#happy half three writing fugue

[viric-dreams]

Trying to sleep whilst simultaneously letting some potential lore scenes for future writing/art run in the back of my mind produces some truly unsettling results.

Under no circumstances would Roberts be court martialed for treason. Officer Beverley seems to understand this, but his logic is entirely backwards. Framed by the glow of the fireplace, Beverley leans back against the sole chair in his spartan lodgings and explains what he’s so sure is going to happen. If Roberts does not comply he intends to go to the London admiralty, to let them in on his missing time, the new player making waves in Anarchist circles, the lies at the foundation of his very existence. He seems to think that the Dark-Spectacled Admiral has the power to land him in political scandal.

His letters will never reach the Admiral. Roberts knows this with the same certainty that he knows the Dawn Machine burns in the Southwest. Beverley’s contact is the Voracious Diplomat. He’s trying to be cagey about it, but Roberts has seen the letterhead, shoved quickly into a drawer whenever they need the space on the desk to work. And the Diplomat would never let such a tidbit go to the Admiral, not when it’s worth so much more on Grand Geode.

Roberts was there for the Luminous Plot of ‘69. In fact, he had been the one to ensure that its perpetrators would never find a way to return from the slow boat, no trial, sham or otherwise. As he and the Commodore stood against the gunwhale and watched their cement-laden bodies sink into the Zee, the Commodore turned to him.

“You wouldn’t betray me, would you, Elias?”

The expression on his face is clouded, as if already playing through and wounded by the possibility in his mind. It feels like being thrown into ice water.

“Of course not, sir!”

The very idea is appalling. Surely the Commodore doesn’t truly believe it’s in the realm of the possible—not when the very idea makes his skin prickle. He’s the Commodore’s man, through and through, dedicated to both him and the Work.

The Commodore smiles, his golden eyes suddenly kind.

“That's what I thought. You wouldn’t do such a thing,” his hand reaches out to pat his shoulder, “Not from my most loyal midshipman.”

He can’t help but flush at the praise. Hopefully, the deck’s dim lighting covers it. But it hardly matters, for the Commodore turns away, gazing into the waves where they’d thrown the traitors not minutes ago. Roberts thinks the conversation is at its end when the Commodore starts again, eyes never leaving that fixed point on the Zee’s surface.

“If you did betray me, of course, I wouldn’t kill and feed you to the dawn flukes. That would be too easy of an end. Instead, I’d weld you into our smallest zub and ship you to Anthe. Who knows,” he shrugs, “you might just even have enough supplies to make it.”

He can’t breathe, his lungs are frozen in his chest. The image is all too real—trapped in that metal coffin, hardly able to move. Through the icy panic, all he can feel is the frantic hammering of his heart and the sharp twinge of the muscle of his left thigh, where the scarred skin puckers above it. The Commodore wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Right? He has to take a breath. He needs to respond. It’s been too long. His silence might be taken for suspicious.

“There’s no need for that, I assure you.” The words come out whole, though his voice is frailer than he’d like. The Commodore is studying him now. Roberts isn’t sure whether or not he can meet his gaze, what the Commodore might see on his face. After a moment the Commodore nods.

“I didn’t think so. But you never know.” With that, his mouth slides into a grin, demeanour changing like night and day. “We’d best get back soon. There’s work to be done back on base. I’ll alert the navigator.”

Roberts sees the hand coming soon enough to not flinch when it lands on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring shake, before the Commodore is off, already descending the ladder.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, chasing the claustrophobic phantasm from his mind. The Commodore is right—there’s work to be done.

Truth be told, he’s not entirely paying attention to the details of Beverley’s demands. He doesn’t have to, when he already knows he’ll agree to whatever he says. It’s clear as dawnlight what he must do. The Officer seems almost surprised by how easily Roberts acquiesces, but that surprise soon turns to barely-concealed delight as the scientific possibilities unfold before him. He’s already turned away from Roberts and back to the schematics, searching for a pen to record the newest thoughts.

It’s truly a shame, Roberts thinks, hand reaching behind him for the fireplace poker, to have to lose such a promising engineer. But treachery is something that the New Sequence cannot tolerate.

Beverley doesn’t even see it coming until the instant he brings the iron poker down across his skull.

[pixies-and-poets]

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Eight

And I, I called through the air that night

I can't see your voice without light

I could only smile; I've been alone some time

And all in all, It's been fine

And you, you had hope for me now

I danced all around it somehow

Be fair to me, I may drift awhile,

Were it up to me, you'd know why.

Author’s notes:

Another part I’ve been looking forward to writing for a long time. In fact, I thought about it so much that I was never gonna be 100% happy with it when I got here, but whatever, I’m just gonna let it go so I can move on lol.

Angsty!! But no particular warnings beyond that.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight - Confessions

Woodrow was conscious of light beyond his eyelids, and the sounds of his planet shifting from night to morning, crickets replaced by the distant crows of roosters in farmyards. He was stiff, and yet not uncomfortable - sleeping on something cold and hard, yes, but next to something warm and so very soft… he opened his eyes.

And he remembered.

He sat up in alarm - he had fallen asleep outside, and was still somewhat damp between last night’s rain and the morning’s dew - surely he’d be sick - and on the very moon at that, next to… had anyone seen?! Did anyone know, had they gotten the wrong idea-

The warden looked over at his companion, who was still deep in sleep, his hefty arm outstretched to where it had been thrown around Woodrow's own thinner form, a smile on his unconscious face, his curls unkempt and hairs fallen over his eyes… and suddenly cared not for any of his prior worries. So what if someone had seen? They ought to be jealous.

And yet, still… they had better get home.

He searched around for his glasses, which were lying some distance away on the moon, and put them back on. Then he gently nudged Phantom on the shoulder.

Nothing happened.

So he shook him somewhat harder- still nothing. At last, he gently pinched one of his ears between his paw and thumb, and gave it a little tug.

Phantom’s eyes opened at last.

“Bonjour, mon poète,” said the ghost with a sleepy smile, and then opened his mouth into a huge yawn. "Tu as bien dormi?"

Soon the two were helping each other tidy up and look as much as possible like they hadn’t spent all night outside, acting as each other’s mirror. Woodrow tucked the loose strands back into Phantom’s little ponytail, and Phantom adjusted his companion’s bowtie. And before long they were headed home together, thankfully seeming to attract no more attention than usual along the way: most of the villagers were busy going about their morning tasks, in no mood to remark upon or even notice two disheveled-looking artists.

The duo parted at the Portly Pumpkin, as they tended to do - Phantom had still never been to Woodrow’s house - and made their next appointment for that night’s dinner. The warden sighed as he watched the inn’s door close behind his companion. He wondered how he would make it through the day.

—

Back at his home, Woodrow had cleaned himself off and warmed himself up with a hot bath; he never took showers… too easy to slip. While soaking, it was hard not to drift off to certain fantasies and reveries. And after he had gotten out, and dried himself, and began to put on his clothes, his thoughts were still filled with the night before, and the things Phantom had told him. Looking in his own cracked mirror, buttoning up his jacket, he found himself smiling, and murmuring, chattering to himself half in song-

“Your father was the moonlight’s gleam,

Your mother’s warmth a spotlight beam,

Your head already full of dreams,

As you were born one starry eve.

Oh tell me, Ghost, how could it be

The likes of you could ever see

A cause to share the stage with me?

The two of us to interweave…

O songbird, though your call may strain

In dreams I hear your sweet refrain.

And even though-”

-CLANK!

A loud clang and a clatter shocked him out of his artistic fugue. Eyes wide, suddenly panicked and aware and ashamed, he turned to the source of the noise: the corner of his room. His own gramophone had fallen from its table onto the floor.

With an agonized gasp he ran over to it, picking it up with the care and tenderness one might afford to an injured animal. “Oh no…” he said, barely more than a breath, as he noticed its horn had slightly bent. It was not as lovely a machine as Phantom’s; it was already somewhat scuffed… and now even moreso.

Shaking, he gently lifted it by its base and placed it back on the table, patting its new “wound” with a trembling hand. He sat on his bed a few minutes until he had calmed down somewhat, at least enough to regain control; and then once the shakes had passed, slipped a record out of its sleeve, and - nervous and terrified of the attempt - put it upon the gramophone to test it.

…The music came like normal, a beautiful song from a familiar voice, and a wave of relief washed over him.

And yet- he had damaged it. Maybe it could be bent back into shape, but- well, imagine it HAD been alive. Would it have been hurt? Would it be afraid of you now? Would it resent you, would it HATE you?

How could he have let himself be so weak…

He fell upon his bed and sobbed.

—

All day long the warden remained unsettled and distressed, his eyes shadowed with sorrow behind his glasses, hardly being able to concentrate on his work. Dinnertime found him distracted. And yet being around Phantom again, hearing the music of his voice and his laughter, calmed him down well enough. He didn’t eat much, but by the time they were ready to leave, he felt reasonably at ease once more.

As evening grew to night, and the early-to-bed village of Paletteville gradually turned in, the two found themselves walking about the outskirts of town, on the fringes of river and wood. As the darkness deepened, the stars in the sky were met and mirrored by the scattered yellow light of windows in distant homes.

When all seemed quiet, and it was about ready for the two to think about turning in for the night themselves, they crossed back over the bridge into the village. Their thoughts were on the night before, of how nice it had felt to wake up together- and yet that had been an accident, after all.

The pair of them stopped on the bridge, looking down at the lazy flow of the river.

“You know, Tom,” said Woodrow, the gentle breeze fluttering his ears and the leaves trapped in his hat, “I don’t think I ever had the chance to tell you about this bridge, so distracted were you by the ship on our tour.”

“Well, it’s a nice bridge, I suppose,” said the other. “What’s so special about it?”

“This is the Sweetie Pie Honey Snookums Bridge,” said the warden matter-of-factly, and Phantom snorted.

“Please tell me you didn’t name that,” laughed the ghost.

Woodrow grinned. “Don’t blame me! It’s been called that since before I was born. Regardless, this bridge is considered THE romantic spot of Palette Prime. Popular for engagement photos, and... first kisses.”

“Hmmm,” said Phantom. “Well, it’s alright. The moon is better.”

“You would say that,” said the warden. “But the moon hasn’t always been there. -Besides, what I think is far more interesting about this bridge is its recent history. In fact, it involves some people you already know.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

And tell Woodrow did- explaining how the bridge had been destroyed by Cursa’s forces, and how Sweetlopek had fixed it, but not until getting his axe back that Dryad had endeavored to hide from him.

“And thus, once the bridge was made anew,” said the warden, “Dryad and Sweetlopek were the first to step over it, and that moment - so they tell me - is when they realized they were in love.” He had been speaking into the distance, looking out at the water, but here he turned back to Phantom and found that the ghost was staring at him intently. Their eyes met, and Woodrow quickly turned away once more. “...Deeply, helplessly in love,” he murmured, as if to himself.

He put his paws on the railing of the bridge and added, “I could tell, too. I could see the glimmer and warmth in my best friend’s eyes, the joy in his movements. And so, moved with exaltation for my longtime companion, I wrote the two of them a poem on the spot.” He dared not recite the whole thing, so he merely bit his lip, and then said, “The wolves of time and all that…”

“I saw that one,” said Phantom. “It went viral, thanks to Rabbid Peach. That was written because of this bridge? Well, I suppose it’s a decent enough bridge after all.”

Woodrow’s ears and cheeks had grown red as he slowly turned back to the other. “Yes, perhaps my most well-known work at this point. I- I’m glad it reached you.”

Phantom was silent for a moment, then sighed. Woodrow looked up at him in confusion, for he suddenly seemed to be deep in consideration.

“Tristan,” he said at last, “It wasn’t the first of your works to reach me. ...I must be honest with you, for I can bear the secret no longer. I shall tell you here, and now, on the Honey Pie Lovey Dovey Bridge. Do you know why I came to Palette Prime?”

Woodrow was quite perplexed at this point. “Because of our natural beauty? The clean air? You’ve already told me, many a time-”

“Yes, yes. But there are many such planets I could have chosen. Do you really think Palette Prime is the best option, the most beautiful in the entire galaxy? Perhaps, but- well, don’t get a big head about it now.” He smiled down at the baffled warden, and put his paw on Woodrow’s cheek. “No, there is a reason I chose to come here. One you seem not to have guessed…”

“Why then, Tom?”

“I was persuaded. I was convinced. Someone put the idea in my head; whispered this planet’s charms into my ear, and sang its praises to my heart, gently and sweetly but with ever so much conviction.”

“Well, that was good of them,” said Woodrow. “Who was it? I should like to thank them…”

Phantom pulled back slightly, and reached into his coat. After a moment he pulled out a thin paperback book that had lain hidden in an inner pocket, pressed against his chest near his heart.

When he saw the cover of the volume, the warden felt electric warmth all over his body, and his fur stood on end. “Wait- but that’s-”

“A Gust of Leaves, by T. S. Woodrow,” said the Phantom with a smile. He turned the book around and read from the back cover. “In this collection, the author gives us a tribute to his beloved home planet of Palette Prime. His poetry describes a childhood spent wandering the forest, an adolescence among the pumpkin farms under the harvest moon, and coming of age as a sensitive child in a close-knit village full of both gossip and secrets…”

“I wrote that when I was a younger man,” said Woodrow in awe. “Before I was warden… it was one of my first published collections. It is over a decade old by now. How did you ever find such a thing?”

Phantom shrugged. “Happened upon it at a used book store,” he said. “I am quite the voracious reader, you know- particularly of poetry. I found this some time after losing my voice, and… I must admit, I had only vaguely heard of you before. But Tristan, my dear poet, I cannot tell you what this has meant to me…” he looked down at the book, flipping through its pages tenderly, and Woodrow noticed the little volume was quite worn, its binding loose and softened.

“These poems spoke comfort to the deepest chambers of my heart. On my darkest days, in my times of hopelessness, I found peace by imagining myself in the very woods which I have now seen in person. I imagined the river that we now stand above washing away my cares. When you wrote about your childhood, feeling isolated amongst your neighbors, I no longer felt so alone with my ailment which set me apart from my theatrical peers. In short, I imagined myself here, long before I came. And now that I am here, it is far better than I could have ever hoped…”

As his companion spoke, Woodrow felt the telltale tightness in his throat that preceded tears, and he failed to hold back the dam of his eyes. “Oh, my dear Phantom,” he said. “I’m… I’m more glad than I can say, that my work has touched you so. But why… why did you never tell me?”

 “It seemed a strange thing to bring up,” said Phantom, with an uncharacteristic and disarming helplessness that revealed his total honesty. “I did not know how to approach it. And besides, I did not want it to affect how we viewed each other… especially once I heard about your writer’s block. I did not want you to feel pressured or guilty. But yes, Tristan- now you know the truth. In fact, I tracked down a few more of your collections and have enjoyed them just as much in months past. I have treated you as a stranger, but in truth I felt I knew you before I saw you."

As he spoke, his voice rose in passion and speed, though it had begun to scratch and give way to its hoarseness as well. "I have known your heart, and you have spoken to me, for quite some time now. And now I am beside you- I can speak to you, hold your hand, touch your face. ...My gentle poet, I-”

“Shush!” Woodrow had put a paw to Phantom’s lips, to the great astonishment of the former singer. To further his astonishment, he was close enough to see Woodrow’s eyes behind his glasses, and they did not, as he had hoped, echo and reflect the overflowing passion which now filled his own ghostly form. No, the warden’s eyes were wide, wild… frightened.

“Tom,” he croaked, “If you know me, if you know of my work, if you have heard of me from elsewhere. Then you must know the truth about me. You must know what I am.”

“You are a poet,” said the ghost, taking him by the shoulders. “My favorite, as it were. In many respects.”

“No,” he said, pulling away. “Not that. I mean- certainly you have heard. I am not a normal poet. You MUST have heard what my poems do, what they cause-”

“They cause me to be happy-”

“Stop!" he said loudly, nearly a shout. "Tom, please, you mustn’t play coy with me about this, of all things! If you know-”

The singer pulled the poet into his arms, enveloping his frantic form in a tight and warm embrace. “It’s alright, my darling,” he purred. “I know, I know. I have heard. And I do not care.”

