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snowdice · 4 years

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Finding the Time to Study Fic 2 [Day 6]

Here is my starting post for today’s study break stories session. See this post for more details and feel free to send me asks to keep me going! It’s been a lot of fun so far! I will reblog this post with the story as I write them today. I’ll be constantly looking for ideas of times and places for Janus to have missions, so feel free to send in any you can think of at any point!

If you are a new follower or just don’t want all of these posts clogging your dash, please feel free to block the tag “study break stories” as all posts and voting about it will go there. You can still see the finished product of the story even if you are blocking that tag as I will not tag the edited chapters with “study break stories” but with the (TBD) name of the fic.

Chapter 1, chapter 2, and chapter 3 are under the cut.

I don’t have too much to do today, so this’ll be shorter.

Set Up

Chapter 1

The words in front of him seemed to squirm back and forth across the screen as he watched, despite the fact that he’d bought this screen to prevent that exact thing from happening. The ‘d’s and ‘p’s and ‘b’s seemed to blur together into a sludge of incomprehensible nonsense, just like the voices around him seemed to. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d sat there staring at this report. Time itself seemed almost like the words and the people, it swirled past him in a blur of sounds and colors, but he never could quite grab ahold of it.

Something smacked him in the forehead, and he startled, looking up. “Remus,” Janus sighed. He picked up the projectile that had just been lobbed at him. “Did you steal paper from the 20th century supply again?” he asked, staring at the folded-up piece of white paper in the shape of a crane. It was one of Remus’s favorite designs. “That’s not what it’s for.”

“There’s a message inside!” Remus replied, happily.

Janus glared at him and carefully unfolded the paper. He squinted at it, and yeah, that was way worse than the screen. Maybe it was worth his money. Or maybe Remus’s handwriting was just horrendous.

He squinted at it for a few moments and then looked back up. He blinked at his surroundings. The note had said ‘Go home. Work ended three hours ago.’ and that certainly seemed accurate considering he and Remus were the only people left in the office.

“I still have to finish this report about the New Easter Island mission,” he said to Remus.

“I’ll do it,” Remus said. “You’ve been working without a break for hours, and I probably owe the agency some time since I took a coffee break to 22nd century France this afternoon.”

“You what?” Janus asked.

”They have the best coffee,” Remus said, and then grinned wolfishly, “and the best guys.”

“Stop doing that stuff,” Janus hissed. “Your lucky I haven’t reported you already.”

“You wouldn’t,” Remus said, very sure of himself. “You like me too much. Plus, without me, you’ll forget to go home and sleep every night. So, it’d be a loose-loose. Now up! It’s time for you to go home.”

Janus sighed and stood. “Fine,” he said. “I’m going, but that report better be done like you said or I will report you for your coffee excursions.”

“Sure, you will,” Remus said. “Now shoo.”

Janus spared him one more glare before standing from his desk and waving his hand through the air. The machine at his wrist buzzed softly and the display screen lit up around him. He jabbed a finger at the last of the three pre-set locations and, with a feeling like he’d just stepped into a pool of softened butter, he was home.

He groaned and fell back onto his couch immediately. “Time?” he asked.

“1:57am,” a soft voice said from his ceiling. He groaned. Considering the agency liked to keep their schedules aligned even though his house sat almost 2 millennia before the agency even existed, he’d have to be up in 4 hours to head back to work. They said it was to ‘stop them from experiencing time jet lag’ and ‘maintain their circadian rhythm,’ but with Janus it usually just ended up with him ‘not getting enough sleep’ and ‘suffering greatly.’

Sure, he had been fine with it, encouraged the policy even, when the agency was created, but that had been before he’d had to live it.

His stomach suddenly grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since before the mission he’d been on earlier that day. He was exhausted, but he also knew trying to go to bed this hungry would result in him not being able to sleep at all. He dragged himself to his feet and into one of the barstools at the kitchen island. He didn’t want to wait for the auto cook feature to cook him something and he especially didn’t want to cook something himself, so he pressed a few buttons on the side of the counter and a protein infused, still cold pop tart popped out of the table.

He thought it might be a Hot Fudge Sunday one, but he honestly couldn’t tell. The protein infusion made all of them taste rather horrible. For all he knew, it was one of the Burnt Rubber pop tarts Remus had once snuck into his pantry. To be fair, he hadn’t even noticed until he’d went to go stock his pantry and realized that there was half a box of those things. It was just another example of Remus using time travel for things he shouldn’t. They were a year 2513 delicacy.

The 2510s were an odd set of years.

He chewed on the possibly chocolate, possibly rubber flavored pastry and glanced out the window. Though it was dark, one could still see the water of the man-made lake his home sat on thanks to the floating lights that hovered above it. Each agent working for the TPI received a home and alternate identity in a time and location of their choice. (Within reason, that is. Remus’s request to live among the dinosaurs was quickly denied and new rules were put into place immediately after.) Janus had chosen the late 24th century with a moderately sized home on Lake BlueBox. He didn’t have many close neighbors, but the ones he did know thought he was an accountant who went by the name of Declan Banks.

No, he had not chosen the last name. Yes, everyone got those types of names. The Agent Management Office had a sense of humor or were just not creative. Janus only knew one employee in the AMO and he’d been avoiding him for the past three years as much as possible. Cowardly, maybe, but he knew if he gave the man too much information about his general lifestyle, he’d be dragged into the AMO to talk about his mental state and feelings, and honestly, that would make everything worse.

As soon as he finished the poptart, a glass of water popped up from the table making him jump despite the fact that he had been the one to set it to do that automatically years ago. He downed half of the water and picked up the glass to take it to his bedroom. He should probably clean himself off before bed, but he couldn’t be bothered today, and just stripped off his uniform and collapsed into bed in his underwear. The morning was going to come far too soon, he knew. Yet, his mind would not quiet. His brain kept filling out the report he trusted (well, hoped he could trust) Remus had already finished by now.

He eventually groaned and rolled over in bed. “Play something,” he requested. The screen by the side of his bed lit up.

“Randomizing the ‘Something’ video playlist,” the soft voice said from the ceiling.

A dance recital which he knew had been recorded in 2033 started playing. The images moved on the screen in front of him, but the sound drifted from all around him. He let his eyes linger over the way the dancers’ bodies moved as the sounds washed over him. The image of elegantly twisting limbs remained in his head long after his eyelids drifted shut and he finally fell asleep.

Chapter 2

The morning was just as torturous as Janus had expected it would be. He chewed through another poptart, this time bothering to actually check and see that it was a cinnamon-sugar one and drank three cups of caffeinated orange juice. Then, he waved his hand through the air and selected the 1st saved location on his device. He popped up directly behind his desk where he’d been standing the night morning before.

Someone, probably Remus, had shut his integrator down. He swiped a finger across the power button, and it flickered back on, scrolling through its morning start up routine.

The machine scanned through all of the data in the three main system it was connected to and sorted all information into things that concerned him, could concern him, and did not before then sorting the first two categories into order of importance. As it did, he set up his screen reader so he would hopefully not start the day with more of a migraine than he already had. It took about 3 seconds for everything to turn on and settle.

Sitting down in his desk, he dismissed the notification that Remus had finished and submitted the report from their mission the day before.

A mission had been scheduled for him today, and the details were in his inbox. A piece time travel technology had been accidently dropped by an archology student in the 1890s during a trip. It was an earlier model of emergency time travel given to time travels that would dump them back into the Registration Office in the year they originated. It wasn’t extremely dangerous, but could pose some problems, especially if someone who didn’t know what it was activated it.

Surveillance agents had tracked it down and found that it had been picked up by a local and sold. Though no one from that time had known what it was, they had identified that it was made out of a precious metal and it had been crafted into an expensive necklace. Janus and Remus were supposed to retrieve it today. It had been pinpointed that the most opportune time for the extraction was 1923 during a masquerade ball held by those who had bought the necklace.

It was a fairly low stakes mission. He wasn’t set to leave for another couple of hours, so he clicked through the rest of the important notifications and then set off to meet his missions coordinator, Rhi, in her office.

Rhi and Janus got along fairly well. She was a well put together woman who took her job incredibly seriously. It was fair as her job was to organize all information and materials from every other department and make sure the agents she was assigned to got and understood all of it. A mistake from her could lead to an agent’s death or something far worse.

This, of course, made her relationship with Remus… interesting to say the least. Janus could never place whether they were nemesis, frenemies, or mortal enemies, and he doubted he would ever know.

“Okay, but it’s the 1920s America,” Remus was already in her office arguing when Janus arrived. “There were so many gangsters! I could be a gangster. I would make a fantastic gangster! Just give me a gun, a snazzy suit with a white hat, and a buttload of alcohol. I will be running Chicago with Al Capone in five minutes.”

“Al Capone didn’t become a crime boss until 1925 and you are going to 1923,” Rhi said, sounding bored, “you aren’t going to Chicago, and as I have already stated, your cover is already decided.”

“But-”

“It is nonnegotiable, Agent Clockson,” she said firmly. Remus pouted, but seemingly accepted his fate.

“May I come in?” Janus asked.

“Please do,” Rhi said. “You have been to the 1920s before, correct?” she asked Janus.

“Yes ma’am.”

She tapped the screen on her desk in response. “In the last two years?”

“About two months ago,” he responded. She tapped something else.

“Any blacks, reds, or yellows?” she asked.

“All green.”

“Great. Do you need a refresher course on basic cultural or linguistic procedures?”

“No.”

She pushed one more thing and then swiped the check-in document over to him. He glanced at the report stating he’d had no incidents of any level the last time he visited the 1920s and had opted out of the optional refresher course, and then pressed his finger against the screen to sign it with his fingerprint.

The document returned to her side of the desk automatically. “Okay,” she said swiping another document from her left over to be in front of her. She twisted her wrist to copy it and slide copies to Janus and Remus. “Here are exact details on the time, place, and event you are going to, as well as details about your cover.” Janus scrolled through his quickly. It wasn’t as detailed as some he’d had considering this was a brief in-and-out missing, but he still took care to memorize everything on the page.

As he and Remus read through their things, Rhi got to her feet and turned to the storage compartments behind her desk.

She grabbed out two packages and when they’d both signed that they’d read and understood the paperwork, she slid them across the desk to them. “These have everything you need,” she said. “Clothes, money, and an invitation to the party you’re off to attend. You are to get changed now, have a last check in with costuming to make sure everything is in order, and then report to decontamination in 23 minutes. Your set to leave in 38 minutes. Any questions?”

“How much-?” Remus started.

