#I guess you could say...I'm rather maudlin

[estbela]

Hmm. I just found my old fanfiction.net account. I never posted anything on it, but it bought back a lot of memories of me reading fanfiction, mostly at night, and mostly about hws Seborga, as he was my favourite character back then :] I dunno, it feels awfully nostalgic.

[hurlumerlu]

powers of two for the ask game - 2, 4, 8, 16! (signed rob)

Hi rob :)

2- a character whose POV you’re currently exploring

Gotta go with Yok, because not only have I been trying to write a Gram/Yok/Dan threesome fic since last december and it's kicking my ass (it is very dear to my heart. it probably will never see the light of day.) but also a few days ago someone said Yok and Bison would fuck if they meet so I had to try to write it and am currently starring at it like "what the fuck is this. is this even remotely in character. what." The problem with Yok's POV is that when I am writing it I am extremely confident I am getting it right, but start second-guessing myself the minute I put the pen down. The other problem with writing Yok's POV is that I have to stop myself from literally writing "lmao" at the end of his sentences.

4- a story idea you haven’t written yet

I don't know how much you know about Critical Role, but I have a Noir AU where Vex'ahlia is a private investigator hired by wealthy flapper Keyleth to prove the innocence of her even wealthier friend Percy, who's been accused of murdering his entire family. Can't decide if it would end up being a Vexleth or a Perc'ahlia fic, though, and still don't feel very confident about my ability to write long fics. But Vex would have such a fun classic noir PI's POV! She was made for it.

8- if you had to write a sequel to a fic, you’d write one for

Holy Palmer's Kiss, my transmasc!Pete Kinnporsche fic, is a series in my head. I even had almost finished a second part from Vegas's POV. But work got in the way and I lost momentum, and I don't think I could continue past this part two anymore so it feels awkward and futile. What's particularly frustrating is that I never received as much encouragements on a fic as I did on this one. People liked it! I like it! and yet. Also more relevant to your interests I'd like to write a sequel to Trust the Process, my not quite Kant/Captain fic. But 1. it is still rather vague (the captain at Kant & Bison's mercy for reasons, Bison asking if they fucked, the cap reminiscing about all the times they didn't) 2. the captain's pov is hard to grasp, as he perhaps works best as an unknown quantity and 3. my brain keeps switching between french and english (eg: "Kant tire sur sa clope - well, not his, Kant stopped smoking a few years back, son frère fait de l'asthme") so I'm waiting to see if it'll settle.

16- favorite place to write

I don't have one! One of the reasons I like to write my first draft in notebooks is because I can do that absolutely anywhere. I do like to write on my couch or my bed though (comfy), and wrote my best poems on train rides or near bodies of water.

Thank you so much! sorry if i got maudlin here and there, I did say I was moody ^^'

(fic writers asks here x)

[halfbaked00q]

ooh this is a topic I love gnawing on, it's a topic that has a LOT of bite to it.

To me, Bond is an interesting study in contradictions that you may even see as having contradictions within themselves. Cuz like. *points to the internal narration above* I think it's easy to see that and call it "self-loathing," but I think for me, that's not quite what it is + it's more complicated than that.

I think for me, Bond has more of, like. a readiness to discard or put aside himself? Which is sth that def many fics have put in that way, the idea that agents are trained to & also by necessity do discard a lot of their selves for missions esp undercover ones (Smokes & Mirror yes the like situational forcefemming fic lmao- has a great line abt this- that's kind of what I have in my mind rn). This can look a lot like self loathing, cuz there's a similar minimizing of(/callous disregard for, ungenerous dismissal of) the self/one's feelings, but I think the impulse behind it is different, it comes from a different place and at it from a different sort of direction, even if the result can be similar.

The problem with this, like. Setting-aside-of-the-self for "practical" reasons is that it then translates to the like emotional/cognitive level beyond just "as a technique you employ" (use it enough and it becomes habit- it's the like dark mirror of the "if you start saying something ironically then it's inevitable that you will one day start saying it reflexively lmao, so be careful of the bits you adopt"), and esp how it translates outside of missions.

Cuz, in a parallel to like abuse situations, the techniques & coping mechanisms one develops which are very good for helping one Survive, are unfortunately rather maladaptive outside of the field. (Off the Books is a great example of this imo, I think about her (Bond from this fic) a lot, and the like. look inside his head we get in this fic. I have at least couple of other posts where I sort of go into this more I think? Tho here's the other one I can think of right now lmao,)

But yeah basically... I think for me, I don't see Bond as self-loathing, not as a sort of like. baseline default anyway. I think he can have moments of it, and he definitely has a very deep well of Disambiguous Issues lmao :')

Like, I see him as definitely hating the job, and maybe even sometimes if he gets introspective(/maudlin) about it, hating what it's made him (esp if we do a he thinks abt his childhood/who he was and wonders what his kid self would think of him now- there was a fic that had a moment where Bond was thinking sth like how he felt like somehow he'd betrayed that boy, and ouu)

But like... just like how regret is unprofessional, I tend to think self-loathing is too, lol. And actually, Bond's Disambiguous Issues are probably harder to meaningfully address and try to shift than just a straightforward-in-comparison self loathing complex lol :') But also on the other other hand... Bond's flaw is also kind of his strength, like,. this ability to discard parts of self could also be thought of as adaptability, and he's good at nothing if not shedding his old skin. I'm sure like a lobster, after a few sheds, he'll start growing back the parts he's lost, esp if in this analogy I guess I'm seeing to the end now, you've got Q coming in with some pliers at the barnacles on his shell.