“That can’t be,” said the poet, trembling. “You must care. If you don’t care, you don’t truly understand. I, myself, am a curse. I am bad luck in the form of a Rabbid. I am the plague of Palette Prime.”

“Well, if you didn’t think I knew, when did you intend on telling me this, hmm?” said Phantom. But there was a smile on his face and a playfulness in his voice.

“Why didn’t YOU tell ME that you knew?!”

Phantom shrugged, and Woodrow felt the heave of his warm body. “It is as I said. I simply do not care. It does not affect how I feel about you. I have heard, yes… your poems cause disaster. Hmph! I think they are quite worth it. And when you write again, I want to be there to bear it with you… I am a tough one, mon chéri. I can survive an inconvenience here and there.”

“It is not mere INCONVENIENCE, Tom!” he said into his companion's chest, still for the moment letting himself be held. “Sometimes, yes, it is a trifle - a small accident, a broken mirror, a papercut- but other times…" he looked up and met the two blue eyes that gazed down at him. "Tom, the moon. The doomstorm. The things I told you about on the tour, they- they were not mere coincidence. There was a time in my life I had hoped that they were, but no- I brought them about. The ship that fell, it fell on-”

“-On you,” said Phantom. “My poor, poor darling.” He gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. “I'm so sorry that happened to you. But… yes. I knew all these things. I knew them before I came. Do you really expect me to not have done my research on a place I was to reside for at least a month? I read travel guides, I read histories, I read online reviews- I was well warned.”

“But- but you acted as though…” Woodrow’s voice trailed off. “You… you acted, didn’t you.”

The other laughed. “Well, yes! I am an actor.”

Woodrow was shaking in his arms, somewhere between laughter and sobs, both hysterical. “You knew. You knew the whole time, you trickster, you lunatic. And yet still you came. You came for me.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” hummed the ghost in deep satisfaction, his voice a cracking sing-song.

Then suddenly, fiercely, the warden pushed away again, holding the other at arm’s length. “Oh, Phantom!” he cried. “I cannot blame you for not telling me these things, for- for I have not been honest myself. There is something I must tell you; I too can bear the secret no more.”

“And what is that?” said the ghost, in a rhapsody of warmth, ready for the confession of passion that was sure to come pouring from the other-

“I do NOT have writer’s block.”

“...Oh?” Phantom stared back at his companion. It wasn’t really what he had been expecting.

“Quite the opposite,” said the warden, pushing his paws up behind his glasses as was his habit in shame or panic. “I am trying not to write, for your sake. I have wished to spare you from misfortune, ever since you came here. But the poetry is there, in my soul, like frantic animals trapped in too small a cage. They howl at me night and day; they claw at the walls of my heart until I bleed, Tom. How could it be otherwise?! Every time I see you, a new poem is born, and shoved in there to suffer and die in the darkness with the rest. Woe betide me, I cannot stand it-”

“Then write for me, Tristan,” said the other, suddenly desperate and eager, taking the poet’s hands in both his own. “Oh, my poet, give me your words.”

The poet was silent for a long moment, so Phantom continued: “Listen to me. Lest you think me too selfless, to come and see you with no heed for my safety - I must be honest with you. I am the opposite. I am a horribly selfish man, a conceited one. Do you know this?”

“Tom…”

“I mean it! One reason I wanted to see you, to meet you, was because- bruised and broken as my ego is, I thought perhaps… perhaps you would write poetry for me. About me. You would write hymns to my glorious personage. You would do for me what I cannot do for myself these days. And I wanted that, or so I thought. I wanted it so very badly…”

He reached out to the other, and once again found his hand caressing his cheek, and then holding it. “But how soon I found there were other things that I wanted. I was heartbroken to hear that you could not write, but… as I came to know you, I no longer wanted you to write for my sake. I wanted you to write for yours. I needed to hear your work, not because I wanted you to glorify me. But to glorify yourself. I want to know you… all of you. I want to be there when beauty and truth is born from your inmost soul. I want you to breathe your art into my own lungs and heal me. So write, my dear, and damn the consequences.”

The poet was still silent for a while afterwards, not meeting his companion’s eyes, but tears running down from his own. And finally, he said, scarcely audible:

“No. I can’t.”

[jaywalkers]

twenty questions for fic authors

i was tagged by @decaflondonfog! thank you, i loved reading all of your thoughts on your own writing so i'm vv excited to do this.

How many works do you have on AO3? 21 revealed, and then my super secret fic for the @aftgthenandnow fest (which people should totally go and check out if they haven't already)

What's your total AO3 word count? 443,022 words, which is horrifying and likely to hit 500,000 by the end of this year. lord have mercy

What fandoms do you write for? i'm currently very happy in my tfc shaped hole and have been for the last while but i do have some wips floating around for the likes of teen wolf (long live cringe) and mdzs still!

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? these bad boys! total pick'n'mix of fandoms here a made thing [10k, sangcheng, T] sunset, like survival [86k, kandreil, E] postcard mouth [7k, matchablossom, G] the post-impact stage [3k, andreil, G] work song, crawl home [3k, sangcheng, G]

Do you respond to comments? Why/why not? in all honesty once i've written a fic it's out there in the world and i am absent from anything going forward of it. i dearly, dearly appreciate everyone who puts time into commenting because it truly is the thing i stick around fandom for, but i don't have the time or energy a lot of the time to reply effectively and to not just keep repeating thank you's!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? considering it uses the 'Bad Ending' tag, it'll have to be a room full of knives! it is canon-compliant though, so is the angst really my fault?

What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? i feel like most of my fics have a somewhat happy ending, if not just a simple open-ended one, but i might say sunbreak for this because the ending of it is very joyful and there isn't much else left to say to hide the happiness.

Do you get hate on any fics? not really! i did get the worlds most insane comment on NOSTOS a couple years ago that was kind of horrible to read but it was anger at a character and not my fic lmao.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? i'd never written it until this year because it was on my writing goals list for the year! i can't really say what kind because i've only written a couple of scenes so i'm not sure where they sit in the grand scheme of things but i have written some!

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've ever written? not really! i am a big AU fan — the kandreil teen wolf au i wrote this year with the beloved and highly esteemed @dayurno is probably the craziest, but i have a kandrew 'gideon the ninth' au planned too! if we're talking actual crossovers, there was a hilarious in-joke au partially written in a group chat a couple of years ago that was a WOH and MDZS law firm au. xue yang owned jby's soul. wei wuxian had bitcoin. i have a customised t-shirt for it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? yup! and it's the reason i put writing away for about four years when i was in high school because i was so demotivated to share my stuff.

Have you ever had a fic translated? i think there's two or three of my fics that i've given permission for russian translations! i don't think they've been finished though so it would be cool if that ever ends up happening!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? as stated earlier, i spent eight months in an echo-chamber with @dayurno in which we went into a mutual fugue state and came out with wet-eyed banshee kevin and his high school boyfriends. maybe one day we'll get to the twinyards sequel of it i do also have to shoutout @picturedframes who was half of the mastermind behind sunset, like survival, and has contributed an insane amount to other works like diachronic and all that looking down.

What's your all time favourite ship? don't ask me this,,,, it chops and changes from year to year! i think in favour of being nice to myself i'm going to just say percabeth — they're the OGs from day one and they still hold up in my heart

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? either my 'the old guard' wenzhou au, or the other installments of the nostos 'verse! i loved them dearly at the time and i do think they would be well worth writing still, but my interests have moved on fandom-wise slightly! maybe one day i'll revist them, but not any time soon i don't think.

What are your writing strengths? ohh. digging my teeth into a character, i think. i use fic as a way to kind of just write thesis' and loveletters and stories all at the same time, and i think i'm good at holding up a character and writing out what makes them tick! and maybe a weird one but fleshing out the wider world? i'm very proud of like, my background characters. describing people who take coffee orders and who are studying in the library too and who are one-line classmates.

What are your writing weaknesses? this time last year i would have said dialouge but i think i've gotten better at it this year! probably being too verbose. i think i have a tendency to get carried away with thoughts and descriptions and i think sometimes that means they lose their potency when i really need them! it's a goal for next year i think; learning how to pare back my writing and make it more effective.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? ahhhhhh aha ha ha aha . you're talking to the bitch who's current fic is all about kevin relearning gaeilge/irish so you bet there's a lot of dialogue in other languages in it! also diachronic and sunset, like survival both have a substantial amount of other languages: diachronic uses french, gaeilge, and japanese, while sls throws german into the mix!

First fandom you wrote for? the bible just kidding lmao though i did write stories when i was in catholic school with biblical characters. i think it was fairy tail!

Favourite fic you've written? noooooo don't make me answer this one. there's many different questions inside of that one question (what one i'm most proud of, what one i feel the most for, what one i had the most fun with), and i don't think there's one that works for them all. i think i'll say diachronic, maybe, for now. my first forway into the head of my beloved kevin day and certainly not the last.

i don't know who has/hasn't been tagged in this so it's an open invite, but i am going to tag @dayurno @sunriseinorbit @moondal514 @kamyska

[arrivisting]

2022 fanfic meme

okay, @undercat-overdog​ tagged me for this, three weeks ago, so naturally I’m showing up at the end of january being like, this is the time for a fanfic wrapped. absolutely.

Word count for the year:  I wrote much more than I posted. Also I have a couple of ao3s! If I only count posted fic in 2022: 60,035. that’s actually a lot more than I would have guessed.

Number of stories posted to Ao3: 10. though I feel like I wrote nothing in 2022! 5 to vauquelin (elftrash), 4 to arriviste, 1 to [redacted]

Pairings written for:

on arriviste: all gen, though one was elrond/celebrian, elros/wife, another technically nerdanel/feanor, another aragorn/arwen.

on vauquelin (elftrash), one was finrod/edrahil, one caranthir/haleth, one fingon/maedhros, two gen (one of them technically celeborn/galadriel).

a big year for gen and canon het. hm! unfortunately I have a lot of truly demented m/m in the pipeline.

Fandoms I wrote for:  everything silm/lotr except [redacted]

Most popular story: a wild surmise (gen, silm. elrond’s ship accidentally finds valinor of the years of the trees rather than valinor of the end of the third age). the unfinishedness of this one haunts me. people were so nice!

Fic I spent the most time on: the fire’s toll (gen, silm. nerdanel, amrod. past nerdanel/feanor) I wrote half of this in 2021 so it feels like cheating to put it in the 2022 list, but honestly: it’s so easy to write the first half of a story. I never have trouble getting started. writing the second half was agony - everything from

They wed in the way Elves had, once, at Cuiviénen: quite alone, out in the wild, with no one to witness but themselves. They had made promises to each other, and to Ilúvatar. They had lain down together under the wheeling stars and neither of them had been capable, then, of imagining a future in which they thought each other less brilliant, less fascinating, less perfect; in which they loved each other less, or in which they parted forever.

I always wonder if people can tell where the join is! I feel like when I stop dead on a story for ages (months... years) it’s horribly obvious exactly where I picked it up again, but I never notice these things myself as a reader. there’s a 3 year pause in the fic I just posted last night. I feel like it’s glaring, but hopefully not.

Fic I spent the least time on: there are a few very slight ficlets on vauquelin. after that, the least time I spent on anything was conversely the longest thing I wrote in 2022, easily sever what never was one (caranthir/haleth, 17k). was written in a hot panic/writing fugue in three days. I was literally writing it up until a minute before posting (challenge deadline). I wrote it in an uber. I wrote it at dinner with friends. I wrote 10k of it in one day.

did I have only three days to write it? no. I had months. I didn’t use them wisely.

Favorite thing I wrote: a wild surmise. I would like it even better if perhaps I had had even one iota of patience and not posted the first chapter and then dipped, but that first chapter was no effort at all. banged it out in an afternoon. it just walked into my head. I will spend tortured months finishing the other two.

I also like next year’s words a lot (gen; elrond/celebrian, elros/wife) because it was a challenge to remix a perfect story and to do it any kind of justice but I think I landed the plane? I’m not much use at tolkien’s languages so I was like D: D: D:

Story I’m most proud of: the fire’s toll. getting it off the wip list after a year+ of being totally stuck was so satisfying. I’m not happy with the balance of it, but I am so happy I finished it.

Funniest: I don’t think I’m very good at humour. I didn’t write anything that light in 2022! dawn song was meant to be terribly light and sweet (finrod/edrahil, the adoption of gildor into the house of finarfin) and I think it is, but it’s not puns puns puns.

Kinkiest: [redacted]

Saddest: hm. this is harder to answer than the funniest one. I usually don’t think what I’ve written is that sad but then people are sometimes like, wow, I was stabbed here. probably the fire’s toll.

Least Popular: a bit of ivory (gen, findis, lalwen).

Most Cringe-Worthy: [redacted]. though everything I write I cringe about. then years later I will reread it and be like ‘this is so good! what a shame I can’t write like that any more.’

Favorite Opening Line(s):

“It’s unbearable,” Curufin said conversationally.

Maedhros glanced at him. There had been no conversation before that remark. Curufin had simply come to stand beside him, leaning back with exaggerated casualness against the same window-frame that Maedhros had selected, sighed, and thus begun.

“The way you stare,” he elaborated. “You look at him like you’re starving and he’s dinner. You look at him like a Man seeing one of the Eldar for the first time. You look at him the way everyone in Tirion used to stare at the Silmarils whenever Father wore them--”

“That’s enough.”

“My point exactly!” said Curufin. “It’s become tediously clear that the staring isn’t ever going to stop. Father and Fingolfin fighting didn’t stop it, though loyalty alone should have been enough to quench it. Twelve years of exile only made it worse. It was too dark to see on the night we swore the Oath, but I would still wager Caranthir anything he wanted to stake that you were making eyes at Fingon across the square nonetheless. Well, Father’s dead. So’s Fingolfin, if you were holding back out of fear of him. Home’s gone, and we can’t go back. What could possibly be standing in your way now but want of courage?”

“My way to,” Maedhros began. Then he stopped, breathed in through his nose, and said, “I’m not in the mood to entertain you trying to be clever, Curufin. Go away, and try not to stab anyone as you move across the room.”  

“You want him,” said Curufin, ignoring him. “If you think you’re being subtle about it, let me assure you that you are not. You have never been subtle. Nor, for that matter, has he. Finrod used to say that it was painful to be in the same room as the two of you. He said sharing the very air felt indecent.”

“I think,” said Maedhros, “that you had better not mention our late cousin to me. Stop this vein of argument and tell me outright what it is you want. You are too much the son of our father to help me to the bed of Fingolfin's son without a better object than my happiness in mind.”

“Oh!” said Curufin. “You are determined to think the worst of me, after Nargothrond. I will not argue with you, though I am sorry that you think so little of me that you will not credit me with a sincere desire for your good.”

This isn’t really an opening line as much as an exchange, but it popped into my head almost full-blown and then I had to figure out a way to finish the ficlet/land the plane.

Favorite Closing Line(s): I didn’t really write any banger endings. I like to end on a knifepoint (to the gut!). I like the way the fire’s toll zooms out and the catalogue of nerdanel’s retrospective takes over.

Top Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated:

from 2022 fic? probably Dor Caranthir from easily sever what never was one. or the ruins of the Haladin steading. Sometimes a story is as much about the settings as the action.

Story I haven’t yet written, but intend to: something I haven’t written really at all yet? Finrod surviving the wolf (serious). Finrod’s very secret diaries spanning the years of the trees to his death (silly). truth serum fingon/maedhros slipped into himring to cause chaos by a thrall (serious).

New things I tried:

Me, 2005-2011: I only write RPF.

Me, 2011-2022: as god is my witness, I will never write RPF again.