“None, agent,” Rhi said.

“But-”

“No alcohol,” Rhi said. “It is the prohibition era in the United States anyway.”

“Like there’s not going to be alcohol at the rich people party,” Remus said sullenly.

She pressed her lips together. “It is an in-and-out mission,” she said to both of them, and then turned to glare at Remus. “Do not get arrested.”

“I don’t know,” Remus said joyfully. “I think I still have room for a 1920s mug shot on my wall.”

“Behave,” she said, “or I’ll report you for the cat you smuggled in from the 1800s.”

“You’d never,” Remus said. “You enjoy the cute pictures of Diesel Fuel I send you every day too much, and you know it!”

“Just… don’t get arrested.” She turned to Janus. “Don’t let him get arrested.”

“I’ll do my best,” Janus promised, standing. “Now come on, Remus, we need to get changed.”

“You just want to see me naked,” Remus replied with a wink, but he did stand.

“If I see you naked one more time in my life Remus, my eyeballs will fall out of their sockets,” Janus said, waving to Rhi as he pulled Remus out of the door.

“Kinky.”

Janus’s eyeballs almost did fall out right then and there with how hard he rolled them.

They got changed quickly, Remus complaining and saying if he couldn’t dress like a gangster, he should at least be allowed to wear a flapper dress. Janus had long ago learned to ignore his ramblings. He did seem enthused about the included mask for the masquerade. It was a silver fox shaped mask with green accents that reminded Janus of the Egyptian God Anubis.

Janus’s own mask on the other hand, was only designed to take up the left half of his face. It was mostly golden with a black swirled design. Attached to the side there was a plume of golden tipped white feathers. He had to give it to the costuming department, they did have good taste.

Once they were both dressed, they were poked and prodded by one of the costumers to make sure everything was accurate, fit right, and had been put on correctly.

After that, they went to the decontamination area to have themselves and everything they were taking with them sterilized so they didn’t accidently take any pathogens to the 1920s. They also received an oral vaccination to be sure they didn’t pick up anything from the 1920s and bring it back.

Then they were ready to go. The correct time-space coordinates had already been sent to their timepieces. With a push of a button, they were off.

Inciting Incident

Chapter 3

Janus and Remus both appeared at the same moment a couple of feet apart in what looked like the inside of a garden shed. There was already a man waiting for them a few feet away. “Sup babes,” Remy said, just like he always did. The T-Agent looked their costumes up and down and whistled. “Now that,” he said, “almost makes me want to be one of you time jockeys.”

“They wouldn’t let me have a gun or a canister of moonshine,” Remus pouted.

Remy snorted. “Sorry, babes, but that makes my job a lot easier. If I’ve gotta fish you outta the 1920s criminal justice system, I’d rather it not be because you shot someone on accident ‘cause you don’t know how to use the safety.”

Remus groaned dramatically. “Everyone is lame.”

Remy just shook his head. “Meet back here when you’ve got the necklace,” he said. “Don’t make a move until after 11:05pm and before 11:17. That’s your window.”

“We know,” Janus said. “See you then.”

“Have fun at the party boys,” Remy said and then lowered his shades to look at Remus, “but not too much fun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Remus, already towing Janus out of the garden shed. The way had been specifically cleared for them, so they met no other people before they’d rounded the house the party was taking place and had gotten onto the driveway in front of the house.

Without missing a beat, they strolled up to the front of the house, just as a car pulled into the end of the driveway. Janus rang the doorbell, and a few moments later, a man who was clearly the butler answered the door. They handed over their invitation, and the man immediately let them in.

The party had already started when they slipped into the medium sized ballroom that had been decked out in streamers and other decorations. Janus’s nose immediately wanted to scrunch as the smell of sweat from all the dancing already going on as well as the too strong perfume meant to cover that stench wafted over him. It was by far not the worst smelling time period, but he was pretty sure some people still weren’t aware deodorant had been recently invented.

He checked his time piece which had been disguised as a fancy wristwatch for this trip. “Okay,” he said. “We have about two hours before we need to make our move. We should…”

Remus’s attention was already being dragged away by a young man who seemed to be providing guests with food. “I’m going to go ‘mingle’,” he said, winking.

“No!” Janus hissed. “Re- Richard! No!”

Yet, he was already disappearing into the horde of stinky bodies, likely to go scandalize a bunch of rich folks, and leaving Janus alone. Janus mumbled a curse under his breath that he was sure no one around him would understand even if they could make it out.

Unsure what to do with himself, he wandered over towards where the live musicians were playing jazz music, being sure to keep out of the way of the dancers. He was edging around the makeshift dancefloor, when one of said dancers must have misstepped and knocked into another one. The second man stumbled right towards Janus, arms pinwheeling. Janus reached out on instinct to catch the man as he fell.

There was a moment where the two of them just stared at each other, surprise evident on the other man’s face. He was wearing a mask that just covered the area around his eyes and the top of his nose, revealing a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that Janus imagined extended to his nose.

The mask was a light blue velvet with a flower stuck on the side near his right ear, and a trail of curled golden ribbon bobbed down around his chin. The party continued on around them, a blur of movement and sound.

“Are you alright?” Janus asked.

The man blinked up at him and then tilted his head slightly to the side as though confused, before a smile slowly grew on his face. “Oh, I’m fine Dove.”

“Dove?” Janus asked.

He giggled. “You have dove feathers on your mask,” he explained, reaching up a hand to touch one. His finger brushed the tip of Janus’s ear, “and I don’t know what else I am supposed to call you.”

“My name is Lee,” he automatically lied.

“Is it?” he asked, sounding amused. “Doesn’t seem to fit you well. I like Dove better.”

“Oh?” asked Janus. “And what’s your name so I can not call you that?”

The man chuckled. “Call me Pat.”

“Hello Pat,” Janus said.

“I thought you didn’t want to call me by my name.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Hmmm,” Pat said, finger tracing idly across Janus’s forearm which was when Janus realized with a start that he was still holding the man in his arms. He quickly went to release him, which Pat allowed with clear amusement.

Yet, instead of completely stepping away, Pat grabbed Janus’s arm. “What are you doing all the way over here by the way?” he asked. “Don’t you want to dance.”

“Oh,” Janus hesitated. “I don’t really dance.” Or at least not in the way the people around him were. He’d had basic training for this style, but it had been a while and he was a bit rusty.

“Everyone dances Dove,” Pat claimed. “At least if they know the steps and have the right partner.”

“But I don’t know the steps,” Janus said with an eyebrow raise.

He hummed. “Well, I know the dance pretty well by this point,” Pat said. “Why don’t I teach you how it goes.”

He was agreeing with the soft beseeching tone before he even realized it. Pat pulled him into the middle of the throng of people. He seemed to think, bopping his head to the music playing for a moment, before looking back at Janus. “Heard of James Johnson?”

Janus inclined his head.

“Well, have you heard his new song? Because there’s a dance that goes with it.”

He took a few steps away from Janus and started to dance. Despite his claim to know the steps, he wasn’t particularly good, but he made up for any loss of rhythm with pure enthusiasm.

Janus found himself smiling at the man, and after a few moments, joined in with the dance. Despite his lack of practice, he ended up having a better natural rhythm than Pat. Pat didn’t seem to mind that he was being outperformed, however. On the contrary, he giggled at himself the couple of times he stumbled.

When he fell into Janus’s arms for the second time that night, Janus decided he’d probably had enough dancing for the moment and pulled him off to the side to get something to drink and cool down a bit.

He watched the man take a snack and some punch from one of servers and thank him happily before turning back to Janus. Pat was easily able to keep Janus’s attention as they chatted. He was bubbly and soft, and Janus found himself enchanted as they talked.

He was explaining the steps of a different dance, a couples one. “Knowing how to perform the tango will entrance any girl you want,” Pat said, something mischievous sparkling in his eyes. “Assuming you’re that type of fella.”

“As opposed to what?” Janus asked.

Pat leaned in a bit closer. Not too much, but enough that he was definitely in Janus’s space. “A different type of fella,” he said simply, before smiling and leaning back.

Janus let out a shaky exhale and took a sip of punch. He glanced over at Pat. “Tell me about yourself, Pat,” he said.

Pat hummed in contemplation. “Well, I went to France recently.”

“You did?”

“Oui, c'était amusant, mais j'ai eu des ennuis”

“What kind of trouble?” Janus asked curiously.

“Oh, the kind with a pretty boy and crepes that were way too sweet. Anyway,” he continued. “Other than that, I mostly help out my friend. He’s an inventor.”

“And how do you help him.”

He shrugged, “Running errands mostly, and making sure he gets enough sleep, because otherwise he gets distracted and forgets. And you?”

“I’m a banker,” he said, remembering his cover, but felt compelled to add, “but I like to travel as well.”

“You do look the type?”

“And how is that?”

Pat shrugged. “I can always tell a wandering spirt from the masses, and you are easy to spot.” Pat looked at him then with a secret smile on his face, and Janus felt suddenly known, like the man in front of him had known him for years even though they’d only just met. Looking at him then, he wanted suddenly for that to be fact and not a flight of fancy.

He was brought firmly back to reality in the next moment. “Lee,” a pointed and familiar voice said. Janus’s head snapped up to see Remus, staring at him. He tapped his wrist. Janus glanced at his own wrist: 10:58pm. He just barely managed not to curse.

“I,” he said looking up at Pat. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“That’s okay,” Pat said easily. “It is getting rather late.”

“Yes,” Janus agreed. “Well… goodbye.”

Pat, titled his head, a half smile on his face. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

Janus nodded, and turned away from him towards Remus. He didn’t look back as they excited the ballroom. They snuck into a small side closet for coats that wasn’t being used as it was summer.

“So,” Remus said when the door closed behind them.

“Don’t,” warned Janus.

“I’m not one to judge,” Remus said.

“Shut up.” He glanced at his watch. It was 11:02. “We’ll go in 5.”

“I have to give it to you. He was very cute.”

“We’re not talking about it.”

Remus just laughed joyfully, and Janus did his best to halt the blood rushing to his cheeks.

At 11:07, well into their window, they slipped back out of the closet, and towards the stairs as the party raged on.

Despite how Remus usually never shut up, he was able to be quiet when it counted. They snuck to the master bedroom of the home’s owners in silence. The door was already wide open by the time they got there, and Janus didn’t think anything of it. At least, he didn’t until they entered the bedroom, and there was someone already there.

He turned from the dresser he’d been standing in front of to face them, sending Janus the same smile he had down in the ballroom. Janus and Remus both froze. “Sorry, sweetie,” Pat said. “Were you here for this too?” he held up the necklace they’d been sent for. He closed his fist around the charm made out of time travel tech.

