chapter--particularly, Harrison analyzing himself in bathroom mirrors, which happens THREE times. At first, I thought I'd done something wrong because Harrison seemed to keep "backtracking" in narrative which made his psychology seem inconsistent.

By the time I got to the final reflection analyzation though, I realized THAT was the theme--bobbing between extremes when you're in the middle of an identity crisis.

What Harrison doesn't admit to himself in this chapter is that he's lost himself since he broke up with Lonan. The only Harrison he knows is the Harrison who chased Lonan across the country, put his needs above his own, etc. Now that Lonan's gone, Harrison doesn't know himself at all. This is why he reaches toward 24k Harrison, a caricature of himself painted in broad, unsubtle strokes--at the very least, he won't forget himself if he looks ridiculous.

But it doesn't work! This is because versions of who he "was" keep popping up. He can't help but feel like the vulnerable person he was when he was with Lonan.

Therefore, we really explore extremes in 24kH. Extreme pleasure VS extreme hollowness (Jeremiah kissing him in the doorway and then immediately walking away in scene A). In scene C he’s hot but he’s not. He wants to sleep with himself but he’s not desirable at all. He's alright with begging but wants to be begged. He wants to live a very specific life where he buys cowboy hats for livestock and eats ice cream with his hands but he also wants to die. He’s Jesus but he’s discarded bits of gold (THANK YOU for pointing that out @jaydewritesfiction!). He’s twinkling but he’s the dullest person in the room.

It took me a while to actually see I'd been doing that--purposefully creating contradictions in narrative--the ENTIRE chapter. Smh Rachel, good job with all those literary devices you didn't realize you were using.

This chapter took me a lot longer to write than I wanted it to (about a month), but it's also because it's SO long (7k, which is currently half the manuscript). I'm so happy with how it turned out though because its creation represents EVERYTHING I love about it: impulsivity, chasing highs, uncovering darker folds of you the longer you sit inside manufactured gold.

Music

Music was SOOO important in the conception and understanding of 24kH for me, more than usual! In fact, I've made a very specific playlist that is a track-by-track breakdown of the chapter (in order).

Here's a quick breakdown of each song & where they go in the chapter!

1. Nobody by Greyson Chance (studio version) - Backbone of the ENTIRE chapter!!!! Chapter starts with this song.

2. Hands by Greyson Chance - Haremiah make out ANTHEM <3. Also in scene A.

3. Hellboy by Greyson Chance - End of scene A where Haremiah gets... intense lol love <3

4. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star - This is on the radio while Haremiah gets DOWN. Start of scene B.

5. Aloe Vera by Greyson Chance - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song. Middle of scene B.

6. I Got So High That I Saw Jesus by Noah Cyrus - Haremiah sharing a joint & pillow talk song but it's getting sadder & more internal. End of scene B.

7. Nobody by Greyson Chance (live version) - CRITICAL song for this chapter so it appears twice!!! Live version is Harrison at the start of scene C.

8. Black Mascara by Greyson Chance - Harrison analyzing himself in the mirror ANTHEM (this song is also the backbone of this chapter). Harrison goes feral in the bathroom because he thinks he's better off when he does what he fucking wants etc.

9. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred - Actually this is supposed to be the Shrek version :) so :) anyway self-explanatory. Rest of C.

10. Welcome to the DCC by Nothing But Thieves - Walking into the club anthem (scene E).

11. SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Dancing and feeling real good about it (beginning of scene F).

12. Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls - SELF-EXPLANATORY don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like 24-karat Harrison (middle of scene F).

13. Sex & Other Drugs by Greyson Chance - Fleeing to the bathroom anthem (for sex & other drugs??? maybe; rest of scene F).

I also wanted to talk about the significance of the track Nobody because... it's this WHOLE chapter! I wrote this tag essay about it a couple weeks ago when I shared an excerpt where Harrison sees himself as a trophy while in the 24kH getup (excerpted later in the post):

#also there are many greyson chance easter eggs here #the trophy bit i've already mentioned is a reference to the live version of “nobody” #where he goes 'i'm not the trophy you think i am' #which is actually not in the studio version #ANYWAY the LIVE VERSION is a sad piano ballad of THAT #so anyway I love that the trophy line #was cut from the studio version but is in the sad piano version lol #don't know how to more articulately describe harrison's psychology in BB except for... that

The idea of "I'm not the trophy you think I am" really is the thematic crux of this chapter. Harrison KNOWS he's not good enough for Jeremiah. He also knows he wasn't good enough for Lonan. Everyone's looking at him like he's a saint somehow--to Lonan he was, only mattering when he was long martyred. Jeremiah sees too much good in Harrison, good that Harrison doesn't see in himself. At moments, Harrison IS confident. He IS the trophy. But then there are those sobering moments when reality hits him and he knows he just isn't (SAD). It's why he creates 24kH because HE could be good enough (and the truth is, he still isn't).

Excerpts

Jeremiah greets Harrison at the door lol:

Jeremiah might be the only man alive who’d open the door for someone as soggy as Harrison.

He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a green toothbrush lodged against his gums. His heathered sweats drape low on his waist, bronze skin varnished with moisturizer. And Harrison likes this—a man mid nighttime routine—but what he likes more is how unstartled Jeremiah is when he grabs him by the hips and kisses him so hard, bristles jolt against his tongue. What’s he looking for in another man’s mouth—heavens, gods, a prayer? Fuck if he knows. What matters are Jeremiah’s chiclet teeth, Jeremiah’s healthy gums, the way in one gulp, they all become Harrison’s. And this is what normal is, yeah—Jeremiah a minty man ensconced by a bare tungsten bulb, Harrison his midnight lover, both of them in need of the other simply because they are here, alive, men.

Jeremiah gives Harrison whiplash lmao show him king!!!:

But in one dizzy breath, they’re separated, and the thought is gone as quickly as Jeremiah who slinks through his apartment like an unbothered shorthair, telling Harrison to lock the front door, to follow him to the bathroom.

Harrison’s ears buzz. He stares at the living room, wipes his mouth of foam, his lips tingling with menthol. Jeremiah hosted a party earlier. A game of parcheesi scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen sink teetering with mismatched cups, saucers. Cigarette butts pock a strawberry-shaped ashtray like seeds. Harrison salivates, tempted for a moment to filch around for one salvageable enough to relight. It’s only when Jeremiah calls his name that he shakes out of his stupor. But still, by the time he reaches the beaded bathroom door, he has to distract his mouth by digging his lips into the scalloped moulding.

Jeremiah crooks a brow at him in the mirror, then turns to the sink, spits. He’s gargling with mouthwash when he asks a question.

“What?” Harrison asks. His head hurts. Jeremiah would have a bottle of acetaminophen in his medicine cabinet, wouldn’t he?

Jeremiah holds up a hand as he swishes, rubbing at spats of toothpaste on the mirror with his wrist. He spits again. “You go swimming or something?”

Jeremiah is an ANGEL in the bathroom:

Jeremiah leans against the counter, haloed by one of three lightbulbs that isn’t blown out over the vanity. Harrison offered to replace them a week ago and still hasn’t done it, perhaps because the low light is more inviting, the way it cups Jeremiah like mist. Though maybe any lighting would be inviting to Harrison when he’s like this—in such high need of ravaging something.

Jeremiah wets his lips, glancing away with a mute smile before he looks right back. “Or is the rain really bad?” Harrison takes a step forward, and then another, another. Suzanna could be looking for him, calling everyone she knows in this city to help bring her son home. She won’t sleep tonight, and Harrison won’t either but for different reasons. In front of him, Jeremiah is as sunny as he is unaware, his curls plump around his ears, a man Harrison would like to undo with one look—to make beg, like gods make their believers do.

Lonan Clark behaviour:

“You’re like a wet dog,” says Jeremiah. A breath wheezes in his chest.

Harrison looks up at him. From this angle, bowed against another man’s body, he could look like a believer in supplication. Please go gently. Please spare my life. “Thank you.”

CUTE Haremiah interrupted by Harrison's terrible timing:

Now Jeremiah nuzzles into his ribs. He smells like soap and orange rinds, his tattooed skin downy under Harrison’s callused fingertips. He traces an empty fishbowl on Jeremiah’s arm with his pinkie, a half-finished anatomical heart with his thumb, a wobbly dandelion with his ring finger, the cherub guarding his elbow with his index. I love you, he could say. They’ve known each other for two weeks, hung out less than ten times, spent most of their time examining each other’s hands. But this could be love, right? Jeremiah’s made him breakfast every night he’s stayed over—peach French toast, hot muesli, black coffee. Every time they watch film noir on Jeremiah’s two-seater, they simply find each other’s hair and twirl, sometimes meet each other’s mouths and hover there, these clement weekend lovers.

“You got any painkillers?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah jerks against his skin, his nose knocking into Harrison’s shoulder blade. He hikes onto his elbow, brows furrowed like he’s about to say something when his eyes narrow on Harrison’s finger.

“You’re wearing my ring,” he says, leaning toward Harrison’s hand for a better look.

“Am I?”

If I were Harrison I would simply just forget about Lonan because JEREMIAH???

Jeremiah should paint his room sage. The cherrywood picture frames warrant it. In the corner, a gold mirror flares like Jesus’ spoked halo. Two crinkled issues of the New York Times on the vanity, an ivory sheepskin throw collapsed in the corner. Jeremiah exists here mid-motion—the condom wrappers on the hardwood leading to the mattress like Hansel’s pebbles, sunglasses spoked in a magazine rack, a used cotton ball stained with black nail polish on the windowsill. Harrison absorbs it all on his back like rapidly flattening dough. He could be part of this room, too. Last Monday, Jeremiah suggested he move in. “You can sleep in the bathtub,” he joked, but kissed the back of Harrison’s neck. He’d smelled bright like the leather polish he’d buffed onto his bomber jacket. “Or elsewhere.”

Jeremiah as a trophy & LMFAO tYLeNoL???

Now, Harrison weakly reaches for Jeremiah’s hair, winds a curl around his finger. Jeremiah is soft like brioche and as dazzling as a mirror ball. And what’s the difference between worshipping him and Jesus if they are both men? At least Jeremiah is here, a trophy in front of him.

“Tylenol?” he whispers.

Cont'd:

Jeremiah places a hand on Harrison’s face. In his eyes, Harrison is insufficient, an edge of a man. Perhaps it’s the headache or Jeremiah’s gentle concern, but after a moment, the feeling is so unbearable that he pulls away and buries his face in the pillow. The mattress springs when Jeremiah rises, and for a moment, Harrison feels suspended in air like a crucified Jesus above the altar. He doesn’t have a face, a body, a heart. He is just dust.

Harrison wants to be a spider so he can finally be a homeowner?? ok same:

He slumps back onto the bed, analyzing the popcorn ceiling when Jeremiah climbs in next to him. He slings an arm around Harrison’s bare shoulders, and they pass the joint back and forth, its scent rich like oregano. The smoke is delicate as a dissipating spider’s web, pale and gauzy like a curtain in morning light. As Harrison smokes, he imagines what it might be like to be an arachnid—the many homes he could make.

Harrison really knows how to ruin a moment pt. 5 bajillion:

There’s a damp spot on the ceiling that’s only visible when car headlights skirt past the building. Harrison’s meant to ask about it, but what would be the point now? It’s not like he could fix it—and if Jeremiah doesn’t look at the right time, he’ll never notice. “You didn’t invite me,” Harrison says.

Jeremiah jumps. From here, he’s a mere lump under the covers, the only physical evidence of him his warm breaths on Harrison’s stomach. “What?” he asks.

Harrison twists the joint, puffs. His tongue feels bloated like his jacket. “To your party.”

A pause. When Jeremiah next speaks, his voice is muffled by the sheets. “I didn’t think that was your scene.” He rests his cheek on Harrison’s sternum, and he’s heavy like the jacket too. “You know. Crowds.”

“What made you think that?”