Also Me, 2022: 🤡

Fic-writing goals for 2023: oh lord. I don’t want to set the bar too high.

finish a wild surmise.

finish & post the fic known only as ‘the bad fic’.

finish & post the next scion fic, alias ‘the finrod and gil-galad fic’, alias ‘this long abiding’.

write some goddamn porn.

finish and post at least one (1) of the ossified wips in the wip folder: outsider pov/’how like a winter’, or ‘legxit’, or, wow, I don’t even remember how many wips I have on life support

finish a stranger in my bed?

finish and post [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [readacted] [redacted]

[anxiousstark]

S2 02 | Shape Shifted

BIG MASTERLIST | TW REWRITE

Stiles Stilinski x Reader! Half-sibling!Mccall Word count: 2736 Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies, injuries, blood, angst, swearing (always). A/N: I’m not really proud of this chapter. It is fast and not too long. At first, I thought about skipping it, but I totally needed it to be able to introduce Isaac Lahey. Furthermore, the black backpack it’s truly important for Y/N’s past with her mother, and for her relationship with Scott!

↪ PLEASE RESPECT MY WORK. DON’T COPY, TRANSLATE OR CLAIM THEM AS YOURS. NOT ON THIS WEBSITE OR ANOTHER. ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED.

"Scott told me you weren't coming today." Allison stared at me, concerned.

"What's the point of staying at home?" I chuckled. I didn't remember anything about last night. I had this uneasy feeling, but I couldn't recall anything. I remembered running after Lydia when she escaped from the hospital's window, and the next thing I was lying down on my bed after being found in the woods. "Melissa will kill me when she finds out I'm not home." I laughed.

"Oh, she will kill you." My half-brother's girlfriend smiled, clutching her books against her chest. "Stiles told me that you guys are better than ever." She blushed, nodding. "I hope you guys stay like that. Scott glares at me less when you guys are together." I smirked. It was true. Scott seemed to be calmer when he was in good terms with Allison.

"I need to go grab some books from my locker." She kissed Lydia's cheek, who had been quiet most of the time. "See you guys later." She side-hugged me.

"They called it a fugue state, which is basically a way of saying ‘We have no idea why you can't remember running through the woods naked," Lydia said while I opened the door for her. "But personally, I don't care. I lost nine pounds." She giggled.

"We were out there for almost an entire day," I answered back. "Isn't it crazy that we don't remember anything that happened during the time we were wandering around?"

"As I said before," She retouched her lipstick. "I lost nine pounds." I saw Jackson a couple of meters away from us, Lydia was walking directly to him. But his eyes were fixed on me while he smirked. 

"Do your ears and nose bleed a lot?" 

Fuck you, Jackson.

I walked to the bleachers, sitting down behind Scott and Stiles. Again, I was surprised that Scott was a werewolf because he hadn't noticed me as he was too busy talking to his friend. I got closer to them. "Boo." Both boys jumped, terrified. Their screams were so high pitched that half of the lacrosse team were staring at us. They both turned around to look at me. "Oh god, that was so fucking fu-"

Two arms wrapped around me, Stiles. Now, I was almost sitting on his lap, arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his face hiding on my neck. At first, I didn't know how to react, but I ended up wrapping my arms around him too. My right hand rubbed his back while the other rested on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to me, which seemed almost impossible. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

"For what?"

He sighed, his warm breath caressing the side of my neck, making me shiver. "I'm sorry for leaving you at the dance just to go with Lydia." His voice cracked.

"Stiles, we talked about this." I rubbed his back in circles. "It was your opportunity to get close to Lydia." Forming those words made my heart throb, but I continued. "You don't have to apologize for something your heart was telling you to do."

"My heart was confused." He whispered. "And because of that, you got hurt."

"It wasn't your fault." My fingers caressed his buzz-cut hair. "You didn't hit me, Chris Argent did."

"He could have killed you if he wanted. He didn't do it because you are of value. Because you are something that interests him." He clenched his jaw. "He could have killed you if he wanted to." Stiles paused. "And I never thanked you for saving me from Peter Hale back at the hospital."

"Anyone would have done that for you, Stilisnki."

We heard someone cough, and we decided it was time to part ways. Even though I didn't want to. Stupid Scott.

You know when you shower and wear clean clothes. You get inside your bed with fresh sheets. The smell and freshness embrace you, and you feel safe. That's exactly what I felt in Stiles's arms.

"Uhm. So what about the plan?" Stiles stopped looking deeply into my eyes to glance at Scott, who had interrupted us.

"What plan?" I curiously asked, sitting next to Stiles.

"There seems to be another wolf in the lacrosse team." The Hazel-eyed boy explained to me. "I told coach you're switching with Danny for the day."

"But I hate playing goal."

"Remember when I said I had an idea? This is the idea."

"Oh." He didn't understand. "What's the idea?"

"I seriously don't understand how you survive without me sometimes." He shook his head. "McCall's will always need me."

Coach called the entire lacrosse team. Stiles was the first one to go back to the field while Scott stopped to look at me. "Uhm, I hope you feel better."

"Did Melissa tell you to say that?" I jokingly asked.

"Actually, yes." He grinned when he saw how my face went back to a serious one. "I'm kidding. I really hope you feel better."

I nodded, smiling. "Thank you." I looked at him directly on the eyes. "And thank you for finding me."

"It wasn't me." He pointed at Stiles when he saw my confused expression. "It was him." Then he sighed. "And please, I can smell you guys."

"Smell what? I got showered so you can't joke about me smelling or something because I promise you I will kill you."

"No," He chuckled. "I smell Stiles." He paused. "And you, you know."

"No, I don't." He groaned, going back to the field, murmuring something about it 'not being his job'.

It seems like Stiles's plan was for Scott to throw every lacrosse player to the ground, smelling them to make sure that they were not a werewolf.

I was confused when in the distance, I saw Sheriff Stilisnki marching towards the field.

The match had been stopped by the police. "His father's dead. They think he was murdered."

"Are they saying he's a suspect?" Noah Stilisnki softly grasped Isaac's arm, letting him know that he had to go with them to the station. He was a major suspect. "Because they can lock him in a holding cell for 24 hours." Scott was still trying to understand what Stiles was trying to say. "During the full moon."

"How good are these holding cells at holding people?"

"People, good. Werewolves, probably not that good."

Isaac followed the sheriff's orders, but before completely disappearing from our sight, he turned around, looking at the other werewolf boy. "Stiles, remember when I said I don't have the urge to maim and kill?"

Stiles nodded.

"He does." I interrupted Scott. I could also feel it. I could feel the rage. He was going to explode.

After what happened in the field, we had to go to class with Mr. Harris. I didn't fancy that man, he made me feel quite uncomfortable, and his subject was monotonous.

"Why would Derek choose Isaac?" I heard Scott whisper. Both boys were sitting in front of me while I was sitting behind them, in front of Danny boy.

"Peter told me that if the bite doesn't turn you it could kill you. And maybe teenagers have a better chance of surviving."

"Doesn't being a teenager mean your dad can't hold him?"

"Well, not unless they have solid evidence. Or a witness. Wait." Stiles turned around, he offered me a little smile, making my heart beat like crazy. "Danny. Where's Jackson?"

"In the principal's office talking to your dad." My interest peaked when I heard what he had said.

"What? Why?"

"Maybe because he lives across the street from Isaac."

The hazel-eyed boy who only liked to get into trouble glanced at Scott and me. "We gotta get to the principal's office."

"How?"

I saw Stiles ripping a blank page from his notebook, shaping a not-so-round ball with it. "Everyone please turn to page 73." Mr. Harris was writing on the blackboard when the paper ball hit the back of his head. "Who in the hell did that?" Both troublemakers pointed at each other. Oh god.

Gosh, Mr. Stilisnki was right. I would only be into trouble if I went along with Scott and Stiles. But I couldn't let these two fools get themselves killed. I quickly made a paper ball, throwing it at Mr. Harris, hitting him directly on the nose. Classmates started snickering while Scott and Stiles glanced at me perplexed, but with grins on their faces. "Damn guys, I thought you said we were throwing them at the count of three." I winked at them.

However, Mr. Harris didn't seem to find it hilarious as he sent the three of us to detention. We were sitting outside when Stiles's dad came out. He hid his face behind my back, in hopes that his father wouldn't see him. Stiles under pressure was as dumb as Scott in his daily life.

"Scott." Sheriff Stilisnki greeted him. Then, he looked at his son, letting a sigh of defeat leave his mouth. "Y/N," He also greeted me. "How is that wound?"

"What wound?" I smiled, letting him know that I was feeling just fine.

He grinned back. "Good. I'm happy for you." He crossed his arms, telling his coworkers to go ahead. "I suppose you three are here to go into detention." I bit my lower lip while Scott nodded. Stiles still hiding his face behind my back. "Well, Y/N, you aren't going."

I gazed at him, utterly confused.

Stiles finally decided to stop using me as a shield. "Oh, wow-Dad! What a surprise!" Mr. Stilisnki, Scott, and I rolled our eyes. Sometimes, Stiles could be a complete fool. "Why isn't she going?"

I swallowed. I could feel both boys gazing at me.

"It isn't an interrogation, don't worry." Noah intervened. "But we need you to come back to the station. It is quite important, Y/N." I couldn't help but glance at Stiles, my anxiety going up as seconds when by. Why did they need me at the police station?

Stiles smiled at me, but I could see that he was as nervous and bewildered as me. "You are lucky," He punched me lightly on the arm. "You skip this stupid long detention." He moved a strand of hair away from my face. "And you are going to be with the coolest Sheriff of the city." He winked at his dad.

"We will still talk about this at home, Stiles." He smirked. "Come get her at the station when you finish whatever you did."

The hazel-eyed boy pouted, conducting his gaze to me. "Seems like it's going to be a long day for both of us." He muttered.

"Do you want anything to drink or eat?" Noah Stilinski took a seat in front of me. We were separated by a metal table. I shook my head while placing my hands on top of the cold surface. "I know you must be nervous about me taking you here without giving you any hint."

"And I'm in the interrogation room, so I'm even more nervous." I chuckled. "Please, go directly to the reason that made me be here."

"Do you remember Sheriff Posey? Back where you used to live?" He slid a picture of said Sheriff so I could see at him.

I nodded my head. I didn't remember much of him, but he saved my life a couple of times and did his best to snap Alice back to real life. Of course, it didn't work. "He was the one who 'took care' of Ali- my mom's situation."

Noah nodded. "He is gonna retire due to some health inconveniences."

"I hope he is okay," I sincerely expressed my feelings. "But what does that have to do with me?"

Sheriff Stilinski sighed, pulling something that was under the table, letting it fall on top of it. A black backpack. "Do you recognize this bag?" I shook my head. "Sherrif Posey had it for a long time, he wanted to wait until you were older." His eyes searched deep in mines. "This is the bag your mother took to jail. It was given to Sheriff Posey when-"

"When she killed herself." I finished for him. No tears. But my hands were full of sweat.

"Inside the bag, there are items she took to jail, and the ones they let her keep." He sighed. "Of course, those who work in jails must be strict about what inmates can keep. There won't be much, maybe a couple of pictures, something that reminded her of the outside world. Sheriff Posey thought you should be the one deciding what to do with all of this."

He slid the bag towards me. "I don't want it." I was surprised. My voice didn't creak. "You can throw it away."

He sorrowfully smiled. "I had a feeling you would say that." He coughed a little. "I've been following your case since my friend Posey told me about you. I know how much you went through, from an outsider point of view." I nodded, he was the first person who talked to me that way. It was nice, and it made me think of Stiles. "I'm still gonna give you this bag. Do whatever you want with it." I glanced at the bag, nodding. "You can take your time with it. It isn't a decision you must take right away."

My eyes glistened while I peered at him. "They re-opened the case, right?" My voice came out in a whisper. "Her family re-opened the case, right?"

Noah nodded. "It wasn't your fault, okay? They are a heart-broken family. What they went through...nobody should have to experience that. But it wasn't your fault, and the judge gave you the reason." He grabbed my hands, his thumbs caressing the back of my hands. "You have all of us now."

After the conversation with Mr. Stilinski, he made me wait in his office, telling me to feel comfortable while I waited for Stiles to come for me. I was sitting on a couch, my eyes examining the black bag that used to be the most precious thing that my mother ever had. Funny, right?

The door opened, and I was met with Stiles. He smiled when he saw me, and I did the same. "Finally!" I got up from the couch. "I'm so tired. I want to go home."

When I saw his nervous laugh I concluded that we weren't going home yet. "I need to grab the keys of every cell in the station. There's a dude dressed as an officer who wants to kill Lahey. Also, seems like Isaac was being abused by his father, Scott is in his old house, trying to investigate and Derek is flirting with the receptionist. Well, distracting her, you know."

"Okay, so where are the keys?"

Stiles walked to a little grey box that was on the wall, introducing a code. But when it opened, it was empty. "Fuck, someone already got to them." Stiles ran out of the office without waiting for me.

"Yo, wait." I grabbed the backpack, throwing it over my shoulder. When I heard the fire alarm, I started running. "Stiles! Stiles?"

In a couple of seconds, I was able to find him. His back was against the wall while he looked ahead. Isaac Lahey has escaped from his cell, and he was fighting with a man that was dressed as an officer. Isaac grabbed the head of the fraudulent officer, slamming him against the wall. Then, he turned around, looking at Stiles. He moved to get closer to him, stopping when I firmly hissed at him. Nails coming out, ice-blue eyes and scales decorating from my wrist to elbow. He felt threatened but still tried to attack me until Derek appeared.

"How did you do that?"

"I'm the Alpha."

Derek left, taking Isaaw with him before the other officers came to the room due to the alarm. Stiles rushed to me. "Are you okay?" I nodded. "You need to calm down. The scales are still out."

I glanced at my arms. "I don't know how to control it. It just happens." He nodded while talking his plaid off, helping me wear it. We were interrupted by coughs. Uh oh, Sheriff Stilinski and other officers were looking at us.

I peered at Stiles while he looked at the man laying on the floor. "Uh," He pointed to the man. "He did it."

.

.

TAGLIST: @og-baby-ob14 - @savemypostcards​ - @cas-loves-pizza​ - @used-avocado​ - @mvrylee​ - @bilesxbilinskixlahey​ - @honeydoll-stark​ - @arieltheworldisamess​ - @softpeteparker​ - @kit-kat-katie99​​ - @thatsuperherosidekick​ - @bexbetterxthanxwords​ - @big-galaxy-chaos​​ - @littlemiss-forgotten - @enchantedcruelsummer​ - @coldfreakeggsexpert​ - @merla123​ - @sammypotato67​​ - @weirdowithnobeardo​ - @maggiesblogsblog​ - @itskindyl​​ - @bobo-bush - @moongoddesskiana​​ - @multifandxm353​​ - @irwxnhugsx​​ - @xoprincessmel - @iclosetgeek​​ - @andreagf956 - @niawoods​​ - @anerroroccurrrrred​ - @perrytheplatypus11​ - @trustfundparker​ - @nmriia - @steve-harringtonnn​ - @trustfundparker​ - 

People in black means it doesn’t let me tag them.

[writing-frenzy]

Airplane gets Ghosted~

Brain: :D

Me: Oh no, what did you do.

Brain: Let’s make another Airplane Harem~

Me. 🥺 why are you like this?!

Note: Inspired by A Crowd of Evil Spirits Lines Up to Confess to Me; pretty funny horror unlimited flow story, with some good scares that leave ya at the edge of your seat. (I really love the Protagonist, so good and pure and I headcannon as Aro-Ace~) So anyways, for those who don’t know, in the novel, the Protagonist Gu Wuji is a genuinely good person, an aspiring actor on hard times who suddenly gets pulled into this horror survival game. Here is the thing; while for others this is a truly cursed and terrible thing, for the protag this is just a regular day, just with some people who need some help; he will help Ghosts just as much as he would help a human.

Ghost: *being Scary*

Gu Wuji: Oh no, let me help you? *smiles*

Ghost: *either a blushing mess, happy to be helped, or can feel how strong this human is and is the one scared instead*

So yeah, here this man goes, bewitching everyone he meets, especially terrifying Ghosts who want him to die so they can stay together forever 🙃 Lucky he is so charming, and that with every Instance cleared, he can get points to get items and information/hints from the store.

And then I though about Airplane being in this position and I just grinned.

So, to preface this, I’m going to go on how I think Airplane has been raised in this AU.