“What?” Janus said.

Pat giggled and winked. “Unfortunately, I need it a bit more than you at the moment. So, I’m gonna have to go.” Janus stepped forward, not really sure what he was intending to do, but Pat just smiled. “See you some other time, my Turtle Dove.” With a snap of his fingers and loud crack, he disappeared. The mask he’d been wearing fluttered to the ground.

#study break stories #not writing

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the-busy-ghost · 4 years

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Alright here’s my belated Thoughts on that latest TSP episode. I should add again, I am in no way saying people shouldn’t like this show, I just need to be petty on my own blog.

- Stafford’s Performative Masculinity is a bit Much, even for a sixteenth century man

- Katherine doesn’t want Wolsey appointed chancellor because that would give him too much power and the chancellor is apparently the second most powerful man in the kingdom... so powerful in fact that I’m not even sure we’ve seen the current chancellor on screen, except in his ecclesiastical role as archbishop of Canterbury

- Ah the migrating towers of Holyrood. They weren’t there for the last two episodes and they won’t be there next scene either but they’ll be *theoretically* here all week folks.

- It is mildly hilarious that this show seems to think that every single moment in Scottish politics took place in one wee house in Somerset “Edinburgh”, and the only people who are ever involved are two dozen stereotypical Scottish noblemen, and one Englishwoman (and no clergy? Which is extremely weird given how heavily involved they were in royal administration).

- Not to mention they imply Holyrood is meant to be Edinburgh (it is now, then it was actually in the burgh of the Canongate but close enough) and yet the burgh skyline of Edinburgh is never visible in the background of these shots, just rolling fields and a nondescript hill that I assume is meant to be Arthur’s seat.

- Ok so we’re portraying Angus as the poetic soul instead of his uncle, that’s fine, that makes no sense but it’s fine.

- Who the fuck is Bishop McElroy. Setting aside the fact that McElroy was more common in Ireland than Scotland during the sixteenth century (and there were no major noble or even influential lairdly families bearing the surname), why could they not have just done a google search and found out that, oh yeah, there were Real Life Scottish Bishops in 1515, anyone of whom would have done. And I don’t know why they mucked about with the timeline but if they were going to muck around with the timeline anyway then then how about maybe even, dare I say it, Gavin Douglas, bishop-elect of Dunkeld???

- Also I didn’t quite catch the full line so I may have misheard but I think Margaret states that they got married in the kirk of South Queensferry? I mean tbh this only confirms my belief that the writers think everything happened in the vicinity of Edinburgh (and that they didn’t even bother to think to TRY and find out where the marriage might have taken place, just started tossing a few Scottish place names out there as if that would do. The Ferry’s not even that private, it was on a major pilgrimage route and an important crossing point over the Forth). It’s also a bit irritating because there’s no reason for the inaccuracies? They didn’t have to show the wedding so they didn’t have to change the location or characters for ease of filming or anything, it’s just a throwaway line, there’s no reason for them to make up a bishop and unlikely wedding location? Anyway join us next week as Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn conduct their affair in the middle of London Bridge.

- Also excuse me while I make an unconvinced noise at that line about how the Douglases (i.e. all of them, not just the Red ones) have always ‘licked the balls of England’. While their notoriety for being Shady As Fuck and occasionally siding with the English was certainly well known, no sixteenth century Scotsman worth his salt would have sullied the name of the Good Sir James just to score points off the Angus branch of the family.

- (Maybe this is a bad time to point out that they’re not technically licking ‘balls’ in this instance either...)

- I take it back there was one (1) woman very briefly in that scene where Margaret and “Angus” rushed to grab the bairns. She was promptly never seen again. Confirmed Cryptid.

- Also where did all the other bairns (James IV’s ones, not Margaret’s) go. I mean they were actually there last episode I think, so it’s not like they were implying that Margaret got rid of them as soon as she could. Have they FINALLY grown up?

- How quickly do letters travel in this world? How long have they been in that cellar? Are they still there?

- Wait so now Katherine of Aragon knows his name is Archibald??? Why has everyone been calling him ‘Angus Douglas’ then, even when his dad (and presumably grandfather) was alive?

- Lol @ Henry ‘after all I’ve done for her’. Do tell, what HAVE you done for Margaret.

- Hang on so Thomas Boleyn is Earl of Wiltshire already and yet his father-in-law Thomas Howard still isn’t duke of Norfolk

- Second LOL @ an archbishop of York willfully summoning a naturalised Frenchman to Scotland without the king of England’s permission, as if Scotland lay in his gift and as if that was in any way a good idea, even for some political point-scoring

- “Margaret’s sons must take the throne”- Katherine are you aware that James V was crowned King of Scots not two weeks after Flodden, and approximately seven months before his younger brother Alexander was even born.

- Again, HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN IN THE CELLAR? Angus has grown a BEARD.

- He’s not the future king he IS the king. A tiny toddler king. You help him go potty you disrespectful shite, I don’t care if you’re having a nervous breakdown. (May I just point out again it is CRIMINAL that David Lindsay isn’t in this)

- We all pause for An Exaggerated Whispering Scene, that great period drama staple. I mean are we sure they’re gossiping about Henry and a *woman*, because the way people are talking about Wolsey at that dinner once again makes it look like he’s the real Mistress

- So wait how is this ‘letting’ Margaret go with Howard thing supposed to work. Is it like knock-knock special delivery for the duke of Norfolk, here you go please take your princess back.

- And when exactly did Angus do all this negotiating when he has supposedly been stuck in a cellar for weeks. Gavin Douglas has a lot to answer for, and not just the sheer length of the Eneados.

- ‘Bog-fuckers’ - not a bog in sight in this west country version of Scotland. Also er, just how does one fuck a bog. Asking for a friend.

- I’m just being pedantic, Howard’s foul mouth is actually the only genuine piece of comedy the writers can come up with in this tv show.

- Howard putting up a good front here but come on there’s like six of them and about two dozen Miscellaneous Scotsmen. I know that the English were very practised in quartering Scots whenever they liked but eight to one is not good odds, even for the victor of Flodden.

- Yeah that whole scene is not how the history worked. At All. But let’s let them ride dramatically away across a field as if it’s at all plausible. (Also why is it always fields- I know Scotland’s roads were bad in the sixteenth century, but seriously they were at least *technically* roads when you got near Edinburgh)

- And there was definitely no Isabella Hoppringle, which is again, criminal. I mean I expected it but it’s still sad. Mind you I suppose that might imply that Scottish women are real creatures and not cryptids which, as we know, is totally unrealistic.

- Even weirder though, they’re not including Margaret Douglas? Why?

- Only one man has ever been in the king’s rooms? Seriously? You expect us to believe this, not only from a historical accuracy perspective, but also from the tv show that gave us implied Wolsey/Henry?

- The Great English Midwife Shortage c.1509-1516

- Do NONE of the many many grown-up people at the English court understand the lottery of birth and that you can’t just like, assume the baby will be a boy even if you hope it will. Wishful thinking is one thing (and common) but this wholehearted belief thing is frankly unrealistic.

- It’s also unfair how they’re treating Mary as unloved by both her parents. We know Katherine loved her daughter in some way, and it’s also not really fair to say that Henry VIII was anything less than a doting father in her early years.

- And the record for fastest churching goes to Katherine again. Cracking cape though.

- Katherine all ‘he won’t visit his daughter’- you won’t even look at her either though. How is this a sympathetic depiction of Katherine again? Don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely understandable if a royal mother didn’t always want to hold her daughter but really? After every other negative light they’ve shown Katherine in and called it Empowerment?

- Hey I don’t know much about English customs but seems to me that inviting the French to intervene in Scotland without consulting the king might just be a beheading offence Wolsey. AND THEN HENRY COVERS FOR HIM? THE PAGES OF ENGLISH HISTORY BOOKS ARE NOT STAINED WITH THE BLOOD OF CIVIL SERVANTS EXECUTED FOR FAR LESSER OFFENCES FOR THIS KIND OF NONSENSE TO BE ACCEPTABLE.

- Thomas Boleyn, dad of the year

- People do kiss, Margaret Pole. That was a common thing. MEN kissed each other goddamnit. Not really good enough. I mean by your logic Katherine should have broken up with Henry after her dad laid one on him in the first episode.

- How is it that Thomas More, of all people, has the Goss.

- Oh and apparently there was also a National Laundress Shortage in 1516 too.

Ok so it was about as meh as every other episode but I think this one really brought home to me how poorly thought out Margaret’s storyline was. I mean usually these period dramas have to insert Drama for no reason to keep people interested, but Margaret’s life was FULL of drama and they had so much to work with. Instead they seem to have actually stripped most of the drama out to tell an utterly incomprehensible story about a bunch of stereotypical Scotsmen, who all live in the same house in Fake Edinburgh, chasing the only woman in Scotland into the cellar, and then posting her off back to England a few weeks later.

#TSP #Margaret Tudor #rants #I know I know #I finally got the internet back #And I'm using it to have a really petty rant about a tv show I'm largely indifferent to #This is the true purpose of tumblr

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cake-writes · 5 years

Text

Activation (Part One)

Pairing: Soldat x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Sexual Slavery, Dubcon, Femdom, Smut, 18+

Summary: At first glance, the Winter Soldier’s activation code sounds like a nonsensical string of words. In reality, each word has been carefully selected to break him just a little bit more. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst – and to keep him in line, you put him to use for your own... needs.

Master List

Longing / Желание

The Asset misses his previous life. You can see it in his eyes. They’re the loveliest shade of pale blue tinged with a little sadness, a little longing, and a whole lot of non-compliance. You can tell that he still remembers who he was in bits and pieces, no matter how many times he’s reset, no matter how many times Hydra breaks him in – how many times you break him in.

In between the bits and the pieces of his fragmented memories, he knows your face. He recognizes you, but he can never remember your name. You’re a scientist, one of many who works on him, programs him, attempts to make him forget. It never works. There is still a shred of himself in there that he refuses to let go.

That same part of him often wonders what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this.

What he doesn’t know is that you’re already broken beyond repair. You’ve worked for Hydra for so long that you’ve broken others, too, under your sharp supervision – so to have him fight so hard against you, against this, against the inevitable, it comes as an unexpected surprise. It’s a change of pace, and you find yourself intrigued by him.