Jeremiah burrows out from the duvet. Harrison knows he’s trying to look at him, but he’s caught up in the ceiling again, the way that patch ebbs like a candle’s flame. “You’re…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremiah says, crossing his legs. “Meek.”

Harrison wants to laugh—meek like a lamb, a poplar, a monotonous prairie, a man’s whispered okay, a frail river, a piano’s high C played over and over and over and over and over again—but what comes out instead is a whimper. Jeremiah cups his face again, says something about good things, compliments, the power in mildness. He smells like baby powder now, plumeria—and why is that? He’s a man forever in change even in the simplest of ways, thriving in his evolution. Harrison’s favourite colour has been the same since he was four.

He holds Jeremiah’s jaw to shut him up. His eyes are flecked with topaz today, sienna tomorrow. If Harrison could touch God tonight. If Harrison could believe in something for just a minute.

“Make me feral,” he whispers.

COWBOY HAT??

Jeremiah starts with a new jacket. He’s made it clear that Harrison can’t go clubbing soaking wet, so they rifle through his closet and land on a fur coat that was last dry-cleaned months ago. It’s knee-length, the sleeves wide catacombs, the taupe fur brindled like Eliza’s tortoise-shell ring. Lonan’s ring, technically. In front of his standing mirror, Jeremiah unearths it from the garment bag like it’s a body, holds the hanger in front of Harrison so the fabric drapes off his chest.

“You like it?” asks Jeremiah, cheek pressed to Harrison’s shoulder blade. He’s laid out a tasseled button-up for himself that glitters like hematite in the light, and he’ll dazzle in it, of course—Jeremiah is built for this, the sharpened eyeliners on the bathroom counter, the dented cans of hair mousse, the nail file on the dresser, the ridged perfume atomizer he’ll mist himself with a moment before they leave the apartment. He is sleek beauty, a marbleized man ready to be polished, adored.

And what is Harrison, then? With the fur coat cinched against his body, he could be polished, too, couldn’t he? Sure, he isn’t a gilded icon, but maybe he sees Jesus in his face right now because he has the potential to be, or because at their cores, they’re both sad men. His hair doesn’t have to look like Suzanna’s, but instead like the young bark of cinnamon. And his eyes—they’re not his father’s but his own, an unmarred pool of teal. Maybe he’s a little rough where he should be suave, but that’s hot nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, if Jeremiah sees something angelic in that mirror, then yeah, Harrison could see it too. Forget his cryptic mouth, his hair that’s too long as Suzanna pointed out, his eyes and the way they’re wounded, not like a deer’s in headlights but like a deer’s in death. Forget the scar across his forehead, the way another man’s hands used to touch it not like it was lightning but a pathway to some better place. Sure, Harrison’s no Christ, no Jacob, no God—but why should he be? He’s here under the tungsten bite of Jeremiah’s chandelier, a man in shameless excess, eyes more spangled than this country’s flag. And he could stay here, couldn’t he? He could enjoy staring at himself, not like he’s bronze but like he’s pure gold.

Cont'd (this is so sad LOL):

He straightens, adjusts the fur on his shoulder. In truth, he looks too much like his mother, stands too much like his father, stares too much like Lonan. His hands aren’t soft. He’s got split ends. At best he smells like cigarette smoke, car exhaust, chlorine. But what does Jeremiah see? Maybe someone loveable yeah, maybe someone to cry over. For a moment, Harrison worries the answer is nothing at all.

And then a nose nudges against the back of his neck, Jeremiah muttering about Madonna’s new album, buying new razors, growing his own marijuana. In minutes, they’ll be dancing until the room spirals or until they’re extensions of the other, whichever comes first. And Harrison will love it all because he loves everything about his life—this new jacket, this new man, this face that isn’t a reminder of who used to look at it, this muggy room, this mirror like a portal he could almost step through, this breakthrough because he’s gold. He’s gold.

Harrison steps away from the mirror, presses a hand against his eyeball. He’s going to need another Tylenol. An Ibuprofen for the hell of it. What if Jacob never dreamt of God, made the whole story up? What if Jacob just wanted to run away with his livestock? Harrison could use livestock.

He turns to Jeremiah. “You got a cowboy hat?” he asks.

Harrison making out with himself because that's a normal thing to do:

Funnily, Jeremiah does have a cowboy hat. It’s aptly doused in cow-print, smells like plastic and mulch. In the bathroom, Harrison adjusts its stampede strings around his chin.

He leans against the counter, pressing his thumbs to his cheeks. He pulls at his eye sockets, his skin giving like a tablecloth twisted under the heave of roasted turkey. His eyes are rimmed in scarlet—how many times has he seen Suzanna with these eyes, and do her eyes look like this now? She’s probably looking for him, calling his name out in the night like it’s a prayer she knows won’t be answered. Would he take himself to bed like this? In thirty more minutes when he guzzles a vodka soda, his answer will be absolutely.

Harrison, he mouths to himself in the mirror. The bathroom is filmy or maybe it’s him—he’s in chrysalis, bloated in his own becoming or suffocation or whatever the fuck. The thing is, he doesn’t need a god and might be a king, but he’s also a man with a pounding headache. He tries again, his mouth shifty like cornmeal, like ash: Harrison. What do kings do when they get migraines? Buy a donut? Eat a saint? His eye sockets are vacant, his cuticles spinning into one another, hair sentient from the pool. Harrison. The walls smell like Jeremiah’s hair gel, Jeremiah’s fingerprints, Jeremiah’s latest cologne. In a minute, the paint could start peeling and Harrison could pick up the chips, tack them to his jaw like they’re gold stars or little HELLO my name is stickers. HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is, HELLO my name is. Harrison. Harrison. Harrison. He kneads his cheeks like he’s sourdough, pinches his eyebrows, goes: Harrison, sticks his fist in his mouth tries again—Harrison. Jeremiah knocks on the door, says something about leaving soon, a friend waiting on them.

Harrison sinks onto his elbows, hovering closer to his reflection. If he were another man, he’d kiss himself, right? Without a thought, he does, mouth glugging against the mirror. He doesn’t need any touch but his own—not Jeremiah’s, not Lonan’s. He’s a man in love with himself, right? He’s a good dancer, never burns pancakes, isn’t afraid of spiders. What’s not to like? When he pulls back, panting, his eyes are watery and he needs a drink now, a god to abandon, a lake to drown in, a coastline to paint, a mother to cry into, a Bible to burn, a guitar string to snap, a dragon tree to kill, a father to remember, a prayer to scream, a place to close his eyes and sleep forever.

He grabs Jeremiah’s eyelash curler off the counter, crimps his lashes so hard he pinches his skin. He doesn’t care. He’s yanking open cupboards and pulling out an eyeshadow palette, smearing silver pigment onto his eyelids, under them. He’s raking a wand of black mascara through his lashes like he’s the grass buried under leaves—like this is the only way to reveal himself. And maybe this is the way, spritzing himself in Jeremiah’s vetiver or orange rinds or baby powder. Harrison. He wants to punch his nose until he bleeds. He wants to kiss himself again.

0 to 100 all the way back to 0 babe:

Harrison meets his eyes in the mirror. Is he an animal? He must be something feral, starved of something and ravaged by that hunger. He could touch himself right here. Or not. He’s barely a man, staring at his face not like it’s his, but like it’s someone else’s. And how tired he is of that. Being a shadow.

He is the MOMENT:

Before he exits the bathroom, he studies his sterling reflection. He’s not who he once was. No Christ, no Jacob, no Jeremiah. And he shouldn’t be. Because he’s twenty-four karat, twinkling, not just otherworldly, unforgiving, untouchable, not just a god or a man—but a trophy at last.

Biyu puts Harrison in his place lmaoo:

By the time they cab to the club, Harrison’s so high he can nearly taste the neon lights. As they slot through the front door with other partygoers like flocking geese, he blinks at the rush of it all—the women comparing press-on nails by the coat-check, the men wearing vinyl and leather and glitter, drenched in cologne and sweat.

“You’re late,” comes a voice which should be familiar to Harrison, but under the thump of bodies, sounds as generic as a bag of baby carrots.

“Fashionably late,” says Jeremiah, his arm slung around Harrison’s furred shoulders. He pulls him close, toward the person, the woman, smells like sea salt, iron, a new set of rings flaring in the blue spotlights. “You remember Harrison?”

As if on cue, Harrison lifts his eyes to Biyu’s, Jeremiah’s friend from the restaurant. Tonight, she wears a gold cowlneck dress, her lipstick the colour of rust. And something’s different about her hair—the sides of her bob shaved, which is more of a relief than he’d like to admit. She’d looked alarmingly like Reeve when they’d met, moved like her, sounded like her. Maybe he’s too high to see it now, but what does it matter—a win is a win.

Harrison tips his hat, already searching for the bar.

“The quiet one,” Biyu says.

His eyes snap back to her. Her pupils are large disks, and if he squints, almost look like they’re pulsating. “What?”

“You were quiet,” she repeats.

Don't Cha!! ft. this:

Harrison dances because he knows exactly how to. To thready vocals, he lulls his arms through the air, drags his palm down Jeremiah’s chest when an electro version of Like a Virgin comes on. On the lighted dance floor he’s nothing but rattling limbs, inelegant turns, raunchy dips. Shifting atop his head: the cowboy hat. In his hand: a vodka soda topped with a maraschino cherry. Through half of Don’t Cha, he holds the red cocktail sword between his teeth like it’s a rose, nudges it against Jeremiah’s lip as they kiss, break apart, kiss again.

“Do you think I’m quiet?” he asks between a spin, his head unspooling like a cylinder of thread. The clang of drums spikes up his throat—soon, he’ll need a refill on the drink. More weed. A crucifix to snap.

Jeremiah twirls under Harrison’s arm, a magnetic man in his tourmaline glister. He could follow any man in this club home tonight with his silver nails, his exposed collarbone. “Kiss me again,” he says, sweating, his fingers hard around Harrison’s shoulders—half from his grip, half from his rings.

Jeremiah is really too patient:

This is what he needs, a consideration of fruit and the man in front of him, all svelte limbs, acidic mouth, sharp eyeliner. As he ducks to In Da Club and shimmies to Waiting for Tonight, he digs a palm into Jeremiah’s cheek—he’s solid like limestone, burnished as bronze, his eyes amber portals like a patch of quicksand.

“Did you tell Biyu about me?” Harrison asks. His head pounds, the music too loud, swelling in his ears like an inflating airbag. He should go back to the bar now. They’ve got whiskey sours, gibsons, margaritas. If he flutters his eyelashes long enough at the bartender, maybe he’ll get a little more than a free drink—that’s fine too. Kelly Clarkson sings about praying, breaking, and he could do both in the hands of someone who smells like blood oranges, tastes like Bible paper, stares like Jesus the moment before he performs a miracle, couldn’t he?

“Focus on me,” Jeremiah says, guiding Harrison closer by the hips, so confident as his wooden Mary bracelet jolts with the movement because he’s here in this blinking room, dancing because he’s twenty-one just like Harrison, because he’s electric, alive, because he’s blinding like noonday sun, steady as a fountain cycling the same water over and over, because he’s unashamed in this brisk light, shocking like the zip of battery acid on a tongue. He doesn’t need to try, melds into the bleating crowd like he’s part of it, and he is. He smells like pomegranates, tastes like cherries the next time Harrison kisses him—Chapstick? Cocktail?—and tomorrow, he’ll rise early for a shift at Greta, slip on his navy uniform polo, his makeup untouched despite everything Harrison will do to him tonight because he’s faultless, not quiet, hair precariously puffed, nails buffed to a glassy sheen. He and Biyu might catch breakfast at dawn, bond over their glittery eyelids, their intrinsic closeness, wonder over poached eggs if he’s worth it—graceless Harrison in this cowboy hat and smudged makeup, his jacket cuffs soaked with vodka soda, his head lolling to the insistent voice of Justin Timberlake.