“Just because —” Bond stumbled, unsure how to complete that sentence. Just because I manipulate people on instinct? Just because I’m a whore for my country? He settled on an inarticulate frustrated gesture of his hand, plowing forward regardless. “It doesn’t mean that — that I’m not sincere. That I don’t really mean it when I say that I want to try, with you. You know every damned thing about me, Q. How can you not know that by now?”

- Bittersweet by dr_girlfriend

I loooooove to torment myself by thinking about how little Bond thinks of himself, how ready he is to throw himself in the line of fire for Q&C... and fics like this deliver on it time and time again <3

[lets-steal-an-archive]

John Rogers (@jonrog1) Tweeted: LEVERAGE fans young and old, this is who you should be thanking. New show runner @NobleRorick Now follow her and shower upon her your terrifying nerd love. #LeverageRedemption

Kate Rorick (@NobleRorick) Tweeted: Seeing as how it's #LeverageRedemption Eve (and we got our presents early!) I'm gonna take this opportunity to flood your timeline with maudlin sentiment and shoutouts to an exceptional writing staff. Ready? Go!

If you know Leverage, you know @deandevlin. I do not believe there is anyone else on this earth who could have gotten this show made during a global pandemic and through 5 hurricanes. It was a superhuman feat and he guided our incomparable crew through it all.

Also, If you know #Leverage, you are familiar with @jonrog1 and @ChrDowney. Incomparable creators of the original, they were there every step of the way for Redemption as consulting producers, offering guidance, jokes, and the occasional shoulder as needed (which… was needed).

.@joshuaschaer1 is an everyman workhorse who brought his knowledge of the original #Leverage to the room as well as his deadpan delivery and consummate pitching chops. He also laughed at my worst jokes, and I did not think less of him for it.

.@jillybobww was our final addition to the staff — but we could not have done without her incredibly thoughtful approach to story and emotion… as well as her uncanny ability to give things awesome names! (A highly specialized and undervalued room skill.)

.@TeagWall knows things. Her very big brain is full of very, very useful information for planning a con or heist… er, I mean, writing a con and heist show. She can explain the Ideal Gas Law while churning out beautiful drafts and teaching us how to count cards in blackjack.

The one & only @mattogoofingoff is a human lightbulb. I swear I saw it go off over his head a dozen times when he fixed the problem we'd been staring down for an hour. Also gave some of the most I'm-not-crying-you're-crying scenes their heart wrenching dialogue.

Marque Franklin-Williams is not on twitter. But if he was, I would tell you his ever-present room calm that made you feel like you'd just taken the *best* quaaludes belies his intense story chops. Give Marque a "what if…" and he'll take you through Act 5.

I have no idea where @MyJTim came from — rather, I know he hails from Indiana, but to find someone that could crack a joke that made me choke on my LaCroix *and* turn in startlingly mature drafts for a first time staffer *and* rewrite on the fly? Where did he come from?

And finally, @alaynaheim kept us all organized and on task when we converted to Zoom. Also, you know that Halloween ep? Guess who pitched it? And co-wrote it? I will be extremely disappointed/relieved if Alayna has not been hired away by someone come (knock on wood) season 2.

All of this is to say, as a first time showrunner, I got extremely lucky. I'd work with any/all of these folks again in a heart beat. They deserve all the accolades I can throw at them. Cheers on making a great, great show!

[equalseleventhirds]

i said i wouldn't write it but i did

vaguely a sequel to this, but far in the future and focused on jon (annabelle features briefly tho. she's fine. annabelle will always be fine in my fics.) with ofc the presupposition that they've failed in one world but kept trying, bcos i think that would be fun*!

*(by which i mean heartbreaking, i'm so sorry)

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there seem to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive rule rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the truth and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with his calendar just to prove his point, but the math had all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, Georgie. He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the people, he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still his tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede his. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's there, and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he always passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

---

It is slightly unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he likes sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

"—complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from hell—"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to leave him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? Glowing eyes, because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were absolutely glowing when you found him—"

Martin. Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know both of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

"Jon," this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with his Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. Coaxing, like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can feel Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am not you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, is happening, because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being shocked and disbelieving, much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

"Excuse—"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an extremely pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He hated me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a possibility.

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that they hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I am my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say believed you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not you, or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your name, because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan Blackwood for a while now."

They'd told him married eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a gift."

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although apparently she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come on, Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been moping—"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how maudlin you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can go." He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

"Jon, we should be going."

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.