You’re in need of another approach to wipe his memories clean. Nothing else has worked thus far. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst, but for some reason he never lays a hand on you. He’s killed other scientists in your team with ease, but he never touches you, no matter what you do to him – no matter how many times you strap him in for another reset or inject some mystery substance into his veins.

He never resists you.

Seeing him murder your colleagues is just further evidence of his rebellious nature, and it doesn’t scare you as much as it should. Instead, it turns you on. He resists the others, but not you – never you – and it’s ridiculously empowering.

He killed another one so easily right before you left for the evening tonight; snapped his neck like a twig in one hand. He didn’t even need to use the vibranium one because he’s so stupidly strong.

Your undergarments were soaked through by the time you got back to your quarters. You love those brutal displays of strength, as much as you know you shouldn’t, but what you love more is knowing that he’s all yours.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

Three in the morning. You’d rather not be seen at a normal hour doing something like this because you did have some modesty, even if it would be infinitely more dangerous without the usual number of armed guards. He’s never hurt you before, though, and you assume that he won’t now, either. Part of you wouldn’t really care if he did either way, because at least then you’d be free.

In some ways, you're just as caged as him.

There are just two guards posted at the heavy metal door to his containment chamber. You make up some lie about having to get some overnight readings, and they let you in and re-lock the door behind you with three loud clinks in rapid succession. You’re trapped in here with him, but that was the plan.

His eyes are on you the moment you walk inside the dimly-lit room. You’re alone. He wonders why.

It sends a shiver down your spine, his keen scrutiny of you. Watching. Waiting. Wondering.

He’s seated on a hard mattress in the corner, away from the contraption in the middle of the room meant to reset him – but it’s never worked as much as it should. He’s only been put through cryo once or twice, but his programming is still finicky and he’s been kept on lockdown while you and your team try to sort it out. So far, it’s been a failure.

This is your new approach.

“Lay down,” you order.

He does, but you know it’s not because he’s compliant. It’s because he’s curious. You can see it plain as day on his face.

When you get to his bedside, you trail your eyes down his body in the most lascivious way. He’s shirtless: a sight you’ve never grown used to, not really. He’s muscular and strong and so damn attractive even with his brain so scrambled. The scarring on his shoulder doesn’t bother you at all; in fact, you think it adds character. A slight trail of hair from his navel downwards leads you to a pair of loose black pants that you’ve seen him in so many times before.

The moment your fingers reach the tied drawstring on his pants, he takes in a sharp breath and you look back up into his eyes. Those beautiful baby blues are so wide, so alarmed, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or confusion. Possibly both. You don’t care.

You keep your eyes on his as you slowly tug on the string, and as it comes undone, he doesn’t resist you. He never resists you. That’s when you notice that his hands are white-knuckled, balled into fists. When you gently touch the back of his warm hand, his grip immediately loosens – and then you pull it under your lab coat to drag his fingers through your bare folds. You’re wearing nothing else.

When he feels how wet you are, he swears, his voice low and rough before he yanks his hand away. You watch in amusement as the realization comes across his face that you’re completely nude underneath, that you want him.

You tut at his refusal, though, and hold your small palm in the middle of his chest as you straddle his hips. He’s already rock hard against your thigh.

“You want this,” you tell him.

And he does. He’s not sure if it’s because he actually does or because you’ve brainwashed him into it, but he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the fact that you want him. Him. You’re absolutely soaked for him and he can’t understand how you could ever be after seeing what he’s done – after seeing what he did to your colleague tonight, let alone your colleagues, plural, over the last year or two. He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he arrived here, let alone how many people he’s killed since he did.

His mind goes blissfully blank when you roll your hips against him, and he can’t help but slide his hands up your silky thighs. He hasn’t felt a woman’s touch in far too long. It’s familiar. He’s done this before. He knows that it wasn’t with you, but he can’t really remember either way.

It’s a contrasting chill, cold vibranium versus hot flesh as his hands come to rest on your hips. When you grind against him again, his eyes are on yours – dark, dangerous, and so, so blue – as you slowly unbutton your lab coat for him to reveal your naked body underneath.

When you drop it to the floor, he feels the heat rise in his face. You’re gorgeous. You’re absolutely stunning and he still can’t understand why you’re here with him when you could be with someone else. You should be with someone else, anyone else but him. He doesn’t deserve this. Not with the things he’s done.

Even still, he can’t help but whisper, “You’re beautiful.”

His compliment catches you off guard, but you relish in it. It’s a glimpse of the real him that you’ve been trying to erase for over a year.

Hesitantly, he trails his hands up your sides to your breasts where he cups them with ease, tweaking your nipples. A soft whimper escapes your lips, but the sound makes him freeze, and he looks up at you helplessly – almost begging you to tell him what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. His body does, but his mind doesn’t have a clue.

“Don’t stop,” you command, albeit much less firmly than you would have liked.

Your words spur him on and he leans up to take one of your nipples into his mouth, to which you bury your fingers in his hair. His lips are a hot brand on your hypersensitive skin as he kisses your breasts, your chest, your neck—

And then, right before his lips meet yours, you push him back down onto the mattress. Your fingers hook in the waistband of his pants, and you slide them down just enough to pull out his thick length. He doesn’t resist that, either. Instead, his head lulls back from the feeling of your fingers wrapping around his cock. He’s so hard and aching that he’s throbbing in your hands.

He wants this.

You do too.

The head of his cock glides through your slippery folds, and then you sink down on him slowly, agonizingly so. Your slick heat envelops him in a way that he hasn’t felt in ages and he can’t help but let out a quiet groan at the feeling. You’re so tight and wet for him – for him – and he’s almost out of his mind because of how good it feels. Then again, he’s almost out of his mind already.

You love the pleasant burn of him stretching you in a way that you’ve never felt before. He’s much larger than you expected, and thick, but then again he’d injected with super soldier serum so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The serum enhanced everything.

By the time he’s fully sheathed inside of you, you’re an incomprehensible mess.

“Fuck me,” you order, but it sounds more like a plea.

He complies anyway, holds your hips gently – almost too gently, like he’s afraid to break you, but you can take it all as he soon discovers. You roll your hips with enthusiasm, and his grip soon becomes tighter, almost painful. You’re so fucking wet for him, so slick and wanting and needy that it almost feels like actual affection when your hands start to explore every part of him. You love the feeling of his muscles under your palms; his abdomen, his chest, his arms.

He enjoys all of it, especially the expression on your face: flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, soft lips parted while you moan and it’s all caused by him. He’s making you moan. He’s making you feel good, and he enjoys that the most. It’s what inspires him to press his thumb to your clit, like he’s done it a number of times before even though he doesn’t know how he knows; he just does.

That’s when you feel it, that familiar tightening in your abdomen. It was a slow build at first, but the moment he touches you there, tenderly, like a lover, you find yourself already on the brink.

Your moans turn to whines and whimpers and gasps that bring him higher – and then, when you finally shatter, the feeling of your tight walls clenching down around him sends him over the edge. He doesn’t pull out – just buries himself even further inside you, snug against your cervix as he spills inside you with a low groan. He’s so deep that you can feel every spurt of his cum, and you love every fucking second of it, knowing you’re milking him dry.

It’s empowering, being able to bring such a strong, powerful man – Hydra's Asset – to his knees. Not literally, of course, but he’s pliable like putty in your hands. In this moment, he’s yours.

You swiftly pull yourself off of him and absolutely adore the feeling of his cum dripping down the insides of your thighs. He can’t help but stare at the mess he’s made of you until you pull on your lab coat again. You button it back up so casually, like nothing happened at all, but the rapid beating of your heart says otherwise.

“You’ve been good tonight,” you purr, trailing a finger down his chest. “So good for me.”

He shivers.

“Be good for me in the morning, too, won’t you?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he turns his head away from you like a petulant child. You gently pat his cheek in response: a warning to behave.

God, you love it. The power.

“Goodnight, darling,” you tell him in such a dulcet tone that he almost believes it’s real.

He only looks back at you when he hears the click of your heels as you walk to the door. Your back is turned to him, now, but he watches, transfixed, as you leave. It’s almost unnoticeable, the curvature of your naked ass under the fabric, and although he sees it, your calves and high heels are what really do him in. It’s the only skin he can see, and he finds himself wanting to see more of it again. More of you.

The room smells like sex and sweat and the sweet scent of your perfume. He can’t sleep for the rest of the night.

You, on the other hand, fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re completely sated, at least for now, and you’re filled to the brim. For once, your experiment was a success; he’d been compliant for you for the first time in months, but it was more than just that.

That night, you dream of him – of who he once may have been. Over the last year or so, you’d caught a glimpse here and there, but tonight you saw more of the real him than ever before.

He called you beautiful. Why would you want to erase that?

Part Two

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #activation

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blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk · 4 years

Note

Oh! I had no idea asks were open. On the header it says closed. I hope you don't mind if I spam you questions and asks lol. I mean, I'll do it in moderation of course! For this one, I'd like to know what your house, patronus and factor like favourite character/s is! And may I also known your hcs for the school aged BB characters' houses? Thank ya! Muah!

I should really fix that; anytime the askbox isn’t closed, asks are open! Gonna see if I can change up my header so it’s less confusing :)

Also, anytime it’s open, you can ALWAYS spam me with asks!!! :D

I hope I’m understanding the question right here! SO, I think my house would definitely be Hufflepuff! The quiz I took says my Patronus would be a swan! And does this mean my favorite Harry Potter character? Because that would absolutely be Snape!

And here’s some headcanons for ya, I can’t believe these got so long!!

I didn’t do all the school age characters because I felt that’d be a LOT for one post, so I ended up doing Cheslock, Ciel, Clayton, Edward, Joanne, Lizzie, and Soma! Feel free to request more if you wanna see others, once the askbox is open again!

This was really fun and thought-provoking, it took me a while to get done but I loved it! I was really into Harry Potter as a kid so revisiting the world in a new perspective was so great!!

Cheslock

Gryffindor for sure! Although he’s undeniably bold, and can certainly be brave, Cheslock tends to be an example of the other side of the Gryffindor coin; he’s reckless and impulsive, and often pulls pranks on other houses. ― And sometimes on the people he doesn’t like in his own house.

He’s a half-blood, with his genes being split, unusually, about 50/50. His father is a high-ranking individual with a perfectly pureblood lineage, and his mother is a muggle with no wizard heritage whatsoever.

While he’s generally good at heart, there are many other Gryffindors who can’t stand him because he’s forever costing the house five points here, ten points there… he’s also brilliant at bending the rules, toeing the line between an upstanding student and a rebellious troublemaker.