“Biyu thinks I’m quiet,” Harrison says, knocking back the rest of his drink, his neck cracking. He wants to scratch off his face, replace it with someone else’s. “You think I’m meek. So what is it? Do I need to get a tattoo or something?”

Jeremiah glances around the club, his irises starred by a spotlight. What does he see when he looks out at the crowd? Perhaps he recognizes half of these people—from the way he ordered at the bar to the way he slunk so easily onto the dance floor, Harrison assumes he’s been here before. And maybe it’s not just that he recognizes everyone else on the floor, but that they recognize him in return.

Cont'd but with a lot more mouths:

“Did you hear what I said?” Harrison asks.

Jeremiah’s eyes snap back to his, except there’s something hazy there, something tired. “What would a tattoo do for you?”

“I don’t know. Edge? I just think I could—”

And then Jeremiah’s turned away again, right into the arms of someone else—a tanned man with a dense mustache and olive eyes, the man going, “It’s been too long,” and Jeremiah going “It’s been too long,” their grins calcium white, flashing in Harrison’s face. He throws a hand up to his eyes, squints when a second later, the man pulls a woman toward Jeremiah, her hair cropped low and cotton candy pink. She kisses his cheek, says he looks ravishing, he looks like a comet on its way to ignite planet earth, and they’re all holding each other now, friends bopping to Gwen Stefani, admiring each other’s bracelets, thumbs, friends curving toward each other’s ears, kissing each other’s cheeks, each other’s mouths.

Harrison blinks because how many hands do they have now? Every second they seem to multiply—pink hair girl with four, Jeremiah with six. One’s tongue the other’s. Their fingertips fusing. The club fritzes around them like it’s confetti, the lights rippling into a Christmas bow and now there’s a redheaded man running his nose along Jeremiah’s neck, down Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrist, hand. Harrison had just done that back in his apartment, pinned chest-to-chest against him like a monarch fastened to a spreading board, and here Jeremiah is now, enmeshed in touch, in adoration because he should be adored—the men congregating around him now have their priorities straight. If they all got on their knees at Jeremiah’s feet, Harrison would understand. They aren’t exclusive, don’t even know each other’s last names, and besides, how can Jeremiah help how everyone magnetizes around him? Harrison can’t blame them. Jeremiah is illusory under the disco ball’s speckled light, his throat long, biteable, his eyes syrupy in his high. A woman takes him by the shoulder, but not just any woman—Biyu, and her eyes are pinched, analyzing, because she’s looking at Harrison, her glossy crimson nails on Jeremiah’s cheek, and she’s kissing him too now, her body joining the cluster, and it’s good, the way they all roll limbs to synth, the way they turn into each other’s faces and kiss, kiss, kiss. The music clangs, their mouths full of spit. The DJ says to hold your partners close, and they don’t have to. They are not simply together, not simply in chrysalis, but osmosed in their becoming.

Cont'd (GIANT sentence - CW: self harm)

A hand on Harrison’s elbow. He flinches and is surprised to see it’s Jeremiah who’s touched him. How did he get here so fast? Harrison expects a trail of blurry bodies to follow him, but where did everyone go? They’ve dashed from the club like embers scattering from a dulled fire, nowhere to be seen but dangerous anyway and weren’t they all just over there, under there, and are they lonely on the ceiling and how do they plan to get down and is it too loud in here and why is no one using their indoor voices and should he cover his ears and where is his mother now and how did Mary say I love you and did she ever dream of fleeing to Hollywood or speeding down the I-40 or telling Gabriel no and why does everyone worship a god who demands and calls it creation and what’s his name again—Harrison?—and when did his hands sprout from child to whatever he is now and should he dye his hair red, cut his wrists again and is it possible to be young and happy about it and is he still dancing, he’s still dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, and someone’s complimenting his silver eyelids and would he like them to touch him gently and is it hot in here to anyone else and does he taste blood or the ocean and is this what it feels like to die in holy light and Jeremiah’s right in front of him, unkissed, still as dark water, as Lonan in the night, and now he’s holding Harrison’s face, his rings cool against his skin, and he’s kissing him too, tastes like spearmint and chocolate lip gloss, rum and Coke, rusted metal—the mouths of everyone in this room and this isn’t so bad, how their bodies net into each other, how in one breath, Harrison’s teeth clack against Jeremiah’s, and in the next, clack against another man’s and then another’s, his stubble rough, mouth sour, a chandelier earring flailing against his cheek, and then through his ear, his hands wound into cinnamon hair and he could be kissing himself and maybe he is and doesn’t he want that, the floor gelid, the music like cotton wool, their pelvises threaded, the walls caving, their mouths locked, the floor lava, the room too bright, his headache like an earthquake, two pairs of hands rattling to the beat of this bursting room one moment, then clutched together as they follow each other to a dim bathroom.

This section was inspired by @dallonwrites' lyrics in narrative post!!! also soft Felix cameo <3

The room is electric purple, smells like grapes, sweat, flexes under Harrison’s shoes like a sandcastle collapsing, like a sinkhole swallowing a house. Bodies weave across the floor, someone lighting a joint in the corner, someone reciting Sylvia Plath into a paper bag, going, the happening of this happening, going, the earth turns now.

Harrison’s head pounds—he should’ve brought a blister pack of acetaminophen because at least then he’d have something to punch, or he should’ve punched out his own eye by now, disappeared with another man who isn’t Jeremiah and didn’t he try, and where is the man with cinnamon hair now? Harrison turns to look for him, but the room ripples with his movement, shirring in staccato clacks around him like a shaken rice maraca. He’d hoped he’d write his number on a man’s wrist tonight even though he doesn’t have a cell phone—he’d hoped he’d go home with someone who shouts the lyrics to Madonna’s Everybody in twilight’s stillness, a man who’d let the DJ shake him, a man who’d let the music take him. And he could do all of that with Jeremiah—Jeremiah who probably did those things at the party Harrison wasn’t invited to, Jeremiah who knows how to pass off frozen spanakopita as homemade because he’s a good host, Jeremiah who knows how to kick people out of his apartment with kindness, Jeremiah who’s built to be kissed, to be loved. And where is he now? In the artificial light, Harrison hunts for him too—but he’s not in the unhinging bathroom stalls, not in the teal grout, the running sinks, and maybe he never existed at all, missing like Jesus in the tomb—body gone, body gone, body gone.

Cont'd BODY BACK BODY BACK BODY BACK:

Harrison rubs his eyes. His ears still ring from the clatter outside, and he stands at the bathroom’s entrance like a child who’s lost his mother in the mall. Should he sit down? A group of girls form a ring on the floor, chant about Leos, Britney, men. Someone shuffles in past him, knocks into his shoulder by accident, apologizes over and over, their hands clutched against his face—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He yanks away. Don’t touch me, he wants to say, I don’t want to be touched ever again, but by the time he’s located his mouth, his eyes pulsing to a hi-hat, his nose burning on a cloud of cherry smoke, the person’s gone too. He presses his fingers to his eyes, wishes for a soft bed, a place to land, but then he’s rocking forward, right into someone else.

At first, they just stare at each other. The man’s got the same look in his eye—something gilt, something feral, an identical fear in his mouth. Harrison blinks hard, and the man does too—not a man, actually, but his own reflection.

He approaches the mirror, jolts at the way he touches himself—more carefully than he’s ever been touched before. Who are you? he wants to say. He’d like to leave this place now, the club, Las Vegas, the earth. He’d like to buy himself a pet tarantula, run off a cliffside, eat a tub of ice cream with his bare hands. Why did he come here again? His mind is so quiet. This could be peace. But who is he? In Jeremiah’s bathroom he knew, but now there’s this stranger ahead of him, the person who must be him—someone’s chandelier earring grazing his jaw, the cowboy hat lopsided, mascara running down his cheeks even though he hasn’t cried. Where did you go? he mouths, but he knows. He’s disappeared also like Jesus in the tomb, his limbs vanishing one by one, his skin melting off his hands—body gone, body gone, body gone. He grabs his cheeks, panicked because he’s on fire, gold tossed into the crucible. He’s going to burn to ash. He’s going to need a burial soon. His face has been stolen, his breastbone and knuckles too. A month ago, someone spat him into a basket like his body was ripe for the offertory—body gone, body gone, body gone.

“Back,” Harrison says, nose grazing the spattered mirror. His chest swells, and maybe he is burning, and maybe he’s right here, hidden somewhere in the pinprick of his reflection. “Back,” he repeats. He isn’t thoughtful. He isn’t profound. Maybe that’s fine. He squeezes his tear-duct, sticks out his tongue. He’ll die eventually, let his body disappear, but not right now. “Body back, body back, body back.”

Cont'd ft. Harry-something (CW: mild violence):

“I know you.”

Harrison whips around. In front of him stands a redheaded man—the same redhead who’d held Jeremiah close on the dance floor, trailed his oily nose along his neck. He wears a pair of browline sunglasses, a black vinyl vest draped with silver chains. He holds a clove, its smoke clouding the ruby pinging off his ring finger, his mouth ghosted with what looks like red lipstick.

“What?” Harrison says, jumping when the bathroom door clangs open and in come two more women. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, pulls up a hangnail until it stings.

“I saw you out there,” says the man, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Harry-something?” He looks like a scarlet ibis, strangely translucent. “JJ’s friend.”

Harrison digs his fingertips into his eye socket. His head feels like it’s been cleaved with an axe. “Harrison.”

Redhead smiles, blows smoke into Harrison’s face. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Harrison.”

“I’m Perry,” he says, and Harrison wouldn’t give a fuck if his name was Matt Dillon or Rob Lowe or Nash Baker because he’s blowing smoke into his face again, his clove flailing like a dislocated finger. He gestures to Harrison’s outfit, nodding. “You’re like a one man show.”

Harrison covers his eyes. Maybe he can find a dark hole in this club to dive into, somewhere no one will find him again. “What does that mean?”

Perry’s smile falters momentarily, but then it’s back, all teeth, no lips. “You’ve got this flair. You ever been told that? Weird, but good, it’s—”

The second he purses his lips to blow out more smoke, Harrison grabs him by the throat, pulls him so close he can see a constellation of blackheads on his chin, feel his heart hammering.

Perry yelps, nearly losing his hold on the clove altogether.

Harrison arcs his jaw around his ear. He smells like orchids, freshwater. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Cont'd - Harrison is weird :)

Perry laughs, the sound strangled beneath Harrison’s grip. Smoke fumbles out of his mouth like worms. He really does look like a bird, which in this case, isn’t a good thing. “Noted.”

“Do you want to kiss me?”

“You have a hand around my throat.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Well, I'll leave it there lmao!!! Sorry I subjected you to this man, but hope you enjoyed this gigantic update!

FIN. MAGNUM OPUS COMPLETE!

See you soon!