Basically, since our favorite writer was young, Airplane was pretty much raised by ghosts. With two increasingly furious and arguing parents who couldn’t care less about him, they don’t notice at all how weird their kid is, not wanting to be reminded of old memories. So thus start’s Airplane’s growing up more comfortable with the headless car-crash victim who helps him know when his bullies are around then actual living people who only seem to try and tear each other apart more then most dead ever want to. Not to say he hasn’t met some mean dead too, but all they seem to care about is just scaring him off so they can be alone. Which, fair.

Just... Airplane is still Airplane, but for him, normal is dealing with the Ghostly Neighbor who will at least hear him out most of the time, especially since most Living people are assholes.

(Also, Airplane will have some of the strength that Gu Wuji is known for, but he mostly just has a really good head for intelligence, logistics, plots, and strategy... Let’s just say Airplane has seen and been through some shit in his younger years.) 

I am also being a gremlin and making Shen Jiu and Yue Qi be the friends Airplane makes in middle school, Shen Jiu being superstitious as fuck and Yue Qi going along with it, even as he because more WTF the longer they are friends with Airplane and fully realize ‘Shit, ghost are fucking real, nope, nope, nope.’ It is a beautiful, disaster of a trio and their friendship is eternal... (even if Shen Jiu will never forgive/hold over Yue Qi for leaving him with the ghost in the fucking burned down Mansion, even if Airplane fixed it; apparently it had something to do with their previous incarnations?)

So yeah, these guys are released out into the world, where Airplane writes really good, if bloody dramas, asking his Ghost Friends if he can use some of their stories and them either not caring or excited as they give him the go ahead. (The Police have some questions...)

Sure, he writes some bad porn on the side, but with some of his Ghost friends able to beta read for him, Airplane is able to stay a float nice and easy, if still anxious every time he has to pay the rent because human interaction is so hard when you’re dealing with the living. (Don’t have to worry about meeting someone’s eyes if they’re gouged out after all)

And then we get to the Instances :) (Now, besides the first one that does happen First, these others could happen with one or two between them.)

First Instance(Novice): The Traitor’s Secret~

The fresh new Players, with some older ones here, is part of a Merchant Caravan that they just have to ensure gets from point A to point B, and just live. Simple mission as this is a Novice Instance for innocents pulled in. And it would have even remained a simple one, only having to deal with the wondering dead that are manageable, as they have plenty of supplies to ration and work with, if one of the Older Players wasn’t here with ulterior motives.

See, this ‘Senior’ managed to buy information that there is a great item that can be obtained; the thing is, one must betray their comrades in order to get it, with the first betrayal making the difficulty rise from the Novice to Intermediate immediately, as this as awakened a terrible Boss.

It probably would have gone smoothly (maybe....) but here is the thing.

As it turns out, ‘Senior’ didn’t buy enough information; after The First Betrayal, the Boss Ghost will sneakily become a part of the Party, acting much like a helpful NPC when really he is a trap; if the Betrayer betrays him, it is game over.

But the game is different this time; No one expects Airplane, who has the ability and instincts of a cockroach who was completely willing to hug a Ghost’s (well, NPC’s) thighs

Cue Shang Qinghua who is very confused, because after he sneakily becomes part of the group, this human has decided to cling to him of all people, the Creepy/Grumpy NPC, and not his fellow group members... 

Airplane grows on SQH like a fugus, makes amazingly funny commentary, and even tells some interesting stories. On Airplane’s part, Shang Qinghua feels not only like the strongest guy here, but also the most reliably competent...

 Not to mention he feels comfortable to be around, which is weird since Airplane doesn’t usually feel to comfortable with the living~ (ha ha ha, maybe because he’s a NPC? Though he still freezes with those guys too...) 

As it is, because ‘Senior’ needs to betray everyone, he tries to get Airplane, who, again, is still a very, very morally ambiguous guy, sees this guy trying to kill him, and simply pushes them instead into a throng of the undead.

Airplane: Ah, sorry for the terrible sight Senior brother, but he was trying to kill us? Are you alright? Do you want a massage?

Shang Qinghua is incredulous, but becomes more charmed as time passes.

(Remembers, how his martial brothers, people who he had lived and worked beside all his life, so easily sold him out, trying to kill him only for him to suffer a fate worse then death. It was only so much time was passed, after having to spy and betray those who betrayed him before he finally had the release of death; but even then, his resentment was too strong, even the blood sealed onto his jade hairpin filled with resentment.)

It is this item he gives to Airplane, blushing as he does as he says if the other ever needs help, to just use the pin and it won’t lead him wrong.

When Airplane leaves the instance, he gets a system notice about the points he got, increased because of the Instance’s sudden level increase, as well as information on the item he received from Shang Qinghua 

Shang Qinghua’ Hairpin: A Hairpin with deadly secrets, belong to A Spy with a vast network of information, be able to uncover hidden secrets with ease and learn anything you wish of with loyal shades at your command,

 Level One: Summon two shades to gather information. (Each level up gets you another shade to do your bidding)

(He only has the information from level one, but once he levels it up, this is what else it can do)

Level 3: Your shades can now help you escape dicey situations

Level 5: Able to uncover the deadly poison hidden in the hollow of it, this deadly substance can poison Living and Dead both

Level: 7: Able to use the Hairpin like a deadly knife, the resentment enriching the wood to be harder and sharper then ever before.

(Past Level Seven, must full on stab someone in a vital place to discover this ability: Able to release one ensured fatal attack from the Hairpin; after that, it will continue to drop to a fifty-fity chance and before renewing each Instance.)

Level 10: be able to summon Shang Qinghua, the deadly competent Spy to your side to aid you; note, he will only help as much as he likes you and you are only truly safe from him for an Hour before he gets free range to do whatever he wants.

So yeah. this is Airplane’s first instance~ It was so terrifying, having to be around so many people and freaky monsters, but he thinks he made a friend? He hopes?

(He certainly gets one heck of an admirer.)(¬‿¬)

Second Instance(Novice): The Healer’s Broken Heart

So, next Instance, Airplane finds himself in an ancient, fantasy hospital with a group half novices and novices who at least survived two or three games after this. The challenge this time is two pair up into teams of two or threes and try and treat as many ‘patients’ in the hospital as one can. First, they have to collect all the medicine they need, prepare the Nursing rooms, and then, of course, treat at least five patients each, or face death for failing. 

See, the patients are sorta, kinda, Undead they need to treat as if they were living, so they Have to do things like bandaging sliced throats, sew back on sliced limbs, and drain puss and other gross gory things to give nightmares. Not to mention that they have to follow regular rules like in most hospitals, so no running in the hall, no loud sounds, things like that when their are Ghosts everywhere. (As long as someone doesn’t break the rules, the Ghosts won’t notice you.)

 As Airplane is a nervous wreck around people, and with this being a bad day for his anxiety, no one but one guy is willing to partner up with him, this gentle, sweet guy called Mu Fan, who’s amazing chill affects Airplane’s own chill and helps him feel a little better about the situation.

Ha~ Mu Fan is so nice and even knows so much about all the medicines and what to do here! He’s even helpful and nice when Airplane was about to have an anxiety attack, following what Airplane warned him about not touching him, but if he could, maybe hum if he could?

Of course Airplane can’t just let the other carry him the entire way! Mu Fan is just too nice and really helped him back there, so he wants to pay back at least a little. So, being this disaster that he is, instead of thanking Mu Fan and asking him if their is anyways to pay him back, Airplane uses his Hairpin instead to see if he could help the other out.

He gets an... interesting reaction...

Apparently, Mu Fan is actually Mu Qingfang, a Boss Ghost (tho Airplane only knows the other is a ghost) of this area, who can be activated in some ways; examples, if the Players try and hurt the Patients, if Players try and kill each other in cold blood, or try and steal Medicine. Mu Qingfang’s most sincere wish is to free his patients from this cycle of pain, hopefully be free from it for good.

This is the information that Airplane gets, what Mu Qingfang has been trying to discover for years with no luck.

Airplane: QAQ Mu Qingfang is truly too good, too pure for this world, wanting to help the other ghost past on and be out of pain.

On Mu Qingfang’s part, he saw this poor, distressed man and the doctor instincts in him went on fire as he did his best to help the other with their heart demons. But he was really, extremely impressed by them with how they treated his patients, taking care of their wounds like it was nothing, joking with the decapitated head as he sewed it back on, getting a breathless laugh from the woman as she cried happy tears from it. The doctor went really gooey though with how Airplane spellbound his audience of twins who needed to be separated after their parent had sown them together, the two young (very creepy as fuck) children begging for more, distracting from the pain of having to reattach their arms in the right places one more.

(Tries not to cry when this disaster of a Man says he has to do something first before he leaves after he finishes the five patients, only to bring a true gift back as he does. Mu Qingfang has nearly given up on his poor patients ever being free from this constant cycle of pain, their Bandit Killers, for such a small, evil group, never brought to justice only for Airplane to catch them all, bringing them to the hospital so that all their grievances can be aired out and payed back once and for all. It took a bit, and Airplane accidently raised the Level of the Instance himself this time doing it, but he got all the baddies round up and incapacitated as he did.)

Mu Qingfang is ever so grateful, even as Airplane offers to help the man finish up here before he leaves, the last doctor’s visit these ghost will ever need to have. He blesses Airplane with a powerful healing ability, along with a Doctor’s kit that is full of useful supplies, refilling ever day if needed.)

So, Airplane is back in his space, cleaning his hands and body because that was still gross (but not the worse thing he has dealt with) with new points and some good prizes once more, even if he isn’t sure why the level went up all of a sudden? The Bandits honestly weren’t that hard to trick and sabotage?

Mu Qingfang’s Medical Bag

Basically, like the Hairpin, full of goodies that can do more and more OP things the higher the Level it goes (and yes, has a secret poison function as well; Now Shang Qinghua can refill the Hairpin if he ever need to :D And yes, Mu Qingfang can be summoned with an Item in the bag once he gets to Level Ten..

Same with the Healing ability, it just gets more OP the higher the level, tho it doesn’t have a summoning ability, but will let you heal others as much as you want at Level Ten

So thus, this is Airplane’s second Ghost ‘Friend’~ (〃￣︶￣)人(￣︶￣〃)

Instance Three (Intermediate): Guards of The Icy Village

So, Airplane is confident in himself, seeing as he’s managed Instances that go from Novice to Intermediate all the time, thinks ‘why not try an Intermediate, since my Novice experience will probably turn out like that anyways? (the fact that all the choices he has left are either Intermediate or Hard does not matter!) 

Looking through his choices, he see a Limited Event One, with a Special Link to it; not knowing what this means but being effected by the Limited deal, he picks it.

(What this means is that there will be an Event in this Instance that will literally only be open this one time and can not be done ever again; Special Link Means that this Event will and can effect in even Higher Level Instances in the Future, depending on how Many +’s are in the title of it.)

This Event has a Max Number of +’s :)

So, he picks his choice and finds himself in this beautiful Icy wonderland with a group of other people. Everyone has to be set into teams here, guarding the snow village from evil spirits and monsters that would prey on it for five days and five nights. And because I want to, Airplane has been teamed up with Gongyi Xiao, Qin Wanrong, Qin Wanyue, and Qiu Haitang. As long as they protect their part of the Village, they will be able to pass the Instance and everything will be swell

(Is this me indulging in having some badass girls, and letting these characters not only get some damn scene time, but be able to be happy and live? Yes, yes it is, because let me explore these guys in this traumatic AU where they have to do all they can to live, and still be able to trust to have each other’s backs dang it) 

So, the Huan Hua High Schooler group have already been through two instances at this point, Airplane has been through a lot, and Qiu Haitang has had one game that turned from easy to hard in a minute that she survived with luck and her wits (and gave her a crap ton of points and a need for survival classes she took asap before her next game). Airplane, because he doesn’t trust the fact that they’ll be okay if other parts of the Village they’re in are invaded, sends his spirits and some nifty golems he got from the shop to help patrol everywhere. 

Because come on, if one place gets breached, of course the rest will be vulnerable! He’s played the Empire Building, Fortress Making games to prove it!

(Everyone nods, because this actually makes so much sense, how could they have ignored such an obvious trap! Intermediate Instances are no joke!)

Cue really scary as fuck ice monsters and evil spirits. Things are going good, Airplane and co are making it through, with Airplane discovering and making obsolete yet another trap unknowingly because he’s making sure everything is rationed(and using some points to actually buy some fooof) and checking in with villagers all over; because they are literally in charge of protecting and managing all these people, and with everything around here with the blizzard and seize, they have to make sure there is enough food and supplies for everyone. 

(That this prevents making evil spirits and monster from rising with the Village is a big thing actually, because some of them are made from the dead.)

So then, the forth day comes; it starts out nice, no more harsh snows, people are coming out of their houses now, Airplane is nearly tearing his hair out from stress and too many people, but he can make do. (has had to make do with worse really)

And then he hears some of the Villagers are about to riot, planning to go at something with stones and pitchforks. Panicking, thinking these NPCs that he has to protect are trying to go outside their weight class, Airplane gets the others in his team and other teams who are useful to hopefully get the weak peasant class NPC out of danger as he goes about handling the problem himself, only to stop and start at the literal child bleeding in from of him.

For a moment, Airplane blanks... (Sure, he knows, from experience, that Children Ghosts are in fact some of the most, if not the most deadly ghost out there... And yet... for all the pranks and cruelty they played, they were always the ones who understood Airplane’s loneliness the most, being the most truthful and blunt and just honest with him...)

So, when Airplane sees this light blue demon child with horns and nasty claws, tear stains on his still baby fat cheeks even as they scowl and bare fangs, fear and anger in their eyes as they tremble before him, Airplane does not kill the child or run them out of the village.

It takes some coaxing, and it’s mostly hunger on the child’s part that wins in the end, but with the last of Airplane’s Jerky being torn through, he is able to treat the kid with his kit in his tent, even get them some cold soup to eat before they sleep.

Airplane has enough time to possibly panic over the fact ‘Wait, if there is a child there must be a parent’ before said Child’s Father appears in the Village the next morning, KO’ing two teams before almost killing his own before Airplane shakily presents them their well treated and contented child... 

who doesn’t let go, until their parent raises an eyebrow, makes an amused huff, and easily grabs their child, even if it leaves Airplane with some nasty scratches and one less lucky charm necklace.

(The Future Mobei-Jun, still Mo Bolin, nearly cries, but stubbornly bites his lip as he does, glaring at anything and everyone around him, especially his parent and the warm person he has to leave here. He wants to keep them! They saved him when their was no gain for it, and even used much needed supplies to treat him, which Mo Bolin knows are important and guarded fiercely! They told interesting stories and had good food! He doesn’t want to leave them.)

Mo Bolin’s Father is very amused, and gives Shang Qinghua an ice power(shield) and a Teleporting Token.

So, when Shang Qinghua gets back from this instance, he gets some friend requests, a bunch of points for the best possible ending ever achieved in a game, and info about his new things.

he’ll only be able to make Shields and Barriers with his new Ice Ability, with the strength and number he can make increasing with each level.

With the Token, it allows him to teleport a limited range and places he either sees or has been. It can’t be leveled, but apparently, if he fulfills some sort of condition, it can be upgraded.

So, those are ideas I have for some of the Instances. Things not mentioned:

Time with the Instances is weird; Time still always moves forward, but it can easily skip around... So the next time Airplane accidently gets into a high Nightmare Grade Instance, He might see a fully grown Mo Bolin, now Mobei-Jun~ 

Another example of Time being weird with the Instances; Airplane obviously met Shang Qinghua first, but Shang Qinghua had been Betrayed and sold out to Mobei-Jun, the same Mobei-Jun that Airplane saved as a child :D

(Yes, Airplane will summon Shang Qinghua in an Instance with Mobei-Jun, and it will be gloriously awkward, even as Shang Qinghua is smug, because he can still see Airplane anytime the other wishes to summon him)

(This will probably lead to Mobei-Jun upgrading Airplane’s Token, making it to where it’s range is even greater now, and can summon him if Airplane wishes it.)

I am still on the fence of making Shen Yuan either a Ghost and part of the Harem, or a player who is bros with Airplane.