He doesn’t really excel in any of his core classes, but he gets good enough grades that he’s never flunked out of any of them. When he gets into second year, he joins the Quidditch team as a beater, and as soon as he’s able to add it in, his extracurricular of choice is, of course, music. He still loves the violin more than anything.

Legend has it he once got transfigured something on a teacher’s desk (it could have been a pen, it could have been an apple, could have been a wand, whatever suits the story better) into a flask of whiskey. Without getting caught!

Ciel

Slytherin, natch, if only because he’s very shrewd and, if necessary, will do anything he needs to. Though his personality isn’t popular with a lot of the other students, even in his own house, everyone acknowledges that he’s actually a very good leader.

He’s definitely a pureblood, or at least he has so little muggle blood in his heritage that most people consider him so. Both of his parents were wizards, but there is some muggle blood a few generations back on his father’s side.

Curiously, he doesn’t care much about social standing or competitions or the like. That said, he still manages to earn Slytherin a lot of house points just by doing the things he’s good at and scoring exceptional marks on tests.

In his first year especially, he struggles with flying quite a bit, and he never really grows to be that skilled on a broom despite doing well enough to pass the class. What he lacks there, he makes up for in charms, and later, the study of ancient runes. He often needs a tutor in his other classes in the first year or two; in his later years, though, he becomes a tutor to younger students, especially for charm spells.

His housemates will vouch for the fact that he seems to get an awful lot of mail from his household back home. Some of it is letters. A lot of it is just candy… which he doesn’t even share!!

Clayton

This boy is a Ravenclaw through and through! He places a high value on intelligence and is here to learn as much as possible. The Sorting Hat seemed to mull over for a while whether he ought to go in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. He’s surprisingly popular with his housemates, probably for his great intellect and his cool, focused demeanor.

He’s a half-blood, though with more wizard heritage than muggle. His mother is a near-pureblood, with most of her ancestors being pureblood wizards, and his father is a half-blood, with most of his parents also being half-bloods.

A good percentage of Ravenclaw’s points come from him. He performs well on exams, is an excellent tutor to the first- and second-years, and, though he can certainly be sadistic, typically doesn’t act on it or do anything that might cost them points.

He starts out being one of the best students in potions ― and in his later years, graduates to being among the top three in alchemy. As he matures in his classes, he also elects to take magical theory, which goes on to eventually be his chosen area of study during his wizarding career.

There was a year wherein he dated every single one of Prefect Lawrence Bluewer’s sisters in succession. Depending on who you hear the story from, Lawrence either is still pissed, or gave Clayton his blessing. Either way, awkward.

Edward

Absolutely Gryffindor, as if there was ever any doubt! He was sorted in record time, and he’s the other side of Cheslock’s coin ― a gentleman who always does the right thing, who aims to serve, a courageous young man with the heart of a lion. (That said, however, he and Cheslock are very much close friends, so he often gets swept up in his housemate’s nonsense.)

He’s very close to being considered a pureblood, if most don’t already think of him that way. His mother is a pureblood, and his father is a half-blood who’s more wizard than muggle.

Is constantly trying to make up points that getting involved in Cheslock’s aforementioned shenanigans has cost Gryffindor. At the very least, Edward usually manages to break even, so it’s as if said tomfoolery never happened. Ah, he gets sick of it, but he keeps letting himself get dragged along!

He’s an absolute wiz at flying, (pun very much intended), and starting in his second year, he eventually becomes Gryffindor’s star chaser in Quidditch. He could well make a living doing that in professional leagues. Instead, he also focuses on academia; excelling in charms and defense against the dark arts. Reportedly he’s one of the very, very few who also enjoys the lectures on the history of magic.

The younger students say they’ve seen it for themselves that his wand is outfitted with a sort of false bottom that hides a plain knife. They all wonder why that kind of wand would have chosen a fellow like Edward, or indeed why it exists in the first place!

Joanne

He’s a Hufflepuff, and proud to be! Similarly to Edward, it didn’t take very long at all for him to be sorted. He’s on the shy side, especially for his first few years, but once he starts coming out of his shell, he makes a lot of friends… even in other houses! He still feels most comfortable around other Hufflepuffs, though. They just get him!

One of the handful of rare students who’s a full pureblood with very little, if any, discernible muggle blood in his heritage. Both of his parents are purebloods, which seems to surprise people, because despite his gentility, Joanne seems to struggle with the more intensive magical concepts.

He’s not all that concerned with points, because he’s pretty much just interested in his coursework. However, like Ciel, he tends to earn house points for Hufflepuff anyway simply due to the fact that he tests well, he’s always there to help someone if they need it, and he follows the rules.

It, er… takes him a while to get the hang of flying during his first year, and even then, he tends to stay off a broom if he can help it. His favorite of his core classes is herbology, and during later years, he absolutely blossoms when he starts studying the care of magical creatures. He’s just got such a soft spot for taking care of things. He’s also fond of arithmancy, which boggles people’s minds ― they think a difficult class like that would stress him out!

Whenever he can’t sleep, he often hangs out with the Friar. The two of them (along with possibly another Hufflepuff ghost or two) will just sit in one of the common rooms while Joanne reads, and sometimes the Friar will stay even after Joanne falls asleep in a chair.

Lizzie

Nobody better have anything bad to say about Hufflepuffs where she can hear it!! Unlike her brother, the Sorting Hat took a little bit with her, waffling between whether she would be a better fit for Hufflepuff or Gryffindor. Her undying loyalty, sweetness, and strength eventually got the choice made. Other houses might think them strange, but Lizzie is a very bubbly young lady and has made wonderful friends with nearly all her housemates!

Her similarities with Edward lie in their heritage. Most people think of her as just one step down from a full pureblood.

Although she doesn’t take competition too terribly seriously, she still wants to earn as many points as she can for her house. She’s very like Joanne in that she earns points by being very kind to everyone and helping where she can, and putting as much effort into her exams as possible.

Don’t let her petite stature and sweetness fool you ― she is a beast of a seeker once she works her way up there! Quidditch is just her hobby, though, as she much prefers charms and is shockingly very adept at potions. She also takes apparition lessons in her sixth year, and dabbles for a short time in divination. She also at least considers joining Joanne in the care of magical creatures, even if she might not end up doing it.

The fact that she’s dating Ciel, a Slytherin who is seemingly her opposite, is just incomprehensible to most people. There are those who say he must have slipped her a love potion or done some other spell on her. These rumors, however, are untrue. She simply adores Ciel, and that is all there is to it.

Soma

Many of his classmates are stumped as to why a prince was sorted into Hufflepuff! Then… they meet him, and it all makes sense. He’s made of sunshine and is astonishingly devoted to anyone he decides is his friend. And, well, he sort of attaches himself like that to everybody. Strange, everybody thinks? Maybe… but these are his people!!

He’s a half-blood, with a bit more wizard blood than muggle. His father is actually not pureblood; instead, his father is a muggle whose parents were both half-bloods, and it’s Soma’s mother who is a near-pureblood, a witch whose parents are a half-blood and a pureblood.

He’s rather unconcerned with the house points, preferring to concentrate on everything he can learn in his classes. There’s so much he doesn’t know! He often costs Hufflepuff points with some oblivious behavior, as well as his exam scores not being the best, but he also often earns just as many points with kind behavior toward other students.

He enjoys his astronomy class in particular, and seems to do very well in herbology even though it’s not his favorite. He joins Edward in being thoroughly fascinated by the history of magic. He also loves transfiguration, consistently getting the highest marks in that class. It might surprise everyone that he takes muggle studies as an elective ― that interests him too, okay! In later years he’ll probably need a lot of counseling to figure out what he wants to focus his attention on.

His friend and protector Agni literally kind of followed him to school because their bond is so strong. Agni’s a half-blood who works in the kitchen at Hogwarts, and lives on the grounds, so whenever Soma needs him, he’s there. Soma loves this! All his friends in one place!

#Black Butler #Kuroshitsuji #Hogwarts AU #Cheslock #Ciel #Clayton #Edward #Joanne #Lizzie #Soma #headcanons #AU #wow this was a lot of fun heck!!!!!#IT GETTED SO LONG oops #queued

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thegreatantonchekhov · 4 years

Text

Love

By Anton Chekhov

Translated by Constance Garnett

“THREE o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy!

“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now -- I haven’t the time, I’m too lazy, and there -- hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”

This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one’s study and communes with one’s own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one’s window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.

It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one’s hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between.

If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings.

I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.

Well, to facts.... Next morning at midday, Sasha’s maid brought me the following answer: “I am delited be sure to come to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S.”

Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word “delighted,” the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha’s walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips.... But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha’s house to wait till it should occur to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one’s raptures simply because of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is.

Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don’t like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound -- if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush!... The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper.

From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows.... There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is “the real thing” or not?

From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one’s bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac’s words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.

“Please collect old stamps for me!” she said, making a grave face. “Please do.”

Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it.

“Why don’t you stick little labels on the backs of your books?” she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.

“What for?”

“Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I’ve got books too, you know.”

“What books have you got?” I asked.

Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said:

“All sorts.”

And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: “All sorts.”

Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can’t be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have mentioned above.

Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles’ worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one’s feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha’s little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object.

“Wait, wait, I shan’t be a minute,” she would say when I raised imploring eyes to her. “Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!”

And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol.

“Oh, we are going to the Arcade,” she would say. “We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat.”

My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble’s worth.

When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on.

Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I’m glad it’s over.

Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching something noisily. I want a glass of beer.

“Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . .” I say. “It’s lying about somewhere.”

Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence.... Five minutes pass -- ten. . . I begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation.

“Sasha, do look for the corkscrew,” I say.

Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other.... I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling me something at great length.

“You’d better read something, Sasha,” I say.

She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips.... I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought.

“She is getting on for twenty. . . .” I reflect. “If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence.”

But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though Sasha’s mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don’t know.

NOTES

Lovelace: Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) was an English poet

#Chekhov

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dvp95 · 5 years

Text

quiet on widow’s peak (1)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, youtuber phil lester, dan howell is not a youtuber, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter & total) summary: Phil's got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story. Bingo squares: met on tumblr

new wip? NEW WIP.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

The wind is loud in this one. That's frustrating, and it makes Phil's job a lot harder, but he can't control the weather. Be cool if he could. He does his best to level out his voice and the background noise of Mother Nature before he settles in with his good headphones and really cranks the volume.