Rachel

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #writerblr #writingupdates #ohhhh harrison #this was so hard to write because of all his bad decisions but also SO FUN FOR THE SAME REASON #PLS TELL ME WHAT U THINK IT'S BEEN ME AND THIS CHAPTER FOR A MONTH ALONE I NEED VALIDATION <3 #next chapter perry gets his moped STOLEN (I wonder by who...)#bodyback

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silverslipstream · 4 months

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ocean's vent-leven

cw: references to depression and suicide/self-harm

okay, so this is a reasonably happier vent post than my last one, but it's still kind of a vent regarding my feelings so I guess my shitty bad jokes of shoehorning the word 'vent' into film titles will continue, as part of my eternal effort to treat everything I cannot emotionally tolerate or compartmentalise with at least a modicum of humour. whew. off to a good start here. yesterday (friday 10th may) I was absolutely paralysed by depression. this is usually the point where I make a joke about being paralysed in a physical sense by my cerebral palsy, because the societally-expected reaction to my trauma is to make light of it and show people I am broken in a way they can pretend not to notice (a way I can pretend to be fine with them pretending not to notice, and they can see me pretending to be fine and think it's fine to continue pretending not to notice). BUT since I am learning to love myself and cut down on negative language even in jest, I will not say this. instead, I will talk about this depression.

it was horrible. unceasing. it pushed onward and onward from around 2AM in the morning until just before 7AM, when I retreated to my bed instead of my desk. I thought I could sleep, but I just dozed intermittently, never quite achieving that downy state of blissful surrender. woke up for my 10:15 alarm, because I had a lecture at 11:15, and I just. couldn't. fucking face it. it wasn't even a chronic pain thing, physically I was fine. the lecture (and the lecture after that) just seemed to be wobbling like a heat haze at the end of a very long tunnel. I rolled over and resolutely ignored the clock on my phone until I knew I'd missed the lecture. fuck. why are you so fucking lazy? there's only one week of lectures left in second year, my brain screamed at me, and you have four assignments unfinished, three not even STARTED THAT ARE DUE BY THE END OF THE MONTH WHYDOYOUNEVERDOANYTHINGWHYDOYOUIGNORETHETHINGSYOU'RESUPPOSEDTOLOVE-

I passed in and out of sleep and missed the 1:15 lecture too. my friend messaged me asking to pick up the poem notes I'd meant to give him the day before. I was asleep and didn't see the message. the notes are still in my room in my flat and I am at my grandmother's house. if that friend is reading this, know that I am deeply sorry for that and that I love you and did not mean to frustrate you by not fulfilling that objective. the truth is that, in that transient fuzzy sleep that was less about rest and more about hating the clarity of wakefulness, I felt like my whole LIFE was one unfulfilled objective. I couldn't be born right, I couldn't be the son my parents wanted (they had to draft in a hurried substitute), I couldn't be a friend right, I couldn't stay in one place right, I couldn't do my useless fucking stupid fucking waste of a degree right. I couldn't even have the decency to die by my own hand and instead turned it into a whole fucking drama that ruined my friendship group and forced me to come out to my parents.

in that horrible clear moment, the future of my life seemed to be a flashbulb gallery of microwave dinners and empty booze bottles and hospital waiting rooms, alone alone alone. a slideshow of a man literally and figuratively shuffling through life towards the river styx and not even noticing the water until it was past his rusted-shut bear trap of a mouth.

but it's because of that love (the love I have for you and my other friends too, look at me rhyming like I'm motherfucking Seuss) that I got up this morning and realised, that future can stay with all the futures I've imagined in my head. all the apocalypses, all the dystopias, the sci-fi speculations and the post-apoc predictions. they're the same thing, I realised. fictions in my head. my fears manifested into virtual realities, screens through which I can handle my pain and show it to the world without putting twenty pairs of 'palatable-humour' gloves on. that future is just another fictional apocalypse, and just because it's closer to me doesn't mean I should feel powerless to thwart it.

it is because I love my friends that I must pass my assignments. next year we will be moving into a flat together and I need to pass this year to make that happen. because I need to make more memories. I need to cultivate this love and give it the water I withheld so many times in my past, in those other chapters of my life. I will make these memories not because I need them, not because I see them as something scarce worth clinging to or as a method of compensating for my deprivations, but because I love you. we will all drink together and we will play stupid card games and watch films and cry and laugh and argue and drag each other out of bed at 6AM to wash our dishes and I will cook too much food on purpose because I will know you haven't eaten and because sharing a meal with friends is the fastest way to find out what the gods tasted when the first mouthfuls of ambrosia passed their lips.

to borrow one of my all-time favourite cheesy film one--liners, today we are cancelling the apocalypse.

#vent post #vent with a happy ending #disability #cw: depression and mentions of suicide #depression #platonic love #friendship #love #also kind of a writing session #because I get quite prosaic when I write these

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meldelamel · 1 year

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Sans and depression

Cw: Depression (I talk about my symptoms in a superficial way), and suicide mention.

Today I was watching some Undertale videos on Youtube, and I found a meme video about Sans being depressed. In the comments, I saw the two sides of the Sans fandom: Someone saying "hey, Sans is not a depressed edgy teen", and someone replying "yes he is". Ignoring the "edgy teen" part (I'm not a fan of the term "edgy", I think it can do lots of harm), I agree with both sides, and I felt like I wanted to write a little essay about it and share my opinion on the "depressed Sans" topic. As I always say, if my opinion makes you mad or something, you can just scroll and done, this is not Twitter (or X, because apparently that's its new name) and I don't want it to be. Okay, now let's start because I ramble a lot...

Honestly, I think that every character in Undertale can have depression if you overthink them enough. Everyone has their struggles there, not only because it is something normal in life (even the happiest person struggles at times), but also because they are in a tricky situation: They are trapped in the Underground, unable to even see the sunlight, and working on going to the surface, and probably have a war with the humans. So every character has a reason to struggle, being it their past, personal life, or just that difficult situation as a whole. Depression is not black and white, people often think depression is always about being incredibly sad and wanting to die, but, like any mental illness, depression is more complex than that, and everyone experiences depression in a different way. Heck, depression can even mean being angry all the time! So every character can have some type of depression if you want to headcanon them as such.

People saw depression signs in Sans and just took it too far, reaching a point were they really made Sans a different character. I don't think that's fully wrong, because if you relate to Sans and him being what people often call "edgy" makes you feel safe, it's completely valid, as long as you accept that people may disagree with you, since everyone can interpret fictional characters differently. But honestly, in the game, Sans is not that way.

When I first played the game (I played it without knowing anything, I didn't even know Sans's famous line "you're gonna have a bad time", so I wasn't influenced by anybody), I did notice depression signs in Sans, since I have depression myself and I related to him. I even searched on Google to see if he was canonically depressed. When I got into the fandom and saw how people often see Sans, making him so incredibly sad and in constant pain, I could only disagree. Sure, Sans is not the happiest skeleton in the world, but he's also not dying. Or at least for what we see in the game, again, I'm not here to purposely ruin your headcanon 😂 He's just demotivated and even kind of apathetic, but he doesn't look suicidal or in extreme pain.

I had the "stereotypical depression" , so to speak, when I was 14, I was the "sad" type (I wouldn't describe how I felt as "sad", because it was a complex feeling, but for the sake of simplicity I will use that word), I had suicidal thoughts, low self-steem and self-harm tendencies.

However, now my depression looks completely different. I'm not sad, I don't even experience that type of "sad" I had when I was 14, I'm just tired, bored, numb. I'm just unhappy. I don't have motivation and I hardly feel anything, I still can find joy sometimes when I'm for example playing Undertale, but as soon as I close the game, I'm numb again, and still that "joy" I feel is very different from the joy a healthy person experiences. I push myself to do stuff, just like Sans has Papyrus to push him to work, and just like Sans tries his best to do stuff for the people he cares about. I go outside, I do little tasks, I spend time with my loved ones etc.

It's just hard.

I can't even take care of myself, I have that ugly side of depression many people don't want to talk about were you are unable to take a bath and even brush your teeth because you are too overwhelmed to do anything. And I find funny that Sans doesn't bath either (Papyrus does, for example), at least not often, and you can't see him changing clothes, and when you're depressed even dressing up can be difficult, so there's that.

I'm not suicidal, I don't enjoy life but I'm hanging on and I really don't think about killing myself, I really feel like I don't care about anything really.

So yeah, Sans could perfectly have the apathetic type of depression, the bored type of depression. He's not in extreme pain, but that does not mean he is not suffering or/and struggling. Sans could also simply have dysthymia, which is similar to depression, but not that severe (take this description with a grain of salt though, I'm just trying to simplify it. I recommend that you inform yourself if you feel interested in dysthymia).

Also, you can be lazy and have depression. I'm naturally a lazy person, since I was a kid, demotivation only makes that laziness an actual problem. The healthy version of me would rather to be on the sofa than cleaning the house, depressed me wants to be on the sofa and can't really move from the sofa, even if I really wanted to, because I feel too exhausted mentally, and every little task is too much for me. I believe Sans is a naturally lazy monster, and if he has depression, he just has this combination. I say this because I saw people saying he's not lazy, just depressed.

So yeah, that's why I agree and disagree with the "depressed" headcanon. Sans can be depressed, but his depression is not like some people make it look like. But well, I think we all know that Sans is one of the most misinterpreted characters in Undertale, and I look foward to talk more about this weird fanon side in the future.

If you read all of this, thank you so much and... wtf how can you read so much agsyagghsgdhs you're really dedicated! I hope you found it interesting! Remember that this is just my opinion and I'm not forcing you to think like me or anything, and have a nice day because you deserve it! 🌸🌸🌸

PS. I don't headcanon Sans to have depression, but I like the idea of him having dysthymia instead.

#undertale #sans #sans undertale #undertale sans #depression #cw depression #cw mental health #cw mental illness #undertale headcanons #sans the skeleton #dysthymia #sans headcanons #suicide mention #death mention

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moody-alcoholic · 1 month

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Surrendering Control

Chapter 2 - Don't Let Go

Simon x Johnny. 5.3k words.

CW: +18 MDNI explicit content. Mental health, talks of suicidal thoughts, self doubt, use of weapons, talks about fictional terrorist attacks, bombs, I know nothing about defusing bombs just movie stuff, military inaccuracies, mentions of injuries/ descriptions of injuries, mentions of surgery, smut, oral (male receiving), lots of kissing, cum swallowing.

I said it was more fast paced...

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AO3

Enjoy <3

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Simon

Waking up with Johnny’s face pressed against his chest was the happiest Simon has felt in months. He doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t want to break this perfect moment. He can feel Johnny’s hand round his waist, his hot breaths on his chest. Simon’s hand strokes his back feeling his body rise and fall, his gentle snoring letting Simon know he’s okay. He’s dreamt of this moment for months, almost a year at this point.

Rehab was lonely it gave Simon lots of time to think. Lots of time to imagine what it would be like telling Johnny his true feelings. What he would do if Johnny didn’t reciprocate those feelings. Simon knew how Johnny felt he wasn’t exactly subtle. He loved the way Johnny would always be catching his eye line, then he would smile which would always be a distraction.

Simon looked back down at Johnny, he loved everything about him. His lips, his deep blue eyes, his cheeky smile. His enthusiasm, the way Simon loves to watch him work. Johnny keeps him grounded, keeps him sane. Johnny is a better person then he could ever be.

He lets out a sigh looking down to make sure he hasn't disturbed him.

Impostor syndrome, low self-esteem. That’s what the therapist said, normal things to have after a near death experience. He was told being back in the field would help, being able to prove to himself he can still do his job and do it well. Price was happy with his performance yesterday even if it was really a test for Johnny. Simon wasn't happy with his performance, at least it was just a training exercise.

Simon glanced at Johnny's watch it was almost 6. He had a meeting with Price at 6:30 and he needed to change. He didn't want to wake Johnny up he didn't want to move from this bed. But he can’t let Price down it’s only his second day back. He leans down kissing Johnny on the forehead. Johnny stirs looking up at Simon his eyes blinking as he wakes.

“Mornin’” he says smiling, the smile Simon loves the one that makes him want to kiss him.

“Morning.” Simon smiles back he rubs Johnny's cheek with his fingers.

“I want to stay.” Simon says sighing.

“Then stay, I don’t have training till 10.” Johnny says his grip tightening on Simon.

“I can’t I have a meeting in half an hour with Price.” Simon says as Johnny moves up to meet his face and kisses him. It’s a long slow kiss one that Simon melts into. His hand runs down Johnny’s arm to his chest.

“I can’t keep Price waiting.” Simon says shifting in the bed forcing Johnny to move so he can get out. Johnny protests keeping his fingers touching Simon for as long as he can. Simon can feel Johnny’s eyes on him as he bends down to pick up his clothes pulling his trousers on.

“What’s the meeting about.” Johnny asks, Simon hums. He can’t tell Johnny yet, not till Price has finished sorting everything out.