[pathfall]

two | seven

I'm not old, except maybe in a relative sense, but I can tell you I genuinely never expected to live past the age of twenty-seven.

Not that it was a case of me intentionally offing myself, but I was maybe fourteen when I saw that specific post. Maybe you've seen it, maybe it's still making the rounds whenever someone -

I saw it when Amy Winehouse died at twenty seven and I'm not completely sure that it was something that particularly affected me, as I wasn't a big fan or anything but I heard "Valerie" for the first time at the highschool rock show, I fell in love with that song, moreso at that instance, because of cadence or tempo it was played at, honestly, just the performance I felt sent an electric current through the audience. Maybe it was just me but -

The post basically shows you a list of famous people, "legends" as the post would have it, who all died at around twenty-seven. Ah sorry, I just looked it up and its more than just a post, Rather than a post it's maybe more known to you as the twenty-seven club. I don't know why that post stirred something in me, I definitely wasn't old enough to know about bias or statistical significance... or maybe I was but simply had not been taught it at whatever level of maths I was taking and I think I pretty easily suspend disbelief, in general, all I know is that I also wanted to die at twenty seven.

It's a relatively common thing to mix causation and correlation and very human to seek patterns, though in this case you basically have to ignore almost every other person that was famous that died earlier or later because the data is so heavily in favor of "no... there's no 'curse' or phenomenon that takes the most talented or impactful of us before our time". Fair enough. But I didn't know that then, all I knew in my very bones was that I was talented and would be famous and impactful and loved and cherished and eventually, I hoped (for some morbid and maybe maudlin reason) that I would also be taken to wherever comes next at twenty seven.

the truth is, as you can probably guess... none of that came true.

I've always been obsessed with fame, and especially interested in my own; to fill some sort of hole that almost every person has in the place of self-love or self-respect. I want you to know I don't say this out of any self-pity I'm particularly aware but as an uncritical statement of my subjective feelings; I've always wanted to be loved by millions because I could never love myself. I wanted people to be proud of me because I could never be proud of myself - anything remotely resembling it repackaged into enough layers of irony or pseudo-irony that if I was able to transfer it to you, you would recognize it as shame. Because I was supposed to be better? Better than what AND WHO AND WHEN AND HOW GOD I'M SO FUCKING TIRED OF CHASING SOMETHING OR SOMEONE THAT DOESN'T EXIST. I wanted to be famous, because I thought that being famous meant being perfect in the eyes of enough people that I didn't have to look into my own eyes in the mirror to try to find anything resembling self-worth. All of this background :) to say that I'm twenty-seven, not famous, no major world impact and not dead (yet, for that last one). And I'm happy. Or at least I'm fine with that. I don't care if I become famous or become a "legend" whether that's while I'm alive or - a teacher asked me when I was ten whether I'd rather be like Van Gough or Britney Spears in terms of fame. Meaning, respectively, would I rather be famous after I died or while I was alive --

(I'm guessing "Toxic" wasn't as influential for people at her age - and we have to remember that this was early internet: we still felt that, I think at least, old model of popular fame being transient rather than something I'll eventually run into again on my TikTok "For You" page in a every couple of years: "Remember this?", in white text printed onto a black background as I watch Britney and her snake hang out and be sexy -- in my heart of hearts I knew 1 billion percent I'd rather be famous while I was alive, to be able to capitalize on it - clout, money, everything. What the fuck is the point of having it after you die? But I knew the right answer was Van Gough because, you know... "impact on art", "timelessness", "classic". The idea that you live on until the last time your name is spoken is one I've clinged onto when I've had sudden existential crises or were afraid of death and so its not hard to see why Van Gogh is an arguable answer but c'mon...

You respect Wozniak and Tesla so much once you dive deep into their stories, but at the end of the day... you want to live like Jobs or Edison. That's the goal.

Despite no longer particularly wanting to be famous, I would like to have any one of their impacts on the world, it's just that I'd also rather... benefit from it as much as possible -

dead. I do look over some parts of my life with regret, I do think I've only really started learning and understanding diligence, hard work, taking the initiative, pushing opportunities as far as they can take me, at the end of the day I don't particularly mind if I'm never particularly someone worth remembering outside of my immediate social circles.

billions of people have lived in this world. billions of first kisses have been shared, nights out spent roaring with laughter amongst friends, hugs holding both parents tight, proud art, inventions, community programs, businesses and more. all but a miniscule percent are remembered today. an even smaller amount en masse. of the billions of people, a scant few are remembered today.

but those billions did live. those events happened. at one moment time, in a specific place, there was absolute sheer radiant joy felt between two specific people laying side-by-side, telling each other "I love you" for the first time. and the fact that neither of them were famous, that neither of them would be remembered after their grandchildren passed didn't matter.

even without the memory of it being held, in that one frozen moment in time, it happened. in the span of their lifetime, they were. even after the last time your story is told, the last time your name is said. even after the last human draws their last breath, the last sentient species loses their sentience, the sun explodes, the earth is obliterated and whatever comes next comes...

you were. i was. and at some frozen moment in time, we were.