It's even more annoying to listen to the alternating crackle and whistle right in his ears. Phil has dealt with worse during this whole process, though, so he finds the strength to power through it. He listens to the full thing three times, scribbling a few timestamps down on a Post-It pad as he does. He takes a break after that, does some stretches around his tiny bedroom and tiptoes out to get a snack without waking the whole damn house, and then he's right back in his apparently ergonomic office chair to subject his ears to more of this nonsense.

Wind, wind, and more wind. And sometimes just Phil's own voice. Nothing of note.

Phil is about to give this video up as a loss altogether when he hits one of the final timestamps and... can't figure out what that noise is.

For the first time since he opened this file, Phil grins. He exports the clip and plays around with it in Audacity. Some videos are always more fun than others, and Phil had felt like he was slogging through this one until now.

"Do you hear that, Theodore?" Phil murmurs. The tiny cactus on his desk, thankfully, does not respond.

It sounds like a person. It sounds like a person, whispering, and it definitely isn't the wind, and it isn't Phil's own voice, because he's in the middle of a question in this clip.

Phil might just be going crazy from sleep deprivation or wishful thinking, though. He pulls out his phone and texts the only group chat that doesn't cause him anxiety, which is comprised of the housemates that he actually gets along with. Anyone up? he asks, adding a single eye emoji for good measure.

Even though it's gone two in the morning, he gets immediate responses from all of them. A string of vaguely dirty emojis from Chris, a simple yeah from Sophie, and a cheerfully morbid did you know that insomnia leads to an early death? from PJ.

Wanna listen to a noise for me?

Within three minutes, Phil's bedroom is full of people in various states of sleepiness. All of them are in ridiculous pyjamas - including Phil - and PJ's hair in particular has taken on a mind of its own. Phil's room isn't really big enough for all of them, so there's some awkward shuffling before PJ claims the office chair. Phil sits at the foot of his bed with Sophie and Chris on either side of him, pressed close against each other's shoulders. It's a good thing he likes these people.

"I mean, it isn't the wind," is PJ's confident opinion. "Did you have anyone with you?"

"No, it's just me and my camera against the world," says Phil.

"No need to be a twat," Chris informs him. He taps at PJ's upper arm, impatient. "Let me have a go, then, if there's something there."

Chris is famously bad at hearing things in white noise, but PJ acquiesces the seat easily enough. Phil laughs, watching them do a weird step dance around each other in the small space between Phil's bed and desk.

"I can't hear any specific words," PJ says as he flops down across Phil's pillows, making himself comfortable. Phil just nods, because neither can he.

"How d'you know it's a person, then?" Sophie asks. Her voice is probably the only one soft enough for the hour. Their other housemates hate them for their frequent all-nighters, but Sophie is kind and quiet enough that she slips under the radar.

"You'll see for yourself."

When Sophie goes to respond, Chris interrupts in a hilariously loud voice, as if he's forgotten that having headphones on doesn't mean they can't hear him. "It's some kind of ghoulie or ghostie! I can barely fucking hear it, Philly, why didn't you mic it?"

"Why didn't I mic the ghost?" Phil asks, bewildered. Naturally, Chris doesn't hear him.

Sophie taps Chris on the shoulder and stands, leaning over his shoulder as she takes her turn listening to the sound clip over and over. Chris spins in the chair a few times and gives Phil an unhinged sort of grin.

"You got something this time," says Chris. He sounds like he's having just as much fun as Phil is, now that there's actually a thing to listen to besides his own voice and the loud, loud wind.

"I think so," says Phil. "Why didn't I mic the ghost?"

"I'm saying it would make your job a lot easier if you mic the ghost, yes."

"If I could mic a ghost, I'd be a millionaire."

"Then you better get on it, eh?" Chris laughs, spinning a bit faster. Phil has never seen the man sleep. It's a little bit worrying.

"Sure," Phil says, giving up on trying to teach any logic to someone who's clearly long lost their hold on it. "Next time I spend all night in a graveyard, I'll mic any spirits that might be hanging out."

"Shut up," Sophie tells them, mild.

Chris mimes zipping his lips, wrapping an easy arm around her waist, and PJ laughs.

For the first few months they all lived together, Phil had struggled to keep up with whatever dynamics were going on between the three of them, but he's long since given it up as something he's not going to understand.

After a moment of quiet, Sophie nods. "I hear it," she tells them. Even with the headphones on, she's quiet. "It's not words, I wouldn't put any subtitles over it."

"Yeah," PJ agrees. "Just let your audience duke it out in the comments like they always do."

"Thanks, guys," Phil says, feeling a sort of warmth sink into his shoulders. He notices that Chris is pulling up another application and half-heartedly protests. "Chris, you don't need to edit this one for me. I still haven't paid you for the last video." Or the one before that. Or the three or four previous. Phil has it written down somewhere.

"Don't be stupid," Chris hums, already clicking around erratically. It makes the editor in Phil want to scream, but he has to admit that Chris manages to find more weird visual stuff to isolate than he could on his own.

"I feel bad," says Phil, chewing his lip.

"I've told you," says Chris, "you can pay me back in chores and sexual favours."

PJ's slippered foot knocks against Phil's hip, and he grins brightly when Phil turns to him. "You know, I do have a bit of a laundry backlog."

"Funny thing, that," says Sophie.

Biting back a laugh, Phil shakes his head. "Alright, alright. Everybody leave their laundry in front of my door tomorrow."

"That's a no on the beej, then?" Chris asks, raising a single eyebrow and pointing dramatically at Phil. It has been near two years of this, and Phil is still too afraid to ask if it's a joke.

It's not as if Phil's answer would change if it wasn't a joke, because he's not interested in Chris, and he's especially not interested in becoming entangled in whatever nonsense his housemates have gotten themselves into. But, still, he might be kinder about letting Chris down if he were being genuine.

"That is a no," Phil confirms. "But I will wash your pants."

"Kinky," says Chris. He turns back to the screen and makes an incomprehensible hand gesture. "This is pretty shit. You know that, right?"

Yeah. Phil does know that. It's getting harder and harder to have the same optimism in every video that he'd had when he first started recording his wanderings around the supposedly-haunted places of Rossendale. He'd brought the camera with him when he left, but might have left that optimism behind. Phil only kind of believes in supernatural things - the way he only kind of believes in giraffes or true love - but it's been more fun than anything else to pick up a camera and try to find some evidence.

He's been doing this since he was nineteen, though, and he's getting a little bored by the formula of it all. Go into a haunted place, try to communicate with the spirits, pick up some garbled words or creepy noises, highlight visual oddities like orbs, and let the internet tear it all to shreds. Honestly, he'd have more fun making proper horror at this point in his life.

Phil shrugs and pulls his knees up to his chest. He wants to hide away from the sympathy in Sophie's eyes, from Chris' blunt words. "Yeah. I'm getting kind of... I don't know. Restless."

"Maybe you should ask people to submit things again," PJ suggests. "That went well last time."

It had, actually. Phil had needed to sort through a lot more ridiculous stories and obvious hoaxes than usual, but he'd found some nuggets of gold in all that hay. Or however that saying goes.

"People did like having their stories read out," Phil says slowly. "I'd just need to be extra sure that nobody's, like..."

"Ripping off r/NoSleep," says PJ.

"Yeah, exactly."

"We can help," Sophie says, and Phil could cry at how easily PJ and Chris agree with her.

He really doesn't deserve to have such great people around him. They've got work and lives of their own, but they're always happy to spend time crowded around Phil's computer listening to weird noises together. Phil sometimes wonders what they get out of it. Do they just like helping him, the way he has fun holding the boom for PJ's films or testing Sophie's concoctions? Or are they just as fascinated as Phil by the weirdness of it all? Do they want to see the cool instances of paranormal activity, too? At this point it feels nearly impossible to ask.

"That's going to be a lot of washing pants for me," Phil sighs. He doesn't know how to thank them, not when they always just wave it off.

"Sure is," says PJ. "But you should... ask the audience!"

"Your Chris Tarrant is pretty good," says Phil, only a little surprised by it. PJ's voice is as much of a tool to him as the rest of his body, and it's one he's always been skilled with. The impressions still tend to catch Phil off guard sometimes.

PJ tips an invisible hat. "Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week."

At his friends' not so gentle encouragement, Phil makes a few posts on his socials to ask his followers for new creepy things to explore. It might be the middle of the night in Brighton, but he has a feeling that Chris isn't leaving his desk until he's found every instance of an orb or strange shadow in the fifty minutes of currently uncut footage.

It seems like Sophie is on the same page, because she excuses herself to make tea for everyone. PJ leans over Chris' shoulder and watches the clips without sound, his lips moving as if he's murmuring to himself.

Sometimes this feels more like a group effort than Phil is comfortable with. He's never been very good at asking for help. As grateful as he is, he still itches with the need to take back control of the situation. He uses the slow trickle of fan submissions to distract him from that feeling, because all three of them do make his videos better when he stops being so possessive over his footage. Phil flops onto his back and scrolls through the incoming emails, tweets, and Tumblr messages to see if there's anything promising.

For the most part, the answer is a resounding no. Some things are blatant lies - there are countless ripoffs of films or novels that Phil happens to be familiar with, a few things swiped from creepypasta or subreddits, and his usual amount of conspiracy theorist fans insisting that some high profile person or other is a lizard - but most of it, to Phil's dismay, just doesn't grab his attention the way he wants it to.

Sophie comes back with tea and snacks. She leans her head against Phil's shoulder and watches him cycle through his apps, fact-checking idly and sighing every time something easily proves to be a hoax. Her hair smells like coconut and she makes a soft humming noise every time she lifts the mug to her lips. Her presence alone, small and warm and supportive, is enough to keep Phil from throwing his phone across the room and having a right sulk about how his career is in a tailspin because nobody makes ghosts like they used to. At some point in the night, Sophie's breathing evens out to the point that Phil thinks she's asleep, but then she reaches out to tap a tiny finger to his screen.

"What's this, then?" she murmurs.

Phil has been zoned out entirely for at least fifteen, and he blinks back into reality. There's a new message in his Tumblr inbox, one that seems like it must be over the character limit for asks. He must have submissions turned on or something, that's the only possible explanation for an actual essay being sent to him. It's barely broken into paragraphs with very little punctuation and no capitalization, and Phil has been staring at screens for far too long to try and parse this on his own.

"Can you please make sure this isn't, like, the entire Bee Movie," Phil asks, handing Sophie his phone with only a slight twinge of anxiety. He trusts her not to go snooping, but. Still. "I need to pee."

"Mhm," Sophie hums, already apparently lost in whatever stream-of-consciousness has been dropped into Phil's inbox.