“I don’t know, training probably.” Simon says going to to Johnny with his mask in his hand. He leans down giving Johnny one last kiss.

“I’ll be back tonight.” He says and pulls the mask over his face. Johnny smiles at him as he lays back down in the bed. Simon slips out heading back towards his room.

——————————

“So how did it feel yesterday?” Price asks leaning back in his chair. Simon stares at him for a few seconds trying to figure out what he should say.

“Fine, felt good to be back.” He says eventually. Price nods.

“You’ll need a physical before you’re officially allowed back. You can it here I scheduled it for this morning.” Price closes Simon’s file putting it back in its slot. The thought of doing a physical makes Simon’s stomach turn. He finds himself squeezing his bad hand into a fist, letting the stinging sensation run up and down his arm. He’s still weak with it, that’s to be expected, he’s been able to hide it well so far but the physical could sniff it out and he could be benched.

“I’m glad you’re back Simon, hope you’re up for a challenge.” Price says handing Simon a file he opens it. It’s information on a terrorist organisation, there is not a lot of intel on them, not even an official name. No terrorist organisation has come forward claiming responsibility. Simon recognises the pattern though. Even though he had been stuck in rehab Price had still sent him reading material. He also had time to watch a lot of telly, way too much. He already knew about the mysterious terrorist organisation making its mark across Europe with chemical weapons.

“Yeah, I heard of them.” Simon says looking up at Price.

“Who hasn’t.” Price scoffs. “Jobs ours if we want it”

“But?” Simon says raising his eyebrow at him. Price smiles.

“Brass want to watch us do another training exercise. They don’t know if they want us to take an additional demo guy with us.” Price says.

“Johnny knows what he’s doing.” Simon says quickly.

“Yes he does, but this is new territory even for Soap. I can throw him into as much demo training as I can but these guys are experimenting with new IED’s, new weapons. New things we’ve never seen before.” Price says. Simon can see hint of a smile pulling on his face. Price is enjoying the challenge, it’s been a while since they’ve had a job this big. This syndicate has been making moves across Europe for months. Their MO is chemical and biological warfare. They’ve been using gas filled explosives in public places. Luckily they haven’t got the formula down an their death toll has been relatively low which has made them evade most people’s watch. Something must have changed.

“What’s changed?” Simon asks, there is nothing in the folder.

“MI5’s pretty convinced their next target is the UK.” Price says.

“Protecting Queen and Country.” Simon sighs, Price smiles.

“We’re going to stay here, be ready to move. I was hoping for some leave but it seems like this attack could be happening any day now.” Price says. Simon looks down at the folder again, there are a lot of thing’s he doesn’t understand. A list of chemicals they’ve been known to use, the way they think they make their weapons and IED’s. A list of motives, potential targets. It’s so little information, it worries Simon it’s always a risk going in blind.

“Go for your physical, I’ll get Gaz and Soap in here and we’ll have a chat.” Price looks at his watch. “Say 8?” Simon nods putting the folder back on Price’s desk and getting up out the chair. Simon know’s he can’t fake a physical, he’ll just have to power through it no matter how bad it gets.

——————————

It wasn’t as bad as Simon thought it was going to be, but now he’s sore. The nurse was nice enough, she explained what she was doing as she took all his details. Said she knew a few soldiers who had spent time in the same rehab facility Simon was in. She was impressed by his recovery, given the injuries noted in his file.

His was shoulder was ripped apart by the bullet, his muscles and nerves left in threads. Simon was too out of it to remember the first round of surgeries, the ones to remove bullet fragments and repair the damage to his abdomen. It was the surgeries in rehab that hurt the most. Having to fight through the pain and keep his arm moving, building the muscle strength back up.

He had no sensation in his fingers for a while, they said that was normal and the feeling would come back. They were right, now whenever it’s cold he loses some sensation again. The pain is worse when he’s used his arm a lot, like needles poking at his skin no matter how little he moves his arm.

His therapist told him there would be good days and bad days. Molly, Mary? Simon couldn’t remember her name. Today felt like a bad day, he would have lots of bad days in rehab. Lots of dark thoughts about what he would do if he was forcibly discharged, what he would do if he lost his arm. It was a dark and lonely place, filled with dread and sadness.

He often thought about ending it all, when the pain was bad and they doctors had that worried look on their face. He left everything to Price, not like he had any family to take care of him. Price would know what to do, they’d been friends long enough he trusted Price with his last will and testament. He didn’t give up though, he chose to fight, fuck what the doctors thought he was going to recover. Get back to the front lines, for Price, for Gaz and Johnny, for himself.

Mandy-that was it-she told him some soldiers push back on the therapy and end up breaking when they’re back in the field. Simon didn’t want to break, not after he worked so hard to piece himself back together. His mind thought back to yesterday, in the training. He froze locked up, like he couldn’t move or think. It makes him mad to think about, the danger he put himself and Johnny in. It was Johnny who snapped him out of it, his voice commanding him to move. It can’t happen again, he’s just lucky Johnny was there and not Price. Simon pauses for a second collecting himself before knocking on Price’s office.

“Come in!” Price calls and Simon walks in to see Johnny and Gaz already there.

“All good?” Price asks. Simon nods handing Price a piece of paper he got from medical to say he’s fit for duty. It’s almost like he could see the relief in Price’s face. He looks over the paper then places it down on the desk. Price explains the situation to Gaz and Johnny, he tells them about the terrorist organisation going around Europe. Basically all the info Simon got already this morning, he’s only half listening more interested in watching Johnny’s and Gaz’s reactions.

“We’ve got another training sim this afternoon.” Price says. “It’s going to be different then the last one. They specifically want to test us on locating and securing these IED’s disabling them and get them out. So they can be studied, reverse engineered.” Price explains. Simon’s eyes wonder to Johnny looking to see if he has any reaction. He’s sat listening to Price with a smile on his face, of course he is.

“Soap, Gaz. I have a bunch of paperwork for you to go through.” Price says as he brings out two folders, handing them over. “I’ve cancelled your training for the day, I need you to be on your A-game MacTavish. I don’t know what the general has planned but he’s really wanting to test us.” Price’s eyes flick to me.

“No pressure mate.” Gaz says nudging Johnny. Simon can see Johnny flicking through the pages of schematics. It’s not like professional ones Simon is used to seeing these are crudely drawn, scribbled instructions and hand drawn diagrams. Simon remembered the bomb Johnny worked on yesterday, it was like nothing he had seen before, and he’s pretty sure it was new to Johnny too. Johnny know’s what he’s doing. Simon reminds himself, he has every faith in him. So does Price, he hopes.

——————————

It’s late afternoon when everyone starts making their way down to the training compound. Simon can see there are more people then yesterday, he’s already looking for the general though. Johnny has been unusually quiet not even making conversation with Gaz.

He’d spent the day with his head in books and old reports according to Gaz who met up with Simon for lunch. Johnny was busy so Gaz picked up a sandwich up for him. Simon reminded himself to make sure he saw Johnny get something to eat after this. Price leads everyone round to the entrance, there’s the general and someone new who Simon doesn’t recognise.

“This is lieutenant Ross, he’s our resident expert with these types of devices. He’s set up a few surprises along the way.” The general says. Price shakes his hand.

“We do love a challenge.” Price replies, it’s a lie Simon can hear it in his voice. Price wants nothing more then this drill to go smooth and quick. Build Soap’s confidence up not squash it down. Simon digs his eyes into the general, what is his game? Price moves over to the doors as the general explains what’s waiting. No friendlies, no civilians, no hostages. Just bombs and hostiles.

“Hopefully you won’t need these, but in case you do.” The general opens a crate with gas masks in. Gaz is first to pick one up followed by Price and Johnny. Simon picks his up last hooking it onto his vest. Price walks through the entrance doors. Almost as soon as it’s closed behind everyone enemies pop out the windows of the buildings. Simon grabs Soap without thinking and pulls him into the garden. Price and Gaz have split the over way. It’s just cardboard cut outs but the less points they can rack up the better.

“Ghost you go with Soap, clear the buildings we’ll meet up at the end of the street.” Price says into Ghost’s ear.

“Copy.” Ghost says watching Soap go ahead of him into the first room. Lots of enemies, lots of fake paper cut outs to fire fake bullets at. Soap leads this time scanning room to room.

“We’ve got a device here.” Price comes over the radio. Ghost is almost holding his breath as they move to the next room.

“Got one here too.” Soap says moving round to inspect it. Ghost goes to stand in the door looking out for enemies he knows won’t appear.

“What does yours look like?” Soap asks over the radio.

“3 cylinders, 2 timers, it’s big.” Gaz replies. Ghost looks over at their bomb, it’s a mess from what he can see, lots of wires and lights, surrounded by 4 cylinders.

“Put your mask on.” Soap says to Ghost as he takes his off, pulling it over his face. Ghost reluctantly agrees pulling his mask up off his face to make room for the gas mask. It’s uncomfortable and smells of rubber. Ghost watches Soap work pulling wire cutters off his vest. There’s no shake in his hand but Ghost can see the uncertainty in his movements. He hears him take a deep breath in.

“Talk to me Gaz.” Johnny says as he starts cutting wires.

“Looking at two separate timers counting down different times. This is nothing like the intel we had.” Ghost can hear the uncertainty in Gaz’s voice.

“Looking for green and red wires Gaz.” Soap says Ghost can hear him talking under his breath. He looks unsure but cuts a wire anyway.

“Got 6 red 2 green.” Gaz comes back.

“Shit.” Ghost hears Soap says. Panic rises in Ghost’s belly as he watches Soap checks his watch.

“Cut green on both the timers.” Soap says confidently.

“Then red on the second timer right?” Gaz says.

“Affirm.” Soap says. Ghost watches he moves around his bomb.

“Disarmed.” Gaz says. Soap doesn’t reply and nether does Ghost, he’s watching Soap fiddle with the bomb. His head looks up.

“You should leave this one’s a bitch.” Soap says. Ghost knows he can do this. He believes in him. He can hear him cursing under his breath pulling a screwdriver off his vest. A beeping has started now.

“Shite,” Johnny says moving his body round the bomb looking for something. His eyes flick back to Ghost again.

“I mean it Ghost, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Ghost can hear the crack he tried to hide in his voice. He hooks his fingers under his gas mask pulling off over his head, throwing it off to the side.

“You’ve got this sergeant. What do you need?” Ghost says. Soap stands up for a second, regaining his composure. He pulls his mask off too sucking in a big gulp of air.

“Come help.” Soap says bending back down over the bomb. Ghost pulls his mask back down

“We’re going to clear, the rest of the compound. We’re making our way round to you.” Ghost hears Price say in his ears he relay’s copy back watching Soap twist a screw.

“We need to get inside it,” Soap says pulling the screw out. Ghost doesn’t carry a screwdriver on his kit.

“Cut anything that isn’t red or green.” Soap says handing him the wire cutters. Ghost follows the instructions. This whole thing is a mess of wires and LED screens all displaying different times. 4 cylinders on each corner. How does Soap even know which is the real one or not. He just follows his instructions, cutting where he is told to cut, holding things when Soap asks.

Some of the screens timers have stopped but the beeping is becoming quicker. Ghost looks up at the band of sweat appearing on his forehead, his brow creased together as his fingers work diligently sorting the wires. Ghost’s head snaps up as he hears movement in the doorway it’s Price and Gaz he’s surprised they made it over here so quickly.

“Gaz come help Soap!” Ghost shouts stepping aside so Gaz can take his place.

“Holy shit,” Gaz says as he sees what Soaps been working on. Price steps to join then looking into the crate at the bomb.

“How’s it looking Soap?” Price asks.

“Looking like you should all get ready to make a run for it.” He replies cutting another wire. The beeping stops.

“That it?” Ghost asks, Soap just shakes his head.

“This makes no sense.” Gaz says tossing one of the LED screens away. Ghost looks at the timer only 60 seconds left, his eyes flick to Price. Who looks concerned. It’s like they’ve already mentally communicated; ‘I’ll grab Soap you get Gaz.’ Soap has got this though, no way this bombs going off.