There is an Instance in their Real Life, where Qiu Haitang, Shen Jiu, Yue Qi, along with Airplane go along one hell of a Blast from the Past as they find out terrible secrets, things get resolved, there is much crying to be had, and everyone agrees to never mention the Instance ever again or so help them Shen Jiu will make them forget.

(Shen Jiu likes having a sister. Qiu Haitang likes having a brother she actually likes.)

Liu Qingge is a disaster; is he a player, is he a Ghost, is he a monster? Who knows, Airplane doesn’t. (I’m going to say he is a fellow player~ he just likes messing with Airplane.)

And thus, here is this AU~ Hope you guys like it~ EDIT: Noticed this was weird to read, so I added spaces: hope this helps.

[southwalessubculture]

Recovery - Special Ending

It’s been a month since the first part of Recovery was released, so here’s a special little thing for you in celebration of my first series on this account!

 This is the original ending of Recovery, which was meant to be a poly!Timperium fic, but I ended up writing a choose-your-own ending style that was heavily inspired by @wresimagines and their CYOE mini-series, The Right Choice. 

This is also, in a sense, a thank you: for reading my content, for following and liking and reblogging and requesting and giving me a reason to keep writing. This blog has been very self-indulgent, but I can easily say that I wouldn’t still be here if it wasn’t for you guys; for @wresimagines and @darbysallins for letting me throw my ideas blindly into their DMs, @the-desert-dancer and @lghockey for constantly being in my notes (which is always appreciated), @markostuntthesehoes for literally being the inspiration to the start of this blog, and to anyone that’s ever interacted with or even just read my stuff. You’re why my blog has grown, why it’s continued and evolved. Thank you all for sticking with me through everything, the hiatuses and the broken as hell post schedule and the constant whiplash of WWE to AEW and back, your support is why this is all here.

Enjoy!

Six months. It had been six months since you’d moved into Fabian, Marcel, and Tim’s room in the dead of night, six months since Damian Priest had cheated on you, six months since everything changed for the better. You were happy, you felt appreciated and loved, something you never could say while you were with Damian. Everything had changed that night, but it didn’t bother you in the slightest; if anything, it had made everything better, perfect, even.

“Gli amori, what are we having for dinner?”

You sighed, trying to untangle yourself from the sleeping Marcel and Tim’s arms to help Fabian in the kitchen. After a moment’s struggle (Tim is very fond of pulling you back down when he’s trying to rest), you managed to entwine the two of them together enough to slip off. Fabian smiled as you walked in, yawning as you tried to push your messy hair out of your eyes.

“Lovely as always, darling. Are the others sleeping?”

You nodded, sitting on a stool and slumping over onto the counter. Fabian laughed as he pushed a spare bottle of wine back against the wall, out of the range where you could knock it to the floor.

“It’ll probably be your choice for dinner, they’re knocked out and I can’t think straight enough to make a decision.”

“Are you sure about that, doll?”

You let out a little scream and jumped, nearly falling off of the stool, and both Fabian and Tim reached out towards you in case you did topple over. You turned to look at Tim, letting out a groan that told him quite clearly that you weren’t too pleased about being startled like that.

“Are they okay?”

Marcel’s voice was coated in concern, and the three of you in the kitchen all set about trying to console him.

“They got startled-”

“Apparently I’m pretty quiet-”

“Tim’s a fucking ass, that’s what happened.”

Marcel jokingly swatted Tim’s head as he walked in, moving to stand behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Timothy, how dare you scare them!”

“Look, I didn’t mean to...”

He trailed off as you looked at him, giving a little grin that told you he wasn’t really sorry, even if he did end up apologizing. Fabian started to ask again about dinner, but a knock at the door interrupted him again. After a moment of confusion, you agreed to answer it. Although, as soon as you saw who it was, you wished you hadn’t agreed at all.

“Hello there.”

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn’t help but freeze for a moment. Right in front of you was Damian Priest, speaking to you for the first time in six long months.

You wished you were wearing something better, an evening gown or even just a nice shirt and some jeans instead of your stained pajamas. You wished you had some witty reply or even the capability to tell him to fuck off. But instead, you were glued to the spot, too shocked to answer or even walk away.

“Liebe, who is it?”

Damian’s eyes flashed with recognition, and it looked like anger was coming across his features when he realized that Marcel was in the room with you.

“So, you’ve already managed to move on, huh? Really didn’t need me after all?”

“It...it’s been half a year. Damian, it’s been six months.”

Your response felt weak under his gaze, under the fire in his face, and you wanted nothing more than to turn away and cry. How miserable you must look, you thought, all broken and bitter and upset like this.

“That’s not too long, especially for you. Remember that I asked you out every Wednesday for a year? But you were too hung up on that last guy to even consider it, apparently. And now here you are, fucking around with that German dude. Hell, it wouldn’t be a surprise if you were in bed with him the same night that we broke up.”

You could feel your chest starting to hurt, breaths growing rattly as he admonished you. You didn’t have the strength to stop him, to tell him that he was wrong, and the smirk on his face told you that he knew that.

“Doll, what’s - Damian, what the hell are you doing here?”

You felt Tim’s hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you back as he put himself between you and Damian. The touch was enough to snap you out of your fugue, and you turned sharply and rushed to the small bathroom, needing a moment of escape, of privacy. You let your tears come out, shaking and sobbing on the floor as you realized what that moment must have looked like. You told the three of them that you were over Damian, you are, but it must have seemed like a lie compared to the way you froze under his gaze, the way you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. And now, they must have doubts, fears about where you are mentally, what you want from them. They let you in to their world, their relationship, and you can’t help but think that you’re making it out to be a joke.

“Tesoro? Are you okay?”

You looked up at the door, then buried your face into your knees as you noticed that it was open, Marcel and Fabian looking in at you. You hiccupped, then let out a small sob as you realized exactly how pitiful you were.

“Liebe, he’s gone now. He won’t be coming back. You’re safe here, I promise.”

Marcel’s voice became louder as he moved closer, stopping in front of you and bending down to your eye level.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, mind finally starting to clear as you had something to focus on that wasn’t your own thoughts.

“No, I just...I was shocked. It’s been six months.”

“I know, I know, liebling.”

“I don’t love him.”

You looked up at them, Marcel in front of you and Fabian against the wall and now Tim, who was standing in the doorway. They all seemed confused by your statement, so you continued.

“I know what that looked like, and I want to be clear. I don’t love anyone that isn’t the three of you. Especially not him.”

“Doll, nobody thought that was the case. You were obviously startled; like you said, it had been half a year since you last heard from him. Of course you would react like that, given your history.”

“I...I just...”

You hid your face as you started to cry again, now from embarrassment. You felt stupid for thinking they would ever think of you like that; you knew you were catastrophizing, thinking of the absolute worst, but now it just seemed stupid.

“It’s okay. You were upset, scared, you didn’t know how to react.”

Marcel finally reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder, and you nearly dove into his arms. He held you, letting you rest your weight against him as you got all of the raw emotions out of your system.

“You know we love you, right, diletto?”

You nodded at Fabian’s words, then let out a cracked “I do” when you realized that he wouldn’t see that.

“Good. Because it’s true; we love you, the good and the bad and everything in between.”

“Even like this?”

"Yes, darling. Even like this.”

You pulled away from Marcel a bit, still staying within the confines of his arms, and took a moment to look between the three of them. The best boyfriends you could ask for.

“Did we ever figure out what we’re doing for dinner?”

Fabian started to answer, but Tim quickly cut him off.

“Whatever you want. Pasta, takeout, wine, ice cream, whatever you choose.”

“Come on, love.”

Marcel helped you off of the floor as Tim and Fabian left the room, stopping you for a moment in the doorway.

“There’s nothing to worry about, okay? We’re here. We’ll always be here.”

You kind of wanted to cry again at his words, but instead you settled for reaching up and kissing him, short and swift.

“Hey, what about us?”

You laughed, turning to Fabian and Tim, who were staring at you.

“Fine, come here, you two!”

And it hurt, the breath still a little sore and the emotions still raw, but it was better. In time, you would feel okay again. These three, these perfect men, would see to that.

[noneatnonedotcom]

head cannons for jaune’s semblance/ abilites

jaune’s semblance even with conservative estimates is really powerful so it wanted to list some head cannons and writing techniques i’m going to use for it going forward

aura sense: at it’s heart jaune’s semblance just makes what’s already there stronger but certain skills require a different kind of mindset. in aura sense’s case it requires an ability to know yourself first and foremost. 

mechanically this is how jaune knows how bad a hit impacted his aura without using his scroll. but narrativly it’s a skill that can only be unlocked by confronting the entirety of your being. 

most stories have the hero forgive their evil half. for jaune though i have jaune vow to fight his evil forever. he knows he’s not perfect and will never be perfect but he’s not willing to give up on himself anymore and just say good enough. 

for most stories i write this will be the tipping point in the story for jaune. the moment jaune becomes a hero. when he chooses the hard road and tries to embody the virtues of a hero. 

the next stage of this ability though is an ability to sense the aura of the things and people around you. mechanically it acts like an enhancement to jaune’s senses and reflexes. he sees clearer, hears better, even smells like a blood hound. and reacts faster than even veteran huntsmen. but this ability is a result of jaune’s surety in who he is as a person.

know yourself and know your enemy and in a thousand battles you shall never be imperiled-Sun Tzu 

that’s basically the idea because jaune knows himself he can know his enemy and be a much stronger opponent.

enhancement: this has three levels 

1 passive: aura automatically heals and empowers you when you unlock it. it makes people stronger without them really thinking about it. this is the lowest form of strength but the hiest most people get to. the stronger your body the stronger you’ll be with this

1.5 dust infusion: basically artificial enhancement uses the aura of dust to make you stronger. immensely painful and is actually a step above active enhancement on making you stronger plus gives various elemental power ups but it’s really painful. this is common as a step for more physical huntsmen to get stronger.

2 active: you are actively putting aura into your body and strengthening it. makes you far stronger but it’s hard to keep up in a fight. still dependent on your physical capabilities though. legendary huntsmen like qrow or jaune’s dad reach this level. it is a marked improvement

2.5 limit break: a dangerous off shoot of active enhancement. you push your body beyond its limits. greatly increases your strength but lowers your aura constantly as you have to heal the damage done to you. this is usually where i put jaune. a man who’s willing to go through immense pain physical and mental to do the right thing. a step beyond where most get to.

3 tactile telekinesis: purely based off your aura no longer limited to your physical strength but requires you to see yourself as a soul rather than a physical person. this is not something i would use for jaune. but maybe ren?

aura slash: not much to say, you project your aura to do damage. 

not many learn to do this, those that do usually have to sacrifice their defense to do so and it tires people out to use it. i typically have jaune learn to keep his aura up even while slashing with it. abusing his basically infinite aura pool to do so. it’s a system unique to him but it does cause him to slip into a fugue state after he uses it. 

you can only push your soul so far after all.

how aura effects perception: so here’s the kicker. people can subconsciously sense the power of souls. this is typically seen as charisma to the lay man. jaune’s massive aura pool is seen a gravitas when he feels confidant. be becomes a man that you see as a hero. but if he’s self conscious and lets his self hatred take over, you hate him too. you see him as a fool and just want him to go away.

basically people will feel the same way about jaune as he does due to his massive aura. 

jaune’s feeling good? people feel good about jaune. and will make up their own excuses as to why

jaune feeling bad? people will feel bad about jaune and will make up their own excuses as to why or if it’s just a case of jaune feeling sad rather than not liking himself. they will try to make him happy in some way.

jaune angry? people are scared, it feels like a predator more dangerous than any grimm is starring them down. people who are used to fear and resist the urge but average people will flee pass out or promise to do anything he wants if it will make him not angry 

this is a detriment to jaune as often as it is a benefit. and can be amplified through the use of his semblance like every other skill up there. 

jaune’s semblance outright doubles his or whoever he’s using it on’s abilities at first. when he masters it i have it be a times ten. but that’s just me personally i encourage you to do your own thing with it.

so what do you guy’s think of the abilities? any ones you would personally change for your writings? any that you would add? any that you’re going to use now? let me know :)

[westiec]

Oooh, tell us more about the Yunmeng In-Laws! Or the Big Sibs Group Chat!! :D

Yunmeng In-Laws is the group chat fic I co-write with @theleakypen ! Two chapters have so far happened in a pair of excited fugue states, and we have another in the works. No snippets, since the chapters tend to be short and sweet, but stay tuned for a treat towards the end of this month. 😉

The Big Sibs Group Chat is a Modern Cultivators AU with the premise that the four big siblings - Nie Mingjue, Lan Xichen, Jiang Yanli, and Wen Qing - are, unbeknownst to some of their little siblings, a happy and established polycule. Jin Zixuan has also just found out that he's a big brother and reaches out to Jiang Yanli for advice, so she adds him to a "Big Siblings Group Chat." Not to be confused with their other group chat...

group: Fantastic Foursome

Jiang Yanli: Thank you all!

Jiang Yanli: He seemed rather overwhelmed to find out all that at once, so I offered to add him to our chat.

Lan Xichen: Oh goodness, of course. 

Nie Mingjue: did I miss somebody having a baby??

Nie Mingjue: or are we dating Jin Zixuan now and nobody told me?

Jiang Yanli: No, dear. 😂

Jiang Yanli: Well, not recently anyway. Jin Zixuan just found out he has three younger half-siblings, and texted me very flustered, so I made the new chat where he could talk to us about big sibling things.

Wen Qing: That is… not surprising. :/

Wen Qing: I'm not sure how much we can help, but sure.

Wen Qing: And we will all be sure to keep Other Things in this chat, with Xichen's terrible nerd pun.

Jiang Yanli: I knew you'd understand. 😘

Lan Xichen: It's a perfect pun! You know I'm a very cunning linguist! 😉

Nie Mingjue: yeah 10 bucks says somebody sends something like that to the wrong group before this is over 

Lan Xichen: You don't get to collect if you do it yourself, Da-ge. 

Jiang Yanli: Boys, really…

[merlinistheredheadedstepchild]

2 Shape Shifted - June 4, 2012

Isaac’s dad is such a real kind of monster It’s really upsetting 

The semester’s only half over 

“Well that was your fault.” Too fucking real 

The effect of the blood pulling back into his face is kinda cool 

How exactly is that shitty little house on the same street as Jackson’s 

Isaac runs Dad follows And he’s driving through a city area Like that’s not suburban at all Those building are six plus stories 

The not being able to see because you don’t have your glasses on speaks to me

Enter Kanima It’s vision is green and it kills the shit out of Mr. Lahey 

Allison’s sneaking out to meet Scott and they’re writing secret messages in the fog on car windows It’s the full moon tomorrow night Scott is super worried about Gerard but wont tell her exactly why 

Chris is threatening the for some reason British principal So is Victoria Who is honestly more intimidating And willing to torture A human 

Isaac comes to Derek freaked out 

“Derek!” “What’s wrong?” “My dad. I think he’s dead” “What did you do?” “That’s the thing it wasn’t me” 

The red effect on his eyes in the dark is cool 

“it’s not like the last full moon. I don’t feel the same”

So full moon number three

Stiles is still worried about Scott killing him He finds it all very stressful 

Scott instantly knows that another werewolf is in the locker room But he can’t pick them out 

Lydia is telling Allison about her fugue state

“I lost nine pounds” “It’s not like my aunt’s a serial killer” Teenagers are the worst

“Maybe it’s the nine pounds” That might be the funniest Allison’s ever been 

Jackson is getting a digital camera from Matt “To record something in lowlight all night long” 

Scott could smell the wolf but couldn’t’ place it  Scott is very slow sometimes Stiles is frustrated by this 

But he gets to tackle the whole team to smell them Danny does not look happy about being next 

“Stilnski what the hell is wrong with your friend?”

“It’s Armani”

“It’ll be the first ever suicide run that ends in a suicide”

Jackson uses his old shoulder injury to get out of it But Isaac’s next They glow they’re eyes at each other Isaac looks really worried Why does he think Scott would tell? 