The floorboards in this old Brighton house creak, and Phil has always envied some of his housemates for being able to sidestep the noises. It doesn't seem to matter how long he lives here, how much he tries to avoid making any noise, it's like the floorboards are determined to creak under Phil's weight. He winces as he passes two bedrooms whose occupants surely don't appreciate creaking outside their doors at such an ungodly hour.

At least he doesn't run into any walls this time. The nightlight in the bathroom at the end of the hall is the only thing lighting Phil's way, and he tends to stub his toes on absolutely nothing in this kind of semi-darkness.

When he makes his - very, very creaky - way back to his own room, he's bewildered by the scene that greets him. PJ and Chris have joined Sophie on his bed, and all three of them are poring over Phil's phone as though they're looking at a map to the Holy Grail.

"Hello," Phil says slowly, closing the door behind him. It creaks, too. "You aren't going through my pictures, are you?"

"No," Sophie and PJ chorus without looking up.

"You got nudes on here or something?" Chris asks with a mild sort of interest, clearly also too engaged in Phil's phone to put his all into the flirting.

"I don't," says Phil. It doesn't sound convincing, even though it's true, and he waits for Chris to tease him about it some more. When he doesn't, Phil has to admit that he's curious. "So I guess it isn't a meme or something?"

That makes them look up, in almost comedic synchronicity. Sophie blinks a few times, as if she's coming back to herself. She holds out Phil's phone and shakes her head.

"It's not a meme," she says. "And near as we can tell, it's genuine."

Phil joins them and takes his phone back, adjusting his glasses. His bed really wasn't made for four people, but his housemates have never had any personal space amongst themselves, and Phil isn't one to say no to human contact when he isn't getting it anywhere else.

The message is just as hard to read as it was at first glance, but Phil puts his brain to work. If his friends are reacting like this, it usually means he's in for something good.

hi ok so the thing is that this is completely ridiculous and i dont think its what youre looking for at all but theres a building near my uni thats got a ton of stories around it and it only started happening like this year like it isnt an old obviously haunted type of place but theres a lot of weird shit that goes down there so i found all the references to it online that i could and ive summarized them here (w/ sources ofc im not a dick) and its all just this side of strange so it seems like the sort of thing you might be interested in ok here we go SO

And it goes on like that. Phil feels his eyebrows raising as he clicks the provided links in the following walls of text, which are exactly what they're advertised as. Not a single rickroll in there. Just a handful of posts on Reddit and Facebook and independent blogs about various experiences people have had with a particular abandoned building in -

"I know this place," Phil says, surprised. He looks up at PJ's grin, Sophie's wide eyes, Chris' palms rubbing together in exaggerated interest. "I've been to parties here. Well, okay," he corrects himself before his friends can do it for him, "I've gone with Martyn to parties here and left early."

"Yeah, it isn't far out of Manchester," PJ hums. He bounces in place a bit, like he's suddenly energized enough to go jump on the soonest train up north.

"It didn't seem that weird," says Phil. "It's been a few years, I guess, but it wasn't even that scary."

"Sounds like it's only just started, though," Chris pipes up.

Phil isn't sure how much he likes that. The idea of a place he's been a few times, half an hour from his childhood home, being so suddenly full of haunted activity feels... weird. Still, it's catching his interest in a way that nothing else has in months, so.

"I'll look into it some more tomorrow," he decides, glancing at the time. His brother is probably still awake, to be honest, but Phil doesn't want to be that guy asking 'hey, do you remember the Wilkins place?' before dawn has even broken. Again. He has definitely done that sort of thing in the past. "I'll have plenty of time while I do, what, seventeen loads of laundry?"

"Something like that," PJ laughs. "Want us to clear out?"

As nice as the company and help has been, Phil still feels a rush of relief at the concept of being left alone again. He nods, still scrolling idly through the Wilkins place submission.

It hits him, very literally, too close to home to ignore. He wonders if his fan knows that, if this is somehow an elaborate prank that will end up just wasting Phil's time, but he's too curious to leave it alone. He'll just have to ask around, see if anyone else has heard these murmurings.

Til then, maybe he ought to try and get some sleep. Phil's computer, still open on the editing software, tempts him.

Well. What's another couple hours at this point?

#phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #words words words #qowp..... mayhaps i made a mistake w this title......#quiet on widow's peak #YES it's another marianas title what are you the marianas title police?#bingo

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frumfrumfroo · 5 years

Note

I enjoy your posts so much, they’ve given me a lot of hope and a new perspective towards SW, and I’d hate to think this hellish fandom ever made you sad or angry. Please don’t mind the antis trying to bait or stoke fear, the wank has been at a near-peak lately.

I find the kind of anti nonsense I get in my inbox more funny than anything else, but it does get pretty depressing seeing the grim philosophies and wilful incomprehension coming from all sides. Sometimes I have to go outdoors for a while and stare into the middle distance. The genuine refusal (or inability) to meet the text on its own terms is the one that frustrates me most. I’ve gotten the same basic question quite a few times, where someone asks ‘how can so many neutral people have takes that are so bad if it’s all that simple?’ and I’ve answered it in a couple different ways with regards to the specifics.

But the real answer, imo, is that we have to accept loads of people are terrible readers and haven’t ever engaged enough to decipher even the basic language of cinema or storytelling. Loads of people (especially in fandom) have entirely the wrong priorities as a viewer to actually pick up on what a story is saying until the ending makes it undeniable and explicit. There’s just always going to be weird-ass takes of everything and it’s always going to seem more widespread than it is because a)the internet amplifies platforms based on trendiness not coherence and b)your brain notices novelty. For example, if you watch this narrative music video and then scroll down to the comments, you can check out the seemingly staggering number of people who have no clue what the story was, the relationships between any of the characters, or what happened. This is always the case, there are always people who don’t get it or somehow get the exact opposite message of what a work intended. You can never reach everyone no matter how clear or simple your theme- and that is amplified a billion times when Literally Everyone has an opinion about your story because it’s one of the biggest franchises of all time. And it has a tonne of baggage from the entrenched fanbase, much of which has priorities incompatible with the original text and has been doing transformative work of their own for decades without the check of canon.

But internet comments are not a representative sample. Fandom is really not a representative sample. People who post comments are, statistically speaking, freaks. People in fandom usually have esoteric priorities very different than those of a casual, passive viewer and it sometimes creates strange bias which gets in the way of seeing what the story was actually about. The vast majority of the audience (who mostly don’t comment) understood just fine, enjoyed the thing, and went on with their life.

#I am real fucking burnt out on the Usual Bullshit this week #mostly because I feel like I've said it all before months ago #and what's the point of saying it again when the cycle will repeat in a few weeks #but every once in a while I get an ask like this where someone says it's actually meant something to them and that is wonderful #it's normal not to look at things critically or to ask storytelling questions btw #that is absolutely fine #it's just if you want to speak on what something is About or speculate on where it's going- you have to engage the text on its own terms #you have to think critically #if you want what you're saying to have any validity #the author is not dead if you are trying to predict what the author is going to do next #even if the author IS dead- the text is never dead #you can't ignore it and make up your own story and then act shocked when reality fails to conform to your fanfic #ignoring shit in canon is 100% fine and I support you but you need to acknowledge what canon actually is if you're going to participate #'canon is saying this and I don't agree' is perfectly valid #'I don't agree therefore canon cannot possibly be saying this' is not #'canon broke its promises and this ending is bullshit' is also entirely valid as long as the promises you speak of were EVER MADE #but canon never promised them the crap they are demanding- in fact the crap they are demanding is entirely inappropriate for this canon #so it's on them that they're disappointed #stories tell you straight up what expectations you should have #this is where being a bad reader comes into it #this is where I think it is their own fault #if it were a badly written mess that led them on then it's canon's fault but that did not happen here

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knowyourincantations · 6 years

Text

Third Time Lucky (Pansy/Parvati)

For Femslash February 2019 Day 10, using the prompt from this list, ‘Waiting’.

Pansy/Parvati (Parvansy) | Teen & Up | 1,511 words | EWE, Post Hogwarts, Established Relationship, Waiting, Adoption, Emotional, Happy Ending

(AO3 Link | My Other FemslashFeb2019 works: AO3 | Tumblr)

“If you don’t stop pacing and sit down, I’ll bind your bloody legs together,” Pansy hissed.

Parvati snorted. “Sure, because your nerves never effect your magic.”

A direct challenge could not be ignored, but before Pansy could grab her wand from the coffee table, Parvati sat down beside her on the sofa with a loud sigh.

“We should have heard by now,” she said weakly.

Pansy counted to ten. She felt the same, but one of them had to keep a cool head. All things considered, she couldn’t believe it was on her to be calm about this.

“Nonsense,” she said. “They said around four, not exactly four. It’s only quarter past. Something might have come up that has nothing to do with—”

“If this falls through, I don’t think I can try again,” Parvati whispered covering her face with her hands.

Pansy’s stomach dropped. “No. You can’t cry. If you cry then I’ll cry, and who the bloody hell will talk to Meryl if we’re both blubbering messes? Pull yourself together!”

With a slight shudder, Parvati sniffed and straightened her back. She wiped at her eyes but she wasn’t crying. Not yet. Pansy forced herself to breathe evenly. Crisis averted.

Parvati cleared her throat and shifted the vase of flowers on the table a little to the left. It put it off-centre, but then she just pushed it back. When she looked at Pansy again, she seemed to have recovered.

“I love you so much, you know that right?” she said softly.

The dropping sensation in Pansy’s belly turned into a twisting one instead. Four years and she still wasn’t used to these open declarations.

“I know you could have done without all this,” Parvati continued. “I wouldn’t have pushed you, so I can’t...that you’ve been working so hard to make this happen for me...I can’t...”

Heat rushed to Pansy’s face. Bloody buggering hell. She was about to start crying if Parvati went on like that again.

“Where the bloody hell is Meryl?” she hissed, shuffling a little closer to Parvati on the sofa, taking one of her hands and refusing to look at her. She’d cry. Big ugly tears. Four years hadn’t cured her of that reaction every time Parvati got emotional about how much she loved her. “Who misses an appointment by over fifteen minutes? No manners! No professionalism!”

“The waiting is murder,” Parvati moaned, sagging sideways until her head rested on Pansy’s shoulder. “I thought the last two times were bad, this is just...and the fact you’re still trying so hard to make it happen when you don’t even really want—”

“It’s not that I don’t want it,” Pansy interrupted. Really, Parvati was so dramatic about everything and yet everyone called Pansy the dramatic one. “It’s just that it’s not something I spent a lot of time thinking about like you have. I’m not against it. I just could have waited longer. But you, love, you’ve wanted this for years. And who the hell am I to deny you anything? After everything you’ve...oh, damn you, I will not cry!”