30 seconds. Ghost holds his breath has Soap makes increasingly more and more frustrated noises.

“We need to move Soap.” Price says.

“In a second.” Soap says. Ghost know’s he’s not going to move Price will have to pry him off the bomb.

20 seconds. Price moves closer to Soap ready to pull him out the door. Ghost does the same standing behind Gaz.

“Now Soap!” Price shouts, Soap doesn't even flinch. Price watches the counter tick down to 7 seconds then nods at Ghost. He reaches out gripping Gaz’s vest using all his strength to pull him to the doorway of the room. He protests but not as much as Soap does. Ghost hears a click then a hissing noise as the make it out the doorway into the ally. Ghost lets go of Gaz’s vest as he straightens himself up.

“Shit,” He says throwing his wire cutters on the floor. Ghost looks back into the room seeing Soap already sticking his head in the door. It smells like peppermint. Simon hears the bell signifying the end of the simulation. Everyone walks back into the room. Ghost looks at Price who seems equally as confused. Soap goes over to the bomb not wanting to get too close arching his head over to see. All 4 of the cylinders are open.

“What the hell?” Soap says to no one in particular. There’s movement in the doorway as the general and the lieutenant walk in.

“Good job, although I would have expected nothing less from this team. Good work captain.” The general says walking over to Price. Ghost’s eyes dig into him like daggers. The lieutenant walks over to inspect the bomb tapping at something on his tablet.

“Defused that first bomb in record time, good job sergeant Garrick.” The general says turning to him. Ghost can see Soap still looking over the bomb his hands gripping the wooden crate. He looks angry, upset, disappointed he couldn’t do it. Ghost looks up at Price who’s still trying to asses the situation.

“Good work MacTavish, the bomb was a dud by the way. It was never meant to be defused.” The general said Soap’s head snaps up at the revelation, his eyes burning into him.

“You gave it a good go though, a few more cuts and you would have had it done. I was told to make it as hard as possible.” The lieutenant says looking up from his tablet.

“The aim of the test was not to see how well you defuse these bombs it’s how persistent you are. This is a new threat, we’re seeing new explosives we have no idea how to defuse. You can be the best team in the world but if you’re not willing to try you’re unless to me.” The general says looking round the room. Soap lets out a breath flaring his nostrils, he looks like he wants to ponce on the general.

“Soap, Gaz get out of here.” Price says, his voice thick with authority, the same voice that sends shivers even up Ghost’s spine. Soap looks back at Ghost who nods at him slightly before leaving with Gaz following behind. The room is silent. The general is older then Price, fat like most generals, not needed in the field all stuck behind desks pulling the strings. Price steps up to him as Ghost crosses his arms.

“I don’t know where you get off testing my men like that but I do not need their confidence being ruined.” Price says. Ghost can hear the anger rising in his voice. “Especially without informing me.”

“We thought it best that all parties were left in the dark to make it more authentic.” The general says.

“It’s isn’t a game general-”

“No, it’s not a game captain but the fact of the matter is we’ve had 7 bombs go off killing over 50 people and we are still no closer to finding out how they’re doing it. I need a team that is willing to literally put their lives on the line just to get us intel.” The general says. “And I didn’t exactly get the most glowing review from the last general you worked with.”

“Shepherd.” Price scoffs, his eyes flicking over to Ghost. Fucking Shepherd.

“It’s not your place to test my men. Without my knowledge.” Price replies, Ghost is always surprised by the way Price gets away with talking to people higher then him.

“If you had read more then just Shepherd’s report you would know my men risk their lives every time.” Price takes a step back nodding at Ghost who moves to join him.

“Prove it then, take the job.” The general calls. As Ghost and Price head for the door.

“I don’t know now. I don't know if I can trust the general overseeing things. I don't work with people I don't trust.” Price says walking out the room. Ghost follows him hearing the general laughing.

“We going to take it?” Ghost asks.

“Cause we bloody are.” Price says. Ghost smiles, then his thoughts turn to Soap. He’ll be okay, besides he’ll see him tonight. He’ll make sure he’s okay.

——————————

Simon knocks on Johnny's door just like he did last night. Only this time it feels different. For a second Simon isn’t even sure if Johnny will answer, but he waits, he waits for what feels like forever then he hears the click of the handle and the door opens. Johnny looks tired, his hair still wet from the shower. Simon walks in locking the door behind him, he hears Johnny sigh as he takes his mask off. Simon cups Johnny’s face bringing his lips down to meet him.

He feels Johnny relax as his arms wrap round Simon’s waist. Simon pushes his tongue into Johnny’s mouth, he moans meeting him half way and melting into the kiss. It’s almost like Simon can feel Johnny’s worries slipping away. Simon can feel it too. He only has one thing on his mind now, right here with Johnny. Johnny pulls away but keeps his grip on Simon’s hips. Simon kicks his shoes off eager to just relax in bed with him, it has been a long day.

“I cannot wait to get off this base.” Johnny says working his hands up Simon’s shirt. Simon likes the feel of Johnny’s hands touching his skin, running over his chest.

“We’ll be gone soon.” He says kissing Johnny’s forehead. Johnny looks up at Simon.

“You’re stressed.” Johnny replies pulling himself up against Simon.

“Brass doing my head in.” Simon says. Johnny smells clean, like a fresh towel out the dryer. Simon nuzzles his head into Johnny’s neck breathing him in. It’s a nice smell a comforting one.

“Yeah, want me to beat them up for ya?” Johnny says. Simon smiles pulling his head out Johnny’s neck.

“Sit down.” He says leading Simon over to the bed, Simon follows his instructions as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Johnny stands between his legs running his hands through Simon’s hair, massaging his scalp. It feels good helps Simon relax, his arms find Johnny’s waist and he squeezes them pulling him closer.

“You need to relax,” Johnny whispers into Simon’s ear making goosebumps rise on his body as he moves his hands away from his hair to his thighs. Johnny runs his hands up to Simon’s waist.

“I think I have a way I can make you less stressed.” Johnny voice is low in Simon’s ears he can feel his hot breath on his neck.

“What were you thinking?” Simon hums he feels Johnny’s fingers squeeze his waist. Johnny kisses him pushing his tongue in his mouth, pressing his body so Simon has to lean back. Johnny’s fingers slip under Simon’s waistband.

He knows what Johnny want’s he can already feel his trousers getting tighter as Johnny’s hands gingerly move to undo his belt. Is he ready? He doesn’t care, his mind is so quiet, he’s not worried about work or what he has to do tomorrow. He’s not thinking about his arm or the pain, just Johnny, in this moment. Simon feels his belt buckle come loose as Johnny pulls away from the kiss.

“What?” Simon asks looking at the cheeky smile on Johnny’s lips.

“This is usually the part of my dreams where you want to stop.” Johnny says looking up at him. His eyes are glazed over, lips wet from kissing. So he’s dreamt about this too.

“I’m not going to ask you to stop.” Simon replies as Johnny kneels down between his legs. Simon raises himself up slightly and Johnny grips Simon’s belt pulling his trousers and boxers off in one slick movement. Simon feels the cool air of the room hit his thighs, it’s the first time he’s really felt self conscious. Johnny doesn’t seem to mind if anything he seems very much in awe of the situation, eager to reach out and take Simon’s semi hard cock in his hands.

Simon shuffles his body so he’s comfortable on the bed spreading his legs wider. Johnny crawls up between them running his hands up Simon’s thighs. His hands are warm and firm, he moves slowly, like he’s trying not to spook him, testing the waters. Simon’s holding his breath when Johnny finally reaches out and takes his cock in his hands. His hands feel good, strong, his grip feels nice.

Simon lets out the breath. Johnny looks up at him smiling, he uses his thumb to brush over the tip causing Simon to twitch. Johnny hums pulling his foreskin down to reveal the red hot tip leaking with precum.

“Christ, Si,” Johnny breaths, he’s almost licking his lips still shining from the make out session earlier.

“You going to keep me waiting?” Simon asks letting out a moan as Johnny’s hands begin massage him, his thumb pressing into the underside.

“Maybe.” Johnny says with a playful grin on his face. Simon tips his head, he’s used to being in control now he’s at Johnny’s mercy. He watches as Johnny soaks up every part of him as he pulls him down to align with his lips. Simon watches as he licks the bead of precum off before pressing his lips over the tip. Simon moans, a deep moan from the back of his throat.

He can feel Johnny smiling as he uses his tongue to wet head before thrusting his mouth down. It feels amazing, better then Simon ever thought. Johnny’s gentle but firm taking him almost all the way and using his hand to stroke the rest. His thumb pressing into the base of his cock, the sensations electric.

Johnny starts slow, making sure to wet the whole thing and gently caressing the tip with his tongue. Simon can feel his heart rate picking up as Johnny starts to increase his speed. His breathing becoming quicker, his moaning more frequent. Simon reaches over to run his hand through Johnny’s mohawk, his hair is damp from the shower, but its soft, fluffy Simon grips it moving his hand up and down with Johnny’s head.

Simon knew he wouldn’t be able to last long the first time they were together, but it feels so good he doesn’t want it to end. Johnny’s moaning round his cock now, his sounds becoming more guttural as Simon twitches in his mouth. His grip on Johnny’s hair tightens as his other hand grips the bedding. He’s pushing Johnny’s head down forcing him to take it as far as he can with each thrust.

“Johnny-” Simon calls. It’s the only warning he gives him before pushing his head back down. He bucks his hips up as he cums, Johnny’s name falling of his lips again as he lets go of his hair letting Johnny ride him through the orgasm. Johnny looks up at him through his beautiful thick eyelashes, still with Simon’s cock throbbing in his mouth. Simon moves his hand to cup Johnny’s cheek wiping away a tear escaping down his face. He smiles as Johnny takes his mouth of Simon swallowing. Simon hums at the thought of his seed sliding down the back of Johnny’s throat.

“Still stressed?” He asks, his hand still stroking Simon’s length to the point of over stimulation.

“Not any more.” Simon replies twitching in Johnny’s hand. He smiles getting up off his knees leaning over and kissing Simon then turning round, pulling his shirt off over his head.

“What about you?” Simon asks as he watches Johnny strip to his boxers.

“I had a wank in the shower before you got here.” Johnny chuckles. Simon stands up pulling his boxers back on, wrapping his arms around Johnny’s stomach before he can turn. His hand reaches down to the bulge in his pants.

“I’m good Si, honestly. You can make it up to me later.” Johnny says, Simon can hear the edge of something in his voice, he moves his hand back up to his stomach. Johnny sighs turning in his arms.

“This about the drill earlier?” Simon asks, resting his hands on Johnny’s face.

“Na, I’m a giver.” Johnny smiles, Simon can see through the lie imminently. He sighs stroking his cheek, he decides to leave it for tonight.

“You did good Johnny.” Simon says leaning down to kiss him, long and slow just what Johnny needs. It’s Johnny who pulls away first running his fingers through his hair.

“What me to go?” Simon asks.

“No, stay please.” Johnny says looking up into Simon’s eyes, his beautiful blue eyes that remind Simon of the ocean. He can’t say no to that, he can never say no when Johnny looks at him like that.

“Okay, I’ll stay.” Simon says kissing his forehead. “Get into bed I’ll tell you all about the earful Price gave Laswell.” Johnny chuckles nodding and moving over to the bed. Simon watches waiting till he’s comfy before pulling his shirt off and slipping in next to him. He wraps his arm round Johnny letting him lay up against his chest stroking his shoulder until he feels him relax.

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25 notes · View notes

cookinguptales · 1 year

Text

That last post I just reblogged was fascinating to me because it was obviously a joke but it actually lined up so well with a common PMDD symptom of mine that I was writing about it in the tags. Then I kind of thought about it again and realized OP doesn’t deserve all that in the tags of their joke post so like. I guess I’ll put those thoughts here instead.