Stiles is concerned that Isaac is gonna get put in a holding cell over night Scotts concerned because he can tell Isaac has the urge to maim and kill 

“Why would Derek choose Isaac?” “Peter told me that if the bite doesn’t turn you it could kill you and maybe teenagers have a better chance of surviving”

Stiles is too smart

Jackson is being questioned by the Sheriff Because they live across the street from each other Stilinski thinks Jackson deserves a punch in the mouth for never reporting Mr. Lahey 

Stiles has perfect grades but little to no extracurriculars Does the school not know he’s on the team?  Gerard knows that Scott was dating Allison And he’s freaking out Stiles has to take the fall 

Lydia is trying to say thank you for saving her life Jackson does not want to be responsible for her He actually looks a little human when he says it And he warns her to stay home 

Scott gets out of school in time to watch Isaac get driven away Isaac looks so fucking lost And then Derek pulls up with those fucking sunglasses

“Get in” “Are you serious? You did that. That’s your fault” “I know that. Now get in the car and help me” 

Isaac told Derek about the basement He knows that when the cops search it they won’t believe Isaac didn’t do it

The Argent’s are pretty sure Isaac is a wolf Chris is not for genocide His word Gerard doesn’t care and wants to kill him even without proof 

Matt gives Jackson the camera and reveals his crush on Allison Jackson is not keeping his cool

That house is a rectangular nightmare

Derek doesn’t know who killed Mr. Lahey but he trusts his senses that Isaac isn’t lying to him Also he was watching the lacrosse practice Because he’s a creep but also because he’s a good dad 

One of the hunters is dressed as a deputy 

“You wanna learn start now” Cause Derek is making this a teaching opportunity  And we find out about the freezer Derek is silent like a prius 

We find out they are the beacon hills cyclones or possibly I just never noticed 

Allison and Stiles are in charge of trying to get Isaac out 

“You can’t just go around turning people into werewolves” “I can if they ask” 

He told Isaac everything and he still said yes Derek knows that Scott and Allison are still together  Derek is offering to teach him control. Even on a full moon. All he has to do is join the pack.

“If I’m with you I lose her”

Scott wont be part of the pack but he’ll help get Isaac out because he feels responsible for Isaac because he’s innocent

This music is terrible and Jackson is in love with himself

Allison shoots out the not deputies tires And then shoots him in the leg 

Stiles is going to the station by himself Scott has a mediocre plan

Allison goes to Isaac’s She’s gonna chain Scott up so that the freezer gets trashed

Why does that holding cell look like solitary? 

Scott is still worried about hurting Allison She kisses him before she locks him up 

Derek and Stiles in the jeep again

“I was exonerated.” Fucking when! 

“What’s your plan” “To distract her”

Have you seen my face? It’s magnificent They are just so good together 

Derek is a cheesy but not bad flirt

Allison doesn’t want to leave Scott alone in the freezer

Stiles breaks into his dads office but the keys are gone Gimpy the hunter has them And a syringe full of wolfsbane And now he has Stiles too I like that Stiles figured him out at a glance 

Allison is having a panic attack in the Lahey kitchen and there’s something snakey in there with her Scott freaks 

Stiles manages to pull the fire alarm Isaac got out of his cell and fucks the hunter up Derek break the wolfsbane syringe Isaac wants to eat Stiles So Derek roars him into being human (which somehow no one hears) Isaac looks scared

“How did you do that” “I’m the alpha”

So smug 

But what about the female deputy? How did he get past her? Did he knock her out or just sneak past? How didn’t she hear him roar? She must have been knocked out. By the hunter?

Scott gets out Allison gets a knife Scott explodes a door And snakey runs on the ceiling No one’s happy about this 

Stilinski finds Stiles standing alone in the empty cell with an unconscious deputy

“Uh he did it” 

Jackson wakes up and finds nothing on the camera 

They’re really going for cliff hangers this season

End episode two

[familyvisionis2020]

Day 6 - The Drive Home

Today was the last day of tour. I wake up in the morning feeling guilty because I have a groggy memory of waking up around 8 to go to the bathroom, Paul was waiting to go, but when the person came out I just fronted him (a word I just now remember from elementary school, cut in line, but southern), used the bathroom and went back to bed. Rude. I am wiping the cold from my eye, taking in the undecorated walls of the apartment, and Jeremy comes from down the hall and says ‘Did you get the memo? Louisville cancelled. Tour’s over.” I said ‘fuck’ and processed it. I feel sad for Jeremy and John and Kabir because I know they wanted to play this last show in Kentucky. It’s not that I didn’t, but also for the last three months and for especially the last month I have been feeling a tremendous amount of anxiety about this tour, about feeling out-of-control, about being away from loved ones at home, about being available to show up for people in my life, about completing regular routines of hygiene and spirituality and task completion that make me feel boring and comfortable, both. Touring stirs up dredges of the tea leaves that I had let settle into a fine filmy sediment at the bottom of me. I manufactured a jello mold two years ago and poured myself into it: regular 9-5 in the legal field as a means and precursor to law school, then diligent study for 3 years, then a professional career, abandoning the party life, abandoning trespassing in abandoned buildings, abondoning the luxury of resentment and unproductive time, trying to cool and firm into something reliable, serviceable, dependable, available, a resource people could draw from for once, rather than a leech or slug. And when I go on tour I take that jello mold out of the fridge and it holds its shape but also it warms and the longer I’m out the more liquidy it gets and sloshes over the sides and so forth. So I’m ambivalent because I like what I have to offer to this band, I like the physical process of drumming and expressing myself in the context of music and being a member of a band, but also I feel like I’ve kind of chilled enough and it’s time to settle down. And I’m at a way different point in my life than the other guys in the band it seems like, for the most part. So anyways all this to contextualize the fact that the news of tour ending even earlier than early honestly makes me feel relieved, if not happy, and so then I work to temper that boosted mood for the sake of grim decorum befitting a tour taken before its time. 

All our stuff is locked in the venue from last night and we learn we won’t be able to pick it up until 1pm and so we have about 4 hours to kill in the apartment. Phillip puts on a pot of coffee that will turn out to be some of the wateriest on record, but still, a super kind gesture, and then he also puts on The Wire on HBO Go and we just settle in on the couch and watch for awhile. Some of the scenes are familiar, there’s something seductive about this show, and it brings me back to the precise moment of Summer of 2013 right before I moved to Philadelphia right after I got evicted from the squat/music venue I had been living in that winter and spring, I watched all episodes of The Wire on DVD on Matt Martin’s couch at 3 Pomroy and felt deeply depressed. It ranks up there with when I watched all released episodes of The Office in bed in the winter of 2009 after my girlfriend broke up with me, in terms of memorably devestating life phases offset by the amniotic fluid of full-series of TV. So we watch The Wire and I find myself not too inclined to sit and watch and I want to write so I sit at my laptop on the table nearby and write an email to a female (sorry) but I actually do and its purpose is to make her smile and bring some levity and play and purple prose to a moment in her life that, from how she tells it to me, is just so heavy, nightmares and waking horror and a future that feels like it hangs by a thread. so I’m glad to spend time showing up for her in this small way rather than watching The Wire, and also I write yesterday’s blog post, another activity that feels sort of like a pittance but also like: doing-writing is something I have been putting off, in phases and seasons, for my entire adult life, because to me nothing ever matters enough to write about, or if it does my perspective is deficient, or my research inadequate, or my skill incommensurate with the subject matter, or it won’t properly reflect my feelings, or any number of self-sabotaging excuses to not do this thing I so love doing, and love sharing. So for me, writing this blog is a very meaningful and special act of reclamation of a personal mode of expression that constitutes a break in my winter’s depression and what feels like a new phase of happiness, of believing-i-have-a-future, of feeling more authoratative and qualified to know and describe my own experience in a lifetime marred and dampened by dissociation, oblivion, amnesia, and fugue. So it feels like nourishment to get some paragraphs done and to move slow through my days, get them onto the page.

The Wire grows tiresome at some point and Jeremy fires up the PS4 and then the PS3 looking for games but none are multiplayer and so eventually he settles on Skyrim and starts from a new file. Me personally I love watching let’s plays and this is as good as TV. There was a moment last tour when we were in this strange small town in Connecticut called Torrington (the town all touring bands are required to go to, we also joked), in this town Jeremy was describing the sort of surrealness he experienced there and he said he felt like the townspeople in Torrington were like NPCs in a FPS RPG like Skyrim wherein you would go up to people and press A to talk, say ‘What news?” and that I thought was really funny then, I like his sense of humor. Really Kabir and Jeremy and Royal represent this sort of humor that is to me equal parts razor wit, cleverness, timing, accents, absurdity, and broad conceptual placticity, all for the most part very clean too, never or at least rarely blue (you’re gonna inevitably make a D’s nuts joke and that’s just that). And during happy times I am so grateful to be nearby this humor and during less happy times I get self conscious about how great their humor is and how I sometimes feel like I don’t measure up. But that feeling doesn’t weigh for long. Skyrim is fun to watch, it kills some time, we all take turns trying to kill wolves with swords before Jeremy finally does it, there’s a dragon, we loot corpses, discuss Bloodborne and Dark Souls and comparable games. A lot of the main media activity in this group is discussing how a given media relates to another media, Kabir and Jeremy and John know it seems like everything between the three of them when it comes to record labels, band narratives, artist’s hometowns, etc. So we play Skyrim for awhile, and then eventually it’s time to go to the venue and we drive back to The Salty Nut, load in all our gear, do a final sweep, and say our goodbyes and thankyous to Phillip. We return to the Bandido place one last time for one last round of free local Taco Bell which we absolutely scarf and are very vocally grateful to the people for giving it to us for free again, it’s clear they really put effort into being hospitable to touring bands here, at least through Phillip. His band, Thomas Function, was signed on Fat Possum Records, which also had bigger indie acts like Jay Reatard (who Phillip tells a story about him demanding $50,000 in cash for a show fee to feed his coke and heroin habit, Reatard died at age 29 from cocaine toxicity with alcohol also), The Black Keys, Andrew Bird, Wavves and Soccer Mommy, but which Kabir postulates has most of its success due to having signed octogenarian southern blues legends like R.L. Burnside and King Ernest and raking in royalties from what Kabir speculates is due to poor management of the estates of these dead leagends who each had more than a dozen children. It’s truly fascinating for me to hear how deep and complex the analysis of music these guys have is. When I feel insecure, which is often, I tend to veneer these sorts of expertises and shibboleths among music-heads as snobby, elitist, exclusionary, petty and asinine. But I think most of that comes from a fear that I lack the insight, cognitive absorbency, and passionate research skills to collate and catalog data about artists in the way these people do, the way my bandmates do. I feel inspired to take time to dig deeper into the musicans I love, to make them real to me, to get a sense of their story, their lived experience, for the sake of corroding the mediation between us somewhat, or at least polishing the media membrane. 

I volunteer to drive for the first half of what will end up being about a 10-hour drive back from Huntsville to Chapel Hill. We go to a Whole Foods in Huntsville upon Kabir’s insistence where I purchase a nootropic snakeoil energy affair in beverage form, Kabir gets hot coffee and a La Colombe Draft can of latte, Jeremy gets a kombucha made from yerba mate (“best of both worlds” he says), John black coffee as per, and Kabir also buys a slice of Tres Leches cake in a clear plastic to-go clamshell: “they can take away my tour, but they can’t take away my tres leches.” Later he’s eating it in the van and he accidentally spills some on himself and he says “shit…spilled some on myself. oh good, it was only one leche” which to me is so funny and perfect humor and just like kind of a paragon of the kind of joke I so treasure from this friend group. Another is when Jeremy and Kabir are recalling a favorite running joke from two tours ago, wherein they were in Philly, home to the famous Schuykill River (pronounced skoo-kill, at least when i lived there, at least around the non-indigenous people i knew), and while there they would affect this blaring Brooklyn accent, deployed heavily on this trip as well for basically any purpose, but back then they would say “UGH MY SKOYKL IS KILLING ME” like Schuykill was lombago or sciatica and also would say “YEAH LET ME GET A KWATA POUND OF SKOYKL ON RYE” like it was a deli meat, and they laughed and laughed. Also they liked doing rhyming jokes like last night there was a chair nearby the combo amp Tired Frontier was going to use for their set and Kabir goes ‘amp on the chair, tone everywhere’ and then I say ‘amp on the ground, makes a bad sound’ and then I tell Jeremy later how Kabir would put me in good spirits whenever I was describing to someone how my LSAT score is very competitive but my checkered past makes the acceptance process a little less than straightforward, and Kabir would see I was getting kinda down and anxious, and he would say ‘You gotta break the law before you make the law,’ and we all laugh and I love that, the function of humor as balm, salve. I want to wield my humor like that.

The drive back is fine, some sprinkles, nothing major, clear traffic for the most part, I feel like I have a good command of the van, keep it around 75 for most of the trip, feel smoth and confident switching lanes, passing, etc. We do another two NYT Wednesday classic crosswords together, Kabir is getting probably 40% of the clues, me maybe 30% Jeremy and John the other 30%, Kabir will just to YEAHHHHHHHH after getting a clue and I start doing that too after Jeremy says “X down, ‘on the table’ 15 letters,” and I say UPFORDISCUSSION after only a couple seconds and it fits and is correct and I feel like a damn genius and we’re all laughing and kind of praising each other half-jokingly for being strong beautiful geniuses who also we know songs. This is a great passtime and the drive flies by and before I know it we’re in Western NC just outside of Asheville and we make a stop to refuel the tank and get dinner. We decide on a Waffle House across the street, not wanting to venture too deep into Asheville for something healthier and better because of the time and money it would likely eat up, Kabir says that FEMA uses the closing of Waffle Houses as a bellweather to indicate the severity of a given natural disaster. We go inside, the waitress says ‘ya’ll aren’t from around here are you?’ in a way that I take to be hostile and I suggest that to the guys and they seem like maybe slightly offput but not very much and we decide not to abort and I later feel foolish because I think I am doing this thing where I become excessively vigilant or sensitive to a perceived slight to a friend who is brown for the putative purpose of interceding on their behalf against racism but what’s actually happening is if someone was racist to them they could just stand up for themselves and make their own call regarding their own comfort or lack thereof and I would do better to act less motivated by white guilt when avoidable. That passes, it’s fine, we eat hash browns and waffles and eggs and grits and toast and cover everything in tobasco and tip well and get back on the road, John takes over for the final stretch. 

I return a call from Marty and catch him up about tour being cancelled and we discuss our fears and hysteria and cancellations and reaction and so forth. Marty remarks that he is a gravedigger during the plague, which is the best possible job to have. It’s not a joke because he actually drives a backhoe working for a cemetary and digs actual graves, super weird and eminently punk/goth and kind of a curiosity but really perfect for the lead singer of one of the South’s premiere punk bands, especially after his being fired from the swish cafe he worked at in Richmond before that. I love Marty and catching up and it feels good to hear his voice. After I get off the phone it sort of becomes campfire spooky story time in the van with everyone proffering their take on the panic, market failure, the likelihood of Capitalism as a superstructure to require perpetual growth even at the peril or death of its working class, the superior response to covid that South Korea and Norway seem to have mounted, a lot of fear of financial insecurity. Eventually this digresses to talk of touring, and the guys discuss all manner of various routes throught the South, Midwest, Northeast, plains states, PNW, Mexico City, Jeremy says ‘I can get us a show in Colombia’ which he can, Argentina or Venezuela through a mutual friend, then Europe so long as the label foots the bill for the plane ticket, then Japan, setting up camp on Honshu would make it easy to hit TOkyo, Kyoto, Osaka and Nagoya no problem, except where exactly are people playing shows? there’s gotta be somewhere all these Japanese Noise and Hardcore bands are getting gigs, and then from there of course it’s not hard to get to Australia, John knows a band there, and they go all around the world and this is stressing me out a little bit, only because I wonder about how much they think I would be involved or want to go on such a theoretical tour, and the answer is I don’t 100% know. Part of me wants to say this is my last tour, lean all the way in to law school and leave behind this chapter. Part of me feels like it’s better not to make a hard and fast statement like that because what if the economy collapses and for some reason school is a no-go but being in the band becomes the most plausible source of income or something. I get anxious and psych myself out and quiet down and feel foolish and wish to be home. I fantasize about my future life of stability, but I second guess myself because I just don’t know for sure how my life will be, and want to be careful to work toward the goals I think will be the most fulfilling, self-actualizing, spiritually nourishing, healthy for me; I also want to not forsake the friendships and bonds I’ve forged in these weird intimate moments in the van with the guys. I have the wherewithal to know that nobody is requiring me to make a decision right this second, and that as time passes it’s likely that the best course of action will be revealed one way or another if I can keep from panicking. So I watch videos of the 2019 Classic Tetris World Championships on my phone, eat two candy bars, watch videos of a streamer named Wumbotize play the latest Tetris game, Tetris Effect (2018, PS4, PC), and am pleasantly awed by how crazily far the skill curve of that game has shot up. I have some time ahead of me that is completely free, which is so nice. Before I know it I’m back home in my clean apartment which is tidy like a tetris field at the beginning of a new game and I get into my bed and lay down flat and if my bed is the well than the line of me clears and the well is clean, smooth, primed, for whatever falls tomorrow. 