(under a cut, cw: frank discussion of mental illness)

Like I’ll warn here that I’m about to talk about mental illness in some pretty explicit terms. I have Premenstrual Dysphoria Disorder (in addition to Major Depressive Disorder) and for the most part I have a pretty good handle on it. My depression is treatment resistant, but I did some hormonal treatments for years to help with that, my endometriosis, and my menstruation-induced EDS complications.

(Have you ever had menstrual cramps so bad that it dislocated your hips and ribs? I have! Every goddamn month lmao.)

About a year and a half ago, I had to stop taking the hormones because they were honestly making certain things worse, so I had to kind of just. Figure out other ways to deal with it. Working with a doctor, a regimen of cannabis tea and ketamine has helped a lot with the physical symptoms, and has helped some with the emotional symptoms. It’s still not perfect (still get bad days sometimes) but my suicidality is way better than it was.

(People with PMDD are apparently estimated to attempt suicide seven times more than the general AFAB population so like. I guess that’s something to keep in mind.)

That said, my ketamine regimen was fucked up recently because of some issues at the doctor’s office and uh. Well, I’m still kind of building the levels back up. The past few periods have been very rough for me. Mostly physically, but I’ve had some emotional issues, too.

This month, my PMDD has been… I guess not as severe as it was in the past, but boy is it lingering. I’ve been very jittery, very anxious, prone to bad mental loops, etc. It’s been about a week at this point, which is on the long side, but you just gotta tough it out, right?

(Don’t worry, guys, I do know when to reach out for help when symptoms get bad, and have done it before in the past.)

Anyway… one of my least favorite symptoms has come out to play and I’m Dealing with it but I hate itttt. It’s the one that the post reminded me of! And that’s the one where you feel guilty for wanting people to love you.

I think… when you’re dealing with something difficult alone, it’s very normal to fantasize about someone helping you through it. Telling you you’re not a bad person, that they love you, hugging you, etc. Normal stuff like that. I think people sometimes use fictional characters, sometimes real people who love them (like family/friends), sometimes people they make up in their head, etc. I think fantasizing about comfort is fairly normal.

But when you’re in the trenches, your mind is like No It Is Not Normal It Is Bad. I have to remind myself that like… in some ways, it’s kind of like an abusive relationship. During bad PMDD spells, my mind wants to hurt me, it wants to kill me, and it wants to separate me from my support systems. Your brain tells you that burdening others with your feelings is Bad and you are Bad for doing it.

This makes it hard to reach out for help when you need it (again, I do know how to do that, I am safe, I know that I have people who would come to my house right now if I needed them to — and failing that, I do know how emergency mental health intake works, too) but also like… it often gets to the point where you feel like a terrible person for even wanting to be loved.

Like — this is hard to explain, so here’s a sample spiral.

(cw: mental illness, suicide mention. I’m going to try and be as realistic as possible here and that might be troubling for some readers.)

I am feeling bad. I am sad and anxious and scared and feel like I am worthless. I want someone to hold me and tell me they love me. I imagine a person I like doing this. I then think — no, you are a bad person. They would not want to do this. You are putting the burden of your feelings on some unsuspecting person again. It is unfair to use a real person as a mental support. You are forcing them into a situation they did not consent to, and you are using them as a crutch. You are a bad, selfish person and they would hate you if they knew you were doing this. You are asking for too much from the people around you; how dare you ask for love and support? You are worthless and no one will love you and imagining them loving you is unfair to them and frankly very invasive. You are being parasitical right now. Stop imagining people doing things they’d never want to do, you’re such a bad person. Don’t you care about their boundaries? Of course you don’t, you always hurt people because you’re selfish and bad and no one will ever like you. So stop imagining them liking you! Just kill yourself and get it over with, etc. You are a bad thing and bad things should go away and you should stop existing. Stop writing RPF about the people you like, that’s even worse than the crime of just being you. Just kill yourself.

And honestly, this will probably go on for a couple hours and there will probably be a lot of crying. >.> It’s good to keep electrolyte solution around because dehydration just makes it worse.

I’ve dealt with MDD for almost my entire life, but PMDD is… different. There’s a sort of exhausted doneness with MDD, like you don’t want to kill yourself, necessarily, you just want to stop existing. PMDD is different. There’s a very loud, very manic aggression to it. Your brain is very actively trying to kill you. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s like being in a crowd of people all screaming at you at once until you cry, and then screaming at you for crying. There is a mob in your head and it hates you.

It is… very, very loud and very difficult to drown out. I can usually catch the warning signs and head things off before I get into a spiral. Going for a walk is good. Helps break the cycle. Creating is good, too. Makes me feel productive and useful to others, which is a whole other can of worms, but it is effective. And if all else fails, I usually weaponize my hyperfixations lmao. Start up an old video game that I know will take all my focus, or start a new tv show that I know I’ll get fannish about, whatever.

This month has been hard because, frankly, it took me by surprise. It’s a little earlier than it should be and I haven’t had to deal with it as much in the past six months, so I guess I got out of the habit. I didn’t notice that I was starting to get kind of stressed and anxious over small stuff and was beating myself up for feeling normal human emotions. This is usually the big warning sign to me. I will latch onto a negative feeling I’m having and feel very guilty about it. I scratch at it like a healing scab. Then the spirals starts. So I have to keep a watch out for that.

But… like I said, I do tend to withdraw and feel guilty about talking about these things. I feel guilty for wanting to depend on others because I feel like that’s asking too much, a miserable person like me demanding attention from people who are too good for me. And once I start withdrawing into myself and not talking to those around me, things get worse.

Like I said!!! Your brain is abusive and it wants to separate you from your support system — so it makes you feel like a bad person for even wanting a support system.

(I find that it helps, actually, to frame it like that. I can tell that my thoughts are starting to get irrational and it’s like “oh, THIS asshole is back to say mean things to me again.”)

So… idk, I’m trying to talk about it. I figure that I tagged this post appropriately and put multiple warnings on it, so anyone who is reading this wants to be here. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of support, maybe because they deal with these things, too. idk.

I’m basically telling my mean brain that fuck you, it’s good to talk about my feelings and no one hates me for it.

Because… this is the big thing… I was thinking about that one Tumblr post… the one that was like “the me in your head is nice to you, right?”

I want the me in your head to be so nice to you. I want the me in your head to hold you and tell you you’re a good person and that I love you. Even if I don’t know you. I want the me in your head to be so damn comforting.

I love the idea of being a comfort to people. That’s… why I write so much of why I write, I think. There’s nothing that chokes me up like finding out I’ve managed to comfort someone that I don’t even know. Is there anything more beautiful than comforting and supporting others in this bitch of a world?

NO we gotta be kind.

So… if I want the me in your head to be so, so kind, why do I feel so guilty for wanting the you in my head to be nice to me, too? Why do I feel like I am so innately unlovable that even fantasizing about someone loving me could stain them somehow? Like I will stain their clothes with my own awfulness.

I DON’T. I don’t feel that way. I have been doing so much better lately. I have been reaching out to people and doing fun things and spending time with people and thinking about loving people and them loving me back. I’ve thought about people loving me!!! And I’ve started to have the creeping hope that it could happen! That I am worthy of love.

Guys, I’ve been better. I know that all sounds like not much, but it’s been so easy for me to convince myself that no one will ever love me because I’m sick, I’m disabled, I’m unattractive, I’m unkind, I’m cringe, I’m annoying, I’m selfish, etc. It’s been so easy for me to find a million excuses for why I, out of all the people on this earth, will never be loved.

So… feeling hope that that’s not true is actually a very big thing for me, and something that I’ve been delighting in recently.

All the things in my head are fake and mean and… you know, hormones. That’s all.

Idk, this was meant to be a discussion of one small part of PMDD but I guess it ended up being a ramble about a lot of things. I’ll admit that it’s much more difficult for me to be focused and eloquent when I’m dealing with these symptoms. I had a moment where I wanted to apologize to anyone still reading this, but — instead I’ll thank you for spending your time with my words. For whatever reason you decided to do it, for whatever reason you’re still here, I appreciate that you did it.

I want the version of you in my head to be nice. And I want to thank you for being nice. And I want to be nice to you, too.

In conclusion

Now I’m gonna go take my medication and be quiet for a while.

#just me #personal post #long post #cw:#mental illness #PMDD #MDD #anxiety #self disparagement #seriously this is mostly me rambling about recent mental health issues and I want to be super clear about that #my hormones are Bad lmao #they do Bad things to my brain and my body and I hate them

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verdantmeadows · 1 year

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This is a very serious/heavy vent but I'm on mobile so I can't do read more, CW for suicidal ideation and accusations of sexual harassment

Okay so I go to a very alternative school, there's kids as young as like 7 and ones as old as 21. For those who don't know, a 14 year old, who was one of my friends before this, accused me of sexual harassment. This completely ruined my social life there and I faced a lot of bullying. I've had constant nightmares about it since then. But I've stayed strong and true to myself no matter what people think about me.

I decided I wanted to try joining sewing club, but they're a member of it. So now me joining is an issue going to administration and I don't even know why. I didn't do anything. If they're uncomfortable with me there, then that's their problem!!!! I was told I wasn't going to be punished at all for this situation, but the fact I have to wait for "approval" to join a club is punishment in itself.

Now that the issue is going to admin, I'm terrified. I'm terrified this issue is gonna be brought up again and I'll be punished this time. I don't want to have to go to court for libel just because my stupid ass decided he wanted to join sewing club when I knew this person was a member. I just wanted to let this stay dead and buried.

I don't want to be punished for something I didn't do. It was already enough being told I was disgusting and to kill myself by other students.

And the fear hasn't gone away that when I'm older, and I'm doing stuff in my career of choice, that they'll bring this up and say that I did these things to them, when I didn't. And people are going to believe them. Of course they are. Because they're way younger than me. And you're supposed to always believe the victims. No one is going to believe I didn't do those things.

I'm honestly at the point where I don't know if I'm just going through suicidal ideation or I want to make plans to kill myself. Before this, I already had awful intrusive thoughts that I was a pedophile and that my hypersexuality is making me be a creep without even knowing. And now that this happened, I feel like it came true. I feel constantly disgusted with myself. My intrusive fears of being a sexual predator and creep now feel like they were confirmed, even though logically I know I'm not.

I just don't know what to do. I just want to graduate school. I don't know why this had to happen. My last year of school like this was messed up because of this. I'm so scared. This could affect the rest of my life. It really could. I have to live in constant fear now that one day, they'll somehow bring this up on a larger scale, call me out publicly, especially when I'm working as an adult in my career of choice. And that everyone is going to think I'm those things and turn on me. This is a very real possibility and I'm terrified. I'm so scared.

I don't want that to happen. I can't ever achieve my dreams without the fear and very real possibility they'll say I did things I didn't and people are going to believe them. They already did. And when they accused me, they refused to show proof. To the point that my school administrators that talked with me about the situation don't even know what they accused me of specifically. Just that I was sexually harassing them. I was told that it had been verbally in like, around August, which doesn't even make sense, because I barely talked to them at all in August. Based on what I know, they were compelled to do this by other students as revenge for a falling out we had. I had also been distancing myself because I was no longer comfortable with being friends with someone that much younger than me, plus they were super toxic. They literally got jealous over me liking fictional characters. When one, they were fictional, and two, they're 14. The specifics don't even matter. Now I'm just ranting about them as a person. I'm failing several of my classes and have barely done any assignments and this is my last semester of school. I feel like there's no point to any of it.

I don't even know what the point of working towards my dreams and goals are if this could happen at any time. Everybody at my school already believed them about what happened. I feel disgusting and I honestly don't know if it's just feeling at this point. I feel like I deserve to die. I don't know what to do. I don't know how much longer I can be strong. I've had great support from friends and family, but I don't know what else to do. I'm so scared.

#book of kells #suicidal ideation cw #vent cw

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seasquared · 2 years

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Not on bread alone, or at all

The Menu (2022).

The second time I watched "The Menu" (2022), I made myself dinner first. A salad from a premixed prewashed box, dressed with apple cider vinegarette bought in a bottle, red onions soaked in ice water to limit their bite, and candied pecans, slightly stale and leftover from months prior. A camembert that I didn't like and that I had baked, studiously glazing it with honey and olive oil and studded with sliced garlic, only to realize that I still didn't like it. I threw it away and ate store-bought hummus instead, with generic grocery brand pita crackers. I did not buy any bread—on purpose. What a meal!

Perhaps I thought if I could collect enough bad food things around me, I would be protected, a kekkai of poor culinary choices, when I finally re-entered the world of "The Menu." I would be the final girl, twirling a sprig of wilted frisee lettuce, a crumbled piece of pita cracker warding off Julian Slowick, like a vampire hunter with her tools. Or, even more pathetically, he would see me drinking a glass of vinho verde priced at under $10 a bottle and know I was unfit to die with him. I could not be afforded the glory. He would leave me in the chicken coop without dessert. They'd find me in the smokehouse, "in the Nordic tradition," trussed and waiting to be let down.

But of course, fine dining is never about the food. Never quite. It is, as one of rich tech bros in the movie says also facetiously, also ironically, but wholly correctly, "buying the experience." I am not immune to propaganda—or the lure of "The Menu." I am, and have always been, a devotee.

(cw: discussions of mass suicide/murder in the context of Jonestown)

Last year I had declared rather facetiously that I was done with my tasting menu era. It was the conversational equivalent of an ironic tweet, because while I never had a tasting menu era, I knew I was the kind of person who should have. I had spent a good deal of my adult life in Chicago and never made it to Alinea even once, despite having multiple friends who have gone multiple times. I had gone to one or two omakases, but never anything notable, and came away from each a little embarrassed, as if my husband and I had been caught publicly roleplaying. I was in a book club with a woman who humblebragged about a 24-hour weekday trip to the French Laundry, and I've never quite figured out if I was jealous, thought it was gauche, or both.

If I knew about fine dining, it was as literature, or perhaps as myth. I committed certain passages from articles written about Guidara and Humm to memory, as if they were The Silmarillion and Eleven (elven?) Madison Park some fictional area of Middle Earth. I followed John and Karen Urie Shields' work at Town House ravenously, but through pictures on their blog. (Later I did have the tasting menu at Smythe, their restaurant in Chicago, and loved it—perhaps my only genuine tasting menu experience.) And oh, the Netflix shows! I once bored a dinner table to tears talking about an episode of "Chef's Table: Pizza." There's a scene where Bonci butchers a cow while talking about the excesses of his appetite and it represents him butchering himself, because we are now bored with static images of a person looking into a camera talking about food. "I don't think I've ever paid that much attention to my food, or to what I was watching on Netflix," one of my fellow diners said, very slowly, as if worried I was a rabid dog that may attack her for her confession. Slowick wouldn't lift a finger to butcher me, he'd be so revolted. He'd let me rot untouched for more than 152 days, until I was no longer fit for consumption.

The perversity of modern life is that we know so much more than our counterpart selves would have 200, 300 years ago. But that knowledge remains mostly second, third hand. I know about fine dining the same way I know about saints: idolatry of iconography, signals I used for personal mythmaking and to detangle the mythmaking of others. But that also makes me part of the intended audience for "The Menu." Tyler impresses Margot for the first, and only, time in the movie with a monologue that reveals, among other things, that he has watched Slowick's episode of "Chef's Table" at least 20 times, and the movie rewards the viewer who recognizes how much the first 15 minutes are a parody of the tastefully dramatic and breathlessly orchestrated "Chef's Table" style, from the text overlays to the swelling classical music to a plate of food filmed slowly rotating against a black nothing background.

Because despite its cutting asides and its more-than-glancing resonance with "Eyes Wide Shut," "The Menu" is not really a movie about skewering the rich. It is a movie about fanaticism, cults (religious and personality), and the end of something powerful and destructive and, yes, even beautiful, that cannot exist in this world in this form anymore without poisoning everything it touches. It is a movie at least in part for us Tylers, who are looking for others to transform the ordinary into art, the elements of the everyday world into the divine.

Ralph Fiennes' Slowick is not a monster. He is not even the man in the kitchen we have come to expect in real life (widespread in Copenhangen beyond just Noma), reality TV (Gordon Ramsey), or fiction (Joel McHale's cameo as a nightmarish head chef in "The Bear", or even Carmy himself). He does not yell at his staff. He does not get knifed by a stagiaire in the buttocks, though he does allow a female sous chef he sexually and then just normally harassed to stab him in the thigh. When he calls Margot to his (tiny, austere, "shitty" per the script) office, his eyes are so doleful, the set of his mouth so mournful. He walks her through her cover story like a therapist—or maybe, more accurately, like a priest listening to a confession.

But Ralph Fiennes' Slowick is monstrous because of those things. He appears capable of such love, such tenderness, and yet only when he is about to teeter from that edge into violence. When Jeremy is about to bring The Mess to a close, Slowick kisses Jeremy on both cheeks like a benediction, a heavenly father forgiving whatever sins of inferiority Jeremy may still carry in his flesh, before his body is wrapped up like a human smudge stick, bundled inside a white sheet with sprigs of eucalyptus leaves, lavender, and grasses. The Mess is the first time the menu—and "The Menu"—truly goes off the rails, and is when you realize that this is not the culinary version of The Count of Monte Cristo or even "Glass Onion". Killing Jeremy, or letting Jeremy die, serves no larger purpose. Slowick is not there to expose his guests with razor sharp accuracy, to cut them down to size, or even to enact simple vengeance. He has, very simply, gone mad.

There are times in the movie when Slowick appears close to divine revelation, and I think that is why so many reviewers seem to believe this movie is some commentary on capitalism or consumerism or wealth, and are disappointed to realize at the end that there is none. But that is the thing about madness: there are times when it can seem quite cogent, and it often starts with a kernel of truth. You can't initiate someone into a cult with insanity. You have to start with one true thing. So Slowick is right to put the toadies of his angel investor in their places, yet what he screams at Doug Verrick is that there are no substitutions at Hawthorne. So he dooms a woman to her death simply because she had no student loans. You can't initiate someone into a cult with insanity. You have to start with one true thing, and get there in the end.

How could this happen? "Why didn't you try to escape?" Simple: the guests are not supposed to. It would be, as Hannibal may say, rude. It is not proper. It is not part of the ritual. The ending of "The Menu" is about complicity, but not just in the sense of "I deserve to die." The guests are complicit in their participation -- in eating, in savoring, in relishing, as Chef orders them to do. They listen to him. They do not try to attack the staff or run away, because running away is not part of the ritual, any more than sitting at someone else's table, sending food back, not agreeing with the sommelier's descriptions of the wine pairings, or refusing to pay for your bill—with or without a side of murder—is part of the ritual. The guests are here not for the food. "Otherwise it just tastes good, and who cares?" You do not pay Rolex money to eat good food; you pay Rolex money to be gastronomically dommed by the world's best chef.

It's fun on Twitter to discuss Margot's escape as a sly joke, like she exploited a loophole we should have seen coming. But Margot is able to leave because she realizes the only way out of the death cult is to deprogram and reject its rules entirely. She doesn't need to be the high priestess, as perhaps Elsa could lay claim to. She simply needs to be a disbeliever. When Slowick calls Margot to the front of the house and asks her, "Are you one of us or one of them?", he is quick to clarify that it does not mean will she survive or die. He assumes her initiation, that she will become one of the bigger Us, his death cult. He is asking her to pick her place within the order, whether she will be wearing the white robes of the priests or stand naked like the congregation. But in the end, Margo denies him. Without faith in Chef God, he has no power over her.

Perhaps if I had eaten at more tasting menus, or gone to a church when I was younger instead of learning about Catholicism in art museums, or hadn't been trying to air out an apartment kitchen with no windows after baking a camembert that smelled of rancid fat and chemical spills, I could have normal thoughts about "The Menu." But instead, what came to mind was the Jonestown massacre, where one man's folly resulted in the deaths (I consider them murders) of over 900 people.

There were over 900 audiotapes recovered from Jonestown following the massacre. The most famous of these tapes is, of course, the "death tape," a nearly hour-long recording of the events that directly preceded their deaths. In these final moments, Jim Jones sounds, disconcertingly, not unlike Julian Slowick (or perhaps it is more accurate to say that Slowick in the movie is disconcertingly Jones-like). He is apologetic, full of tender grief, as he calls for his congregation to submit to his vision of "revolutionary suicide." "I’ve practically died every day to give you peace," he tells them. "And you still not have any peace." Towards the end, as he worries that the cajoling and praises of the other church members is causing the process to drag on for too long, he resorts to grandiosity and exhaustion. "We’ve lived as no other people have lived and loved. We’ve had as much of this world as you’re gonna get. Let’s just be done with it. Let’s be done with the agony of it."

You can almost hear this in Ralph Fiennes' calm voice. The same voice he uses as he grabs an ember with his bare hands. We must be cleansed. Made clean. Like martyrs. Or heretics. We can be subsumed and made anew.

Among those who died at Jonestown were children and elderly family members who were fed or injected poison. In other words, they did not go willingly. Even those that did had lived through a blitzkrieg of manipulation and psychological warfare from Jim Jones, who could for example pretend to give his congregation tiny cups of poison as loyalty tests to see if they would kill themselves if called upon to do so. It's possible many of those who were killed on November 18, 1978, thought they were not actually going to die. (In light of this, there has been a concerted effort by relatives of those who died at Jonestown to eradicate the phrase "drinking the Kool-Aid" as an expression of someone falling without reservation for a crazy idea. Since falling down the Jonestown rabbit hole many years ago, I've tried to stop saying it as well.)

In its place, I propose: "becoming the human s'more." Because Hawthrone's final guests did know they were going to die, and welcomed it. The final edit of the movie makes it obvious. In the script, Anne, the wife in the couple that has dined at Hawthorne eleven times, pleads with Slowick during the final course. "Please," she says, but the script cannot decide if she is asking for him to stop or to continue.

The movie itself offers no ambiguity. Anne tells him, tearily, "Thank you." And when Slowick shouts for the final time, "I love you all!" perhaps you thought he was speaking only to his staff, who respond with equal gusto, "We love you, Chef!" Perhaps you thought that for the whole movie. But in that final scene, in my rewatch, I finally noticed: Soren and Felicity shout it right back.

Addendum:

Days after I watched "The Menu" for the first time, Noma announced that it would be closing its doors to diners in 2024. I had a very fun discussion with a friend (@genufa) about the themes that echo in both Noma's closing and "The Menu." Chef Slowick proclaims that the food at Hawthorn is "the best food in the world." But it is impossible to ever determine what is the "best food" in the world, what it should taste like, who should taste it. And more importantly, it is impossible to make the best restaurant in the world and share it with everyone, night after night. The human cost of such an experiment, as Slowick and Redzepi discovers, is too much.

But it is possible to make the best burger in the world, and maybe even to share the best burger in the world with everyone. (That's why I think this Twitter thread on how fine dining is presented in "The Menu" is absolutely correct, only they present it as a critique of the movie when I think it's the whole bottom line. The point of "The Menu" is that a chef's passion is real, and trying to turn that into ROI is grueling and, possibly, never sustainable or even moral.)

Anyway, I couldn't stop thinking of a quote Kim Mikkola, who worked at Noma for four years, gave to the New York Times about Noma's closing. Fine dining, he said, "like diamonds, ballet and other elite pursuits, often has abuse built into it. Everything luxetarian is built on somebody’s back; somebody has to pay."

Do you know what Mikkola is doing now? Apparently, "a chain of sustainable, equitably run fried-chicken sandwich shops." The cheeseburger, in 2023.