[ineffably-good]

Tell Me Lies (2/4)

Summary: In which Aziraphale resorts to the Victorian language of flowers to try to win back Crowley. 

Status: complete! Go read the whole thing if you would like on AO3!

Side note: I really love angst. But you’ll be laughing by the end of chapter three, I promise. I wrote this because it has been weighing on my mind that Aziraphale’s rather loose relationship with the truth has never been fully addressed between him and Crowley. 

Second side note: this is part of a long running series in which they have been living together for about two years in the bookshop. So definitely established relationship. If you’re interested, here’s the series page.

Ok enough notes. 

__

Chapter Two

It had, Aziraphale realized, been ages since he’d had the shop to himself for more than a few hours. After Crowley left, he stood and stared out the front window for a very long time, watching passerbys bundling up in the dropping temperature, and, eventually, observing as a light, January snow started to fall. It wasn’t the big, romantic snowfall that covered everything and made everyone feel happy – this was thin, whippy snow, tiny flakes born on sharp winds that crammed into the corners of things and tore through scarves. Aziraphale shivered and pulled the cardigan he was wearing a little more closely around him. He hoped Crowley was warm, he thought sadly. The demon didn’t like the snow, or the winter, and now he wasn’t even able to help keep him toasty.

It had all gone so terribly wrong in a very short time, Aziraphale thought.

Would Crowley be back? Could they patch this up? He wondered. All he could truly do, at this point, was wait, and try to make amends when given the opportunity. He needed to give some thought to this particular incident and think about what his motivations were and what he could have done differently. And, perhaps, torture himself a little by taking a very close look at his behavior over the past six thousand years.

Yes, he thought grimly, that was entirely what was called for. If he were going to make this up to Crowley, he needed to begin by taking a thorough accounting of the lies he’d told and why he’d told them. See if he could figure out why he did this, why he didn’t seem to be able to stop, and come up with some kind of plan for how to avoid it in the future.

The angel despondently made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the small table in the back room with a neatly lined legal pad and his fountain pen and began making a series of lists. 

++

Crowley was angry enough that he didn’t notice, at first, the state of the Mayfair flat. He hadn’t been there in close to six months, and there were cobwebs and dust on every available surface. He snapped viciously and the muck disappeared, and he sank down into his old white leather couch with a thump and set his mind to a long and focused sulk.

He didn’t notice when it started to snow, but he did feel the chill, and he quickly set the furnace to the approaching-roasting temperature he preferred when alone. Aziraphale couldn’t tolerate it quite this hot with all of his various and fussy layers. With a wave of his hand, he pushed it a few degrees hotter. After all, he thought with fierce satisfaction, Aziraphale wasn’t here.

He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to magic himself up any more furniture. He didn’t know how long he’d be staying or how permanent this was. All he knew was that it stung, so deeply, what the angel had told him. Yes, it was in the past, but he couldn’t just let it go as if it hadn’t happened. He had already come to terms with how many times the angel turned him away during what they thought were the last few days of the world, with the heart crushing split at the bandstand, and the angel’s refusal to go to the stars with him. But for some reason, finding out that the angel had kept such intensely critical information to himself at such a desperate time, information they’d been seeking for eleven years, felt worse.

It shouldn’t matter, but it did. Of course it did. Crowley didn’t trust easily to begin with, but he’d always trusted his angel. Now? He wasn’t sure.

He held off on making himself an actual bed, and instead materialized some thick blankets and a pillow on the couch, where he ended up curling up for a nap that was filled with unpleasant dreams about the events of Armageddon.

++

Four days went by with no contact at all. Aziraphale spent most of it either sitting miserably at his desk thinking and writing as much as he could stand to, or performing the same sorting and tidying tasks over and over. He washed and swept and alphabetized shelves until he had worked himself into nearly a fugue state, mainly to stop himself from reaching for the phone fifteen times a day. He knew Crowley, and knew he wouldn’t appreciate him indulging his need for contact right now. The demon had asked for space, and he had to try to give it to him.

Aziraphale was thankful, at least, that the argument had occurred outside of the shop, sparing Frederick from observing the scene and worrying about it. The angel had explained to Frederick that Crowley was going to be away “on business” for a few weeks, and just hoped that within that time frame things might blow over enough for Crowley to come home. The snake seemed to accept this, but also seemed a little bored and sad about having no one he could talk directly with. Aziraphale tried to give him some extra attention and to hide his own distress as much as he could.

On the fifth day, though, Aziraphale decided to check in. What if Crowley was waiting for him to make the first move? What if he was making it worse by doing nothing? He decided to risk a short text message.

Hello, my dear, he wrote. I’m sorry to bother you. Just wanted to check in to make sure you were all right. Please do let me know. If you want to talk, I am here.

He hovered with his finger over the send button for quite some time, then finally blew out his breath and pressed it down decisively.

He stared at the phone for the next three hours before he realized nothing was going to be coming back immediately. He put it down on the desk and tried to find some reading to do, then thought better of that and slid it into his waistcoat pocket where he would feel it buzz if any messages arrived.

None did.

++

What could he do? Aziraphale thought. He wanted to tell Crowley how sorry he was, but Crowley already knew that. He wanted to let him know how terribly he missed him, but he was sure the demon was feeling the same anguish at their separation. He was desperate to tell him how much he’d been thinking and what he’d learned, but he didn’t feel he had the right to rush his love to speak with him before he was ready.

Because he didn’t know what else to do, Aziraphale decided to use flowers to express some of his thoughts. Modern humans wouldn’t understand the messages, but he and Crowley had both lived through a time in which every nosegay was carefully interpreted for meaning, and he was fairly certain Crowley would be able to ‘read’ them, so to speak.

And so, every other day for the next week and a half, the angel put together a large bouquet with the blossoms chosen carefully for meaning and walked over and left it outside the door of the Mayfair flat. First was a large arrangement featuring mostly purple hyacinth. (Please forgive me. I am sorry.) He was nervous as he left it, wondering if it would be discovered and, even if it were, if Crowley would take it in or leave it in the hallway to rot. He thought about knocking but decided best not. He’d promised the demon time, after all.

Two days later, he was pleased to see that the original vase had disappeared, whether into the apartment or into the rubbish chute he couldn’t say. But at least he knew it had been found. He stopped for a moment to try to sense Crowley in the apartment but found that he couldn’t tell one way or the other if he was there, as if the demon were warding against him. Fair enough, he thought resignedly. He knelt down and left his precious cargo in the same spot as the previous one had occupied. This time, he left a combination of broom and pink camellias. (Humility. Longing for you.)

The next time, he left geraniums, several dozen of them, their crisp sweet scent brightening the hallway, colored red and pink. (I was so, so stupid. Forgive my folly.)

Two days after, the choice was a smaller collection of primroses with a few azalea blossoms tucked in. (I can’t live without you. Take care of yourself for me.)

On the next visit, Aziraphale was on his knees outside of Crowley’s door fluffing up a lovely crystal vase of blue hydrangeas (I did not think of your feelings) when the door opened beside him. He was so startled that he just looked up, blinking, mouth hanging open in surprise.

“Stop it with the flower languages,” Crowley said wryly, “before I beat you over the head with a stem of each of them.”

Aziraphale tried to process that and came up with nothing.

Crowley waited as the angel got to his feet, and then stood back and made a choppy gesture at the door.

“Coming in?”

Go read the whole thing on AO3

[internetandnetwork]

Why PWAs (Progressive Web Apps) Are Set to Dominate in the Future

If the tech giant, Apple, was intimidated when the popular online video game Fortnite tried to bypass its App Store, it will surely not be happy when PWAs thrive. Progressive web apps obstruct Apple’s granular control over the App Store as they deliver app-like experiences without requiring the users to download a real application. While these are designed for daily website users, they offer numerous features exclusive to native applications only.

Even though many businesses are “really” into the idea of developing native apps, to tell the truth, this approach can be a struggle for the developers. Building a native application comes with many responsibilities, including updating them regularly, handling user reviews, drawing downloads, paying a 30% share of each sale (including in-app purchases and paid apps) to most stores, which makes sense. In 2020, Apple earned over $64 billion from the App Store, according to reports.

This is part of the reason why the search giant Google is an active supporter of progressive web apps, pushing developers to build and spread them globally. Google also manages the “Project Fugu,” aiming at broadening web browser capabilities and enabling the web applications to do everything that native apps can. Nevertheless, this dream could turn into a reality as around two-thirds of internet users already depend on Google Chrome, and its free and open-source foundation Chromium allows other browsers to utilize its PWA technology.

Plus, since this pandemic has increasingly introduced more users to the internet world, most of the focus is expected to stay on the overall user experience in 2021. Now the real question is: would you preferably take your cues from Google or Apple? The war between native apps and progressive web apps has started already, and if you are hoping to stand out from the competition and have a competitive edge, PWA might be the best way.

THE KEY ADVANTAGES OF PWAS

Progressive web applications offer many benefits to users. For starters, they have a smaller file size compared to native apps and thus frees up plenty of storage space on users’ devices. Nevertheless, PWAs can affect your business goals as well as your bottom line too. Let’s take a look at the three key advantages of PWAs.

1. QUICK CONNECTIONS

Users today have plenty of options at their disposal. There are numerous places where they can read the news, shop for clothes, watch videos and buy products online. So if your website’s speed isn’t up to the mark, users will literally jump to someplace else within seconds instead of wasting their time and efforts on a site that takes forever to load. For example, the previous website of Forbes used to take anywhere between 3-12 seconds to load completely. According to Google itself, more than half of the internet users abandon websites that take more than three seconds to load. Therefore, as a result, Forbes saw more than 53% of users leaving its site due to these delays in load times. However, as soon as they switched to a PWA, the company saw a 43% boost in their browsing sessions.

While progressive web apps can boost website speed for every user, this acceleration is specifically vital for browsers on slower internet connections. PWAs cache content after the first site visit and, therefore, make it possible for more users to access your website effortlessly. Moreover, this improvement in speed also results in a boost in discoverability for all users. Furthermore, Google also considers page speed as a crucial ranking factor.

2. BETTER SEO CAPABILITIES

Besides the fact that page speed directly influences your overall rankings, progressive web apps, too, are SEO-friendly. Since they exist on the web, search engines can see their content. Resultantly, this can increase your ability to drive more traffic and leads. For instance, Housing.com saw a 38% increase in its conversions with the new PWA.

Native apps are restricted to the SEO limitations of app stores. Generally, Google SERPs list only the app profile page, pushing companies to bank on the app’s images, descriptions, and good reviews to boost their visibility and attract more downloads.

On the other hand, with a PWA, you get the same unconstrained flexibility as a website to build custom user experiences and optimized creative content that will rank in Google search results and demonstrate the features and advantages of your app. While App Store optimizations are limited, a progressive web app lets you implement all SEO strategies.

3. More Engagement Opportunities

Progressive web apps support push notifications, thus, generating more opportunities for businesses to keep in touch with their customers with regular news updates, personalized product recommendations, and other relevant messages. This, in turn, can help boost customer engagement and improve brand loyalty.

In addition to this, PWAs can also increase engagement with your social media pages as they can use device tools such as GPS and Camera. Moreover, once AR (augmented reality) becomes available on progressive web apps, all types of exciting opportunities will unfold. Think of a prospect trying on your recently launched clothing collection in AR and then sharing their pictures on their social media accounts – all this without the need of a native app that has to be developed for different OS and modified to support a bunch of devices.

WRAPPING IT UP

With the number of COVID-19 cases dropping and the expediting vaccine allocation efforts worldwide, people have started feeling optimistic again. But it will probably take a while before life goes back to normal. Amid all this, as consumers spend more time at their homes (and on the web), businesses must focus on their digital transformation strategies.

Because of the reasons mentioned above, this should ideally involve developing progressive web apps. Web apps are no new developments in the internet world, but they are exceptionally positioned to help businesses accomplish their goals in the present circumstances. Organizations can concentrate their efforts on a single web app prioritizing the user experience rather than blowing their energy on numerous native apps designed for multiple OS with constrained visibility on the SERPs. At this point, making this choice shouldn’t be much of a challenge!

Hariom Balhara is an inventive person who has been doing intensive research in particular topics and writing blogs and articles for E Global Soft Solutions. E Global Soft Solutions is a Digital Marketing, SEO, SMO, PPC and Web Development company that comes with massive experiences. We specialize in digital marketing, Web Designing and development, graphic design, and a lot more.

SOURCE : Progressive Web Apps

[thebibliomancer]

100 Days of Comics! 033/100: The Avengers #24.1 (2012)

Today’s rummage in the box of 100 random comics brings me something more in my usual wheelhouse! Avengers! Robo-angst! What the heckle does .1 mean though?

From what I could find, it was either intended to create a jumping on point for new readers or represents Uatu’s fugue state that occurs every three years for 42 minutes.

Comics are weird.

So anyway. A long time ago around or about Avengers #500 the title was hemorrhaging readers due to the lackluster to completely shitty follow-ups to the Kurt Busiek run. I’ll single out Chuck Austen and then shake a fist at the sky. Brian Michael Bendis was brought onto the book and told to shake things up.

He did this by killing off a bunch of characters (including Ant-Man, Hawkeye, and the Vision), almost completely rendering the Scarlet Witch a radioactive character, having the team disbanded and the book cancelled. Good job, Bendis, you saved the Avengers forever!

Well. Okay. The book is restarted in New Avengers which did see a major uptick in readers, possibly due to fan favorites like Wolverine, Daredevil and Spider-Man on the team or possibly due to Bendis’ writing style still being fresh at the time.

Eightish years later publishing time (and who knows how long in-universe?) Vision finally finishes repairing himself. Its one of the perks of being a synthezoid. It takes some doing to kill you dead forever.

Vision just wants to know why this happened. Why She-Hulk tore him in half.

Oh god they left Tony to be the one to tell him the bad news. This is a terrible idea. But he’s the only one around so he tells Vision that She-Hulk was being manipulated by Vision’s wife Wanda, the Scarlet Witch.

And then he has to fill Vision in on whats gone on. That Wanda went crazy, forced the Avengers to disband, that she decimated the mutant population. And that, well, they don’t even know where she is anymore. And they don’t know what to do about her even if they find her.

Kill her? Arrest her? Prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she magically wiped away a population?

We cut to Vision confronting She-Hulk as she’s lifting buses for a PSA on eating healthy and exercising. She jumps over to talk to him. And she’s clearly still upset about what she was made to do to him. She tells him that if he’s here to fight, she won’t fight back.

But he tells her that he holds no grudge against her. And that he has to find his way in this new world now.

And she gives him a hug. She asks him not to blame Wanda on account of having a fucked up childhood. Y’know, Magneto was her dad maybe depending on the day.

So Vision goes to Utopia, the island nation that Cyclops established for mutants because an island nation for mutants NEVER goes awry. He confronts Magneto and demands to know where Wanda is.

Magneto tells him off so Vision sticks his arm into Magneto’s chest and grabs his heart and demands to know again. But Magneto doesn’t know. Why would he know? Wanda hates him, probably most of all. Also, she’s a grown ass woman and she makes her own choices and she’s responsible for own choices (-shrug-). Also also, if he does rip out Magneto’s heart, the humans will never again trust him. And Vision does so love being human.

So he lets Magneto go and Magneto instantly magnets Vision and tells him he could destroy him. Worse, he could puppet him around and make him do horrible things that would forever destroy his name. But he won’t. Because maybe Vision is the only thing that could bring Wanda happiness wherever she is (getting engaged to marry Dr. Doom, if I remember correctly). But yo, you get out of line with me again robit and I’ll magnet you so hard.

Then he throws Vision off the island.

Later, the Avengers Mansion. There’s a crowd outside protesting because of course there is. Funny thing is that one of the protest signs says “What have you done for me lately?” and if that doesn’t perfectly sum up the Marvel public’s feelings towards their superheroes nothing does.

Anyway, Hawkeye and Spider-Woman are making out. I guess Hawkeye is alive in his terrible not-purple uniform. And Captain America is looking constipated as he waits for the Vision. But he’s happy that Hawkeye and Spider-Woman are dating.

Then Vision shows up and Cap yells at him for going to Utopia and picking a fight with Magneto. Vision says that he’ll leave the team if Cap says its in the Avengers’ best interests but Cap stops him there.

See. Cap knows what Vision is going through. No, really.

“You don’t think that I know what it feels like to wake up in a world you don’t understand anymore? Listen to me, my old friend... This is the best, truest advice I can give you... There’s nothing back there for you now. For people like us -- everything is that way -- forward. You need to look forward.”

And Vision falls to his knees in front of a statue of the founding Avengers plus Cap. Probably feeling a lot of feelings.

Although considering that Avengers vs X-Men was looming right on the horizon, there wasn’t much to look forward to.

I still don’t completely get why this had to be a .1 issue but I did like it. Vision is one of my favorites because of his robo-angst and there is a lot of robo-feels in this issue. From quietly asking why this happened to him to feverishly trying to find Wanda. Although when she does pop back up after Children’s Crusade, their reunion does not go well and you will believe that even an android can cry, again.

I feel that an issue like this was necessary upon bringing the Vision back. Given the circumstances of his death, he needed this focus. He was such a mainstay of the Avengers. Its a shame that since Disassembled, he’s kind of lost that status.

And then he tries to have a family of his own and that descends into a nightmare of murder and hate. Vision just can’t catch a frickin’ break.

[alivingfire]

Can you make a fic rec where Harry is the one who fuck up? Please? I haven't read many fics (I joined the fandom in September) but the ones I did its mostly Louis doing something wrong, and that doesn't sit well with me, I feel like that's why I haven't read many fics here yet. Do you know some good ones? One fic I liked a lot was Into The Blue so something like that should be fine.

how about we try something else, is that okay? because it’s totally understandable to get tired of fics where louis fucks up, just like it’s totally understandable to get tired of fics where harry fucks up. some of my favorite fics are the ones where the drama isn’t in the relationship, it’s the situation or other characters or something where it can be harry and louis vs. the world, so i’ll give you some of those and we’ll see if you prefer that! 

non-relationship drama fics: 

→ Here in the Afterglow“If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have many friends,” Louis whispers, the blossom of insecurity in his stomach unfurling and clawing its way into his throat.

Harry is silent for a long time, and then he speaks; a soft, slow uncurl that makes Louis’ stomach shake. “I’ll be your friend.”

1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

→ Cameras FlashingWith his breakout single platinum three times over and his second album still selling out in stores around the world, Louis Tomlinson has made it to the top. However, his position as Pop Heartthrob of the Decade is threatened by the edgier, more artistic Zayn, who happens to be releasing an album a week after Louis’ upcoming third. Louis needs something groundbreaking- scandalous, even- to push past him in the charts. Much to Louis’ dismay, his PR team calls in The Sexpert.

Consulting with PR firm Shady, Lane and Associates pays the bills so that Harry Styles can spend his down time doing what he really loves: poring over data. On weekends and late into the evenings, he researches gender, presentation, and sexual orientation, analysing the longitudinal study that is his father’s life’s work. That is, until his newest client, the popstar with the fascinating secret, drags him off his couch and frighteningly close to the spotlight.

As the album’s release date approaches, will Tomlinson and Styles be able to pull off the most risky PR scheme of the millennium and beat Zayn in sales or will the heat of their feelings for each other compromise everything?

→ the impossible nowA wish on Christmas Eve sends Louis to an alternate dimension where Harry is a member of One Direction.

→ They Never Quite LeaveWhen Liam Payne inherited his great aunt's mansion, he never expected it to be haunted. With the help of famous ghost hunters Harry and Niall, Liam is hoping to evict the ghost and sell the house once and for all.

There's just one problem: Louis has been in that house for a hundred years, and he doesn't much feel like leaving.

→ I No Longer Feel I Have to be James DeanThe tale of how Harry married Louis, the bartender that's nursing his sorrows, three days after getting dumped by his fiance.

→ Run Like the DevilHarry stops pouting, but his frown is still fixed in place. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You know it’s your soul you’re signing away.” He sounds…sad? No, that’s not right, but there’s something.

Christ. This is the most incompetent demon Louis’ ever met. If he hadn’t seen the red of his eyes he wouldn’t believe he was a demon at all. How’d he get this job if he isn’t trying to convince Louis to deal? Or is it just another trick? A ploy for sympathy?

“I’m sure,” Louis says. “Come over here and kiss me.”

*Supernatural AU. Louis hunts demons; Harry's the strangest demon he's ever met, and he keeps fucking meeting him.

→ break open the skyBeing a werewolf isn't always easy. Especially if you have no idea what you're doing.

→ Long Before We Both Thought the Same Thing“So are you admitting you love Harry yet?”

Louis pauses in the middle of his story about the movie he and Harry went to see last night to raise an incredulous eyebrow. “What are you on about? Of course I love Harry.”

Has Zayn lost his mind? He’s been friends with Louis for nearly seven years and Harry for six, under what circumstances did it appear like they didn’t love each other?

“Okay, let me rephrase,” Zayn says, an amused little quirk to his mouth like he knows something Louis doesn’t. “Are you admitting you’re in love with Harry yet?”

Louis stares at him in bewilderment, mouth working as he tries to form a response. “I…what?”

Or, Louis maybe, sort of realises he's in love with his best friend of almost twenty years and he maybe, sort of thinks that said best friend could love him back? A prequel to If You Asked Me If You Love Him (I'd Lie).

→ Coax the ColdEngland, 1897. 

English Professor Louis Tomlinson’s passion for the occult has been a source of mockery and derision for most of his life. When he hears whispers of a travelling freak show newly established in London claiming the existence of a monstrous sea hybrid, half-man, half-fish, Louis sees it as his ticket to credibility amongst his peers. The summer he spends undercover working on the show, however, gives him much more than that.

→ wings to break your fall“I’m glad you like my clothes,” Harry whispers, sliding his arms further along the couch until he’s speaking directly into Louis’ ear. “Would you like me to take them off?”

or: strip club AU. Harry’s work and family are keeping him busy. He really isn’t looking for a relationship, doesn’t want one. He just wants Louis. Problem is, Louis has other plans.

→ domestic monsters seriesHarry is a witch from a long line of power, an ancient line that’s one of the strongest left alive in their hemisphere. He can cast spells without a word if need be, fly on a broomstick, and has a black cat (a kitten, really) named Felix that is his animal familiar. He can shape galaxies in his cupped hands and can destroy them just as easily. He can choose exactly how to use his power, for encouragement and support, or for more nefarious causes if he wishes to.

And as fate would have it, he’s scared of haunted houses.

(Harry is a witch who carries around a stuffed pumpkin, Louis is a vampire with too much time on his hands, and their best mates Zayn & Niall aren't exactly what they seem...)

→ I would name the stars for you (I would take you there)"Harry Styles is a poem waiting to happen, Louis thinks, eyes tracing peach flesh and the undercurrent of blue veins. He wants to write him all down, to capture the image of green eyes and red lips and skinny wrists... dark ink spilled across the page."

Or a vaguely Notting Hill-like AU (or that made for TV Disney movie Starstruck if you’ve seen it… no? Just me?) starring popstar!Harry and bookkeeper/soulful poet!Louis; and including guest appearances by Fate, a wise elderly aristocrat, and lots and lots of pining.

→ Two Hearts Drawn TogetherLouis Tomlinson is 1/3 of a world-famous boy band. Harry Styles is a deaf university student. When they meet each other at a book signing, they experience an instant connection. They soon discover, however, that bridging the divide of their differences is easier said than done.

→ We Made These Memories For OurselvesBreath held, Harry squints his eyes open and focuses on the first stick. A blue line. Harry breathes out an unsteady breath. He’s pretty sure he read that one blue line is a negative, but he fishes the box from the bottom of the pile just to make sure.

“Negative,” he confirms, voice echoing around the small room. “Next.”

Now that he’s feeling a little less shaky, he scans the rest of the tests at once, is met with a headache-inducing mixture of pink plus signs and blue double lines. His heart rate picks up until it’s pounding triple-time in the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach, thundering in his ears and throbbing in his temples. He flips over the rest of the boxes slowly, but he knows what they’re going to say before he even looks.

[or, Louis is a footballer, Harry owns a bakery, and they're having a baby.]

→ FugueHarry falls asleep a 17 year-old who lives in Cheshire and is probably rockstar Louis Tomlinson's biggest fan. He wakes up 24 with a wedding ring on his finger, two kids, and Louis Tomlinson attempting to wake him up with a blow job. The doctor calls it organic retrograde amnesia, says he might never get back the last seven years of his life. The only thing that feels the same is how he feels when Louis touches him, and maybe that's enough to make him fall in love all over again.

→ The Dead of JulyBeing an Avenger means continuing to be Captain America and smiling and being honorable for the public and Harry does his best. But it doesn’t give him time to figure out who he is supposed to be once he takes off his uniform and puts the shield to the side. Just being Harry had always involved Louis, and Harry fears he doesn’t know how to exist without him.

or: Harry is Captain America, and Louis’ been dead for 70 years.

→ Hold Me CloserLouis Tomlinson is one of the most promising dancers of the English National Ballet, on track to become the youngest principal dancer in the company's history. That is, until forces conspire to significantly complicate his life, including: a surprise ballet, an unfairly attractive guest choreographer, and being pushed into a rivalry with his best mate. Featuring lots of wine, dancing, pining, and a happy ending.

→ Celebrity DiscountLouis fell for Prince Harry when he was ten and Harry was eight and peeked behind the Queen’s elegant gown for his first public appearance—a shy smile and a mess of curls. He fell for him when he caught Lottie putting up a magazine cover of Harry on her wall and all she had to say for herself was, “He’s such a good person, yeah?” and, yeah. He fell for him when Harry gracefully accepted his demotion. He fell for him when Harry came out and stayed out.

[neuroma-neuroses]

Getting diagnosed with an acoustic schwannoma - A Handy Guide

I will freely admit that I am a massive hypochondriac. If anything is bumpy, achey, flakey, misshapen, itchy or just generally a bit suspect, I will have it thoroughly vetted by two GPs and a handful of specialists. So, imagine my surprise when my doom and gloom suspicions actually came to fruition.

In October of 2016, I thought I had the flu. I was bone-tired all of the time, an annoying reality when you work for yourself because your bed is RIGHT THERE so wandering over for a nap seems like a healthy and productive use of employee time. I was dizzy too, a mix of 3am tipsy-dizzy and post-flu recovery dizzy. I felt hot all of the time and kept falling over. I sooked to my boyfriend Reuben. I ate frankly dangerous portions of ice cream. I fell asleep in front of Netflix every afternoon, hoping that when I awoke I’d feel better. But the illness kept dragging on.

After two weeks of housebound moping, my boyfriend, a doctor himself, gave me marching orders to see a GP and stop asking him twenty times a day to diagnose me. I trooped over to a local GP, a grandfatherly Greek man with big expressive eyes and gnarled, expressive hands. He poked and prodded me, listening to my chest as I wailed dramatically about how tired and gross I felt.

‘You’re run down!’, he said, writing me a prescription for antibiotics. I clasped it like a saint’s relic, sure my salvation was near.

A week later, I was back with new symptoms: my right ear was blocked and achey, like when I had ear infections as a kid.

His expressive hands flapped this away. ‘You’re not getting enough fruit and sunshine!’, he said, writing me a script for a more general antibiotic.

A week later, I was back again. The pain in my ear was awful and it felt blocked and full. I thought I had a head cold that had mutated into an ear infection. I imagined the superbug that all these antibiotics had concocted scurrying about my head, blocking my ear.

‘No no no no!’, the hands flapped their disapproval. ‘You’re depressed!’. He wrote me a prescription for antidepressants with the air someone whose precious time is being squandered. This is when I looked for a new GP.

I’m sure other young females have experienced this: getting a GP who takes your concerns seriously is a hard task. I have anxiety as well; as soon as I say this to a new doctor, I can see them try to make my complaint a mental health issue. ‘You have a sprained ankle? Oh no, it’s OBVIOUSLY your anxiety playing up.’

I almost cried with happiness when my new GP looked in my ears for blockages, sure she’d find it red and inflamed. But it was fine. I told her about my fever. But my temperature was normal. Medically, there was nothing wrong with me. She gave me more antibiotics and a medication to stop my dizziness, looking at me like I was a puzzle to pick apart. ‘Sophie, what is wrong with you?’, she chided me.

That night, the oddest symptoms started. I felt unreal: that’s the only way I can describe it. The world was shifting and bucking beneath me like the deck of a ship. My brain felt too big for my skull, all lit up like a match head. I had a fierce migraine, razorwire shoved up into the back of my eyeballs. I lay in bed, crying, getting up every so often to tumble over, unable to walk properly.

Reuben, ever the pragmatist, gave me his diagnosis after weeks of abstaining: ‘You’ve had a long term, very bad migraine’.

‘My brain is swelling’, I cried. He patted my head, unconvinced. I don’t blame him. But that language turned out to be oddly prescient. 

The next day, I was in a fugue state. It was the US election. I was in no state to work; I sat at my computer all day, watching as the unreality of Trump’s presidency unfurled, feeling like I was in a nightmare. I called 13HEALTH. ‘Should I go to hospital?’, I asked the nurse.

‘What are your symptoms?’

‘I just feel really unwell.’ I realised after I said it how stupid it sounded.

I remember the look on my GP’s face as I fell in through her door again that afternoon, determined to get a diagnosis this time. She took my temperature: normal. My blood tests had come back: normal.

‘What’s your family history?’, she asked.

I was taken aback by this. ‘My mum is fine. My dad died when I was 17 of a brain aneurysm.’

Her brow furrowed. An MRI was ordered. At this point, I thought the MRI would show an ear infection, so I was cheerfully resigned to spend half an hour in that loud metal tube. I spent the time thinking up story ideas. Afterwards, I pottered around the house, cleaning it for the first time since I’d fallen ill, thinking I was on my way to getting better. I was in the yard when I got a call: my GP. As soon as I saw the number, my heart lept into my throat.

‘Hi Sophie, your doctor would like to see you urgently to discuss the results of your MRI. Are you free now?’

A call like this is roughly number three on the top five of Calls You Hope You Never Get. The half an hour between hanging up on that call and meeting my GP to be told I had a brain tumour is the worst half an hour of my life. During that 30 minutes I knew something was very wrong but didn’t have a name for it yet. The name came with the radiologist’s report on my MRI, read out by my GP to my stepdad, whom I had called in a panic: suspected acoustic schwannoma.

There was a 20% chance it was malignant. I’d find out more from the specialists. They were booking me in for a neurosurgical meeting immediately given the rarity of the tumour. It was pressing on my brainstem. It was causing brain swelling. That was why I was so unwell. 

I finally had a name for it. And it was even worse than my hypochondriac self had the gall to imagine. 

Part of me wanted to run down the hall and wave the diagnosis in the face of the GP who thought I needed ‘more sunshine’. I’ve since spoken to another young female who got diagnosed with a brain tumour and was similarly dismissed by a series of GPs. If it weren’t for my father’s medical history, I might not have been diagnosed for a long while.