She pressed the heel of her free hand to one of her eyes. A tear still slipped free of the other one but she hastily wiped it away.

Really, Meryl could floo in at any moment and Pansy would not cry in front of her. Not even if it all fell through again. Parvati was the only one she’d let see her cry, and usually the only bloody reason she ever cried in the first place.

Parvati sniffed loudly and Pansy considered pushing her off the couch to derail her maudlin train of thought. But then she might hit the coffee table, and that would knock over the vase and then there would be water and flowers everywhere and Meryl couldn’t see that.

The waiting really was torture.

“Maybe I should floo the office and see what the delay is,” she said slowly. “It really would be better to know now instead of continuing to wait like this.”

But she’d barely thought of actually moving when the fireplace chimed. Parvati went rigid against her and Pansy scrambled for her wand to open the gate.

With a bright flare of green, Meryl stepped through the grate.

“I’m so sorry for the delay, ladies. There was an urgent case requiring a few of us to put our heads together!” she said, dusting off her robes and starting to rifle through a satchel.

Parvati’s hand become a sharply clawed thing in Pansy’s, but the pain kept her calm and focused.

“I hope who ever it was is okay,” she said politely, even though she wanted to vault over the coffee table and tear the bag from Meryl’s hands to find the document herself. Bloody hell, that would be a memory worth preserving in a Pensieve.

“Oh, the poor little tyke will be soon, already on his way to a temporary placement,” Meryl said, still digging in her satchel before pulling a folder free with a triumphant flourish. “Right then, I won’t waste time.”

Parvati made a weak sound and Pansy had to bite her lip hard not to do the same.

Meryl looked at them, smiling warmly. “They signed everything.”

With a soft inhale, Parvati lifted a hand to her mouth.

“Everything?” Pansy asked, past caring that her voice was wobbling. “No missing sections? No arguments to the terms? The complete forfeit of parental rights?”

“Yes, dear. Now, we’ve been through this a few times, so I’ll save you the time and not repeat everything I would normally say at this point. But I will just say that since I obtained your signatures first, this document was official as of about an hour ago when they signed it and I sent a copy through to be archived.”

Parvati gasped and then sobbed, shaking her head when she failed to speak.

Meryl didn’t seem surprised, and placed the folder on the coffee table. Pansy stared at it but couldn’t bear to touch it in case it wasn’t true.

“Since I know you’re more than prepared from our meeting last week, all that remains is to pick a time.”

“Now!” Parvati gasped. “We’re ready now!”

Pansy swallowed down a sob from all that Parvati’s voice gave away. She was all naked emotion. Joy but still fear of things changing. It wouldn’t be the first time things had changed at the last minute. But if everything was signed properly, the chances of that were now negligible.

“What she means is, we’re ready and the soonest time suits us,” she said carefully, her own voice wobbling.

Meryl smiled at them. “How does eight tomorrow morning sound? If the room is the same as I last saw it, I know you are ready tonight, but lets give you tonight to let it sink in, we wouldn’t want to overwhelm him too terribly on his first day with you.”

Parvati said something but it was incomprehensible through her sobbing. Pansy’s vision was getting rather blurry, but she managed to nod and agree without too much difficulty.

“Congratulations, dears,” Meryl said as she shouldered her satchel again. “I’m so happy for you, but I’ll leave you to celebrate. Do owl me if you have any questions, I’ll be on call for you all night if you need me, otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

The next few moments were a blur. Pansy was sure she said more, but then Meryl was gone in another flare of green and Parvati’s arms were trying to choke the life out of her.

“We’re going to be mums!” Parvati wailed.

Pansy’s lip wobbled. Two failures, she hadn’t really expected this one to go through. She couldn’t break Parvati’s grip on her, so they both nearly fell off the couch when she leaned over to grab the folder.

It was hard with read with blurry eyes, and no amount of wiping at them made a difference, because sod it all, she couldn’t have stopped herself from crying right now if her life depended on it. Not with the way Parvati was, not while knowing how much it meant to her to finally succeed in adopting a child. Not with the feeling blossoming in her own chest after she’d fought so hard to not get too invested in the idea after two failures.

In the end, she’d thought she might hate this moment and change her mind about everything, but that couldn’t be more different than the feeling trying to burst out of her chest.

But still, flicking through the pages, all the signature lines bore ridiculous flourishes that she could see even through such blurry eyes. Any lingering doubts faded away. It was real. It was really happening.

The folder fell from her hands and she gave up on any lingering scraps of self control she had.

“We’re going to be mums!” she cried, turning properly in Parvati’s death grip until she could press her face to her hair and let it soak up her tears.

#parvansy #slytherdornet #hprarepairnet #femslashfeb2019 #hp femslash #hp wlw #pansy x parvati #parvati x pansy #pansy parkinson #parvati patil #harry potter #my fanfic #*#wlw

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traya-sutton · 6 years

Text

February Blues

I love this concept but like, i think i executed it poorly and wrote choppily and could have added more scenes but im posting it so... yeah.

Happy hannukah Sam!

Gift for: @timdrakeothy

Prompt: Maybe something with Kon

ao3 masterlist

Kon sneezed. A big, earth-quaking, breaking the sound barrier, Dad-like sneeze. So loud it startled Greta out of the air and actually made Bart look up from his video game.

“Was that a gunshot?” Cassie asked as she walked into the room.

Kon scowled at all of his friends. “It wasn’t that loud.”

“You sound like my Dad, mon.” Anita smirked. “You’d fit right in with him and Uncle Ish.”

“Are you getting sick?” Bart asked curiously.

“Don’t be stupid. I can’t get sick. I’m Kryptonian.”

“Superman doesn’t get sick?” Greta asked.

Everyone turned to Robin who was flipping through a magazine. “What?”

“Well, you know Superman best.”

“You’re his clone.”

“Yeah, and I see him at most once a month. And then it’s just ‘Oh hey, Kon, why don’t you take Parasite over to Iron Gates for me?’ or ‘Hey do you mind helping me out with the Terror Twins? I need to get this deadline done by tonight.’”

Everyone turned back to Robin. Robin just shrugged. “I’ve never seen him get sick.”

“Then clearly, I’m not getting sick either.” Kon snapped. Then he sneezed again. Another giant, sea-parting sneeze.

“You’re sick.” His teammates chorused. Even Slobo, who was so rarely willing to participate in other people’s lives.

Kon stuck his tongue out. “’M not sick!” He grumbled then sat next to Bart on the couch.

Bart scooted away from him. Kon gave his friend a look. “What? I don’t want to get sick!”

“I’m not- Oh whatever.” Kon grumbled. Then, he sneezed a third time. This was going to get annoying.

“Where’s Kon? Wendy’s on. He never misses it.” Cissie said with a frown.

“You in this ep?” Cassie asked, taking the popcorn from Slobo despite his arguments. “It’s for everyone.”

Slobo chewed loudly with his mouth open in her direction.

“Yeah. It’s the one where Skye finds out-”

“Shh! Spoilers!” Greta hissed, settling down next to Bart.

“This is ridiculous, he’s going to miss the episode.” Robin grumbled. “I’m going to get him.”

Robin marched through the hotel until he reached Kon’s room. A SuperboyTM brand S sticker pasted onto the door loudly declared it to be Kon’s domain. And right under was a sticker of Wendy herself.

Robin knocked on the door. “C’mon man, show’s starting in a little.”

No answer.

Robin didn’t want to just walk in. Kon hadn’t come out of his room all day, and usually that meant that he wasn’t to be… disturbed. But this was Wendy, and Cissie was right: Kon never missed an episode. So he knocked again. “Dude, open up.”

Still, all that came to him was silence.

Robin gripped the handle, and slowly, but surely, swung open the door.

At first, Robin thought that Kon himself must not be in the room, and then he saw the bundle of blankets on Kon’s bed rise and fall in a breathing pattern and loud snoring. Robin rolled his eyes behind his mask and walked over to the bed. “Kon, get up.”

What was Kon doing sleeping this late? Usually he was up with the-well, with the sun.

Oh. Oh no way. It couldn’t be. Uh-uh.

Robin narrowed his eyes.

He’d hold off judgment on his screw-ball theory. At least, until it gained more proof.

Robin stalked over to the bed and whipped off the covers. Kon was curled up on the bed in Wonder Woman footie-pajamas. His arms wrapped tightly around a Wendy body pillow.

Robin pushed Kon.

“Kon… Wake up...”

Kon made a nonsense noise and blinked his eyes open blearily. The whites of his irises were bloodshot, his tanned face was bright red, and his nose was running. Robin could hear his congested breathing from four feet away.

“You don’t look so good.”

Kon grumbled something that sounded distinctly like a swearword.

“Shut up and sit still.” Robin responded. He sat down and leaned down to Kon’s forehead to kiss it to check for a fever.

Yep. He’s burning up.

When he pulled back, Kon’s gummed up eyes were as wide as they could go. “What’d you do tha’ for?” He slurred.

“It’s how you check for a fever.” Robin told him. “And you’ve got one.”

“’M not sick.” He grumbled. Kon sat up and then grabbed at his head with one hand and at Robin’s shoulder with the other. “Woah. Is the world supposed to be spinning like that?”

“Okay.” Robin said, gently ushering Kon back into a horizontal position on the bed. “You’re going back to bed and I’m going to get you some cold medicine.”

“But I’m a Kryptonian. We don’t get human sicknesses.” Kon protested weakly.

“What? Are ours not good enough for you?” Robin joked.

Kon was too sick to respond in any way other than giving Robin a particular bird. Robin returned it with a sickly sweet smile.

Robin closed the door behind him but as he could hear from where he was, the all-powerful, invincible Superboy has fallen back asleep.

“Take your medicine, Kon.” Anita said, shoving the liquid cough syrup in his face.

“No! It’s gross! And I don’t need it!” Kon grumbled, but his argument was almost incomprehensible because he was so congested. “Because-”

“You’re not sick.” His teammates chorused.

“Honestly, I never thought I’d miss you saying ‘tactile telekinesis’.” Ray said.

“Kon.” Cissie snapped. “Take your medicine or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

“Make me.”

Cissie began to roll up her sleeves. “Cissie, no-!” Greta cried.

Traya rolled her eyes. She climbed up onto the bed next to Kon. He was swaddled in all the blankets they could find in attempt to sweat out the fever, but so far Kon was still sick. She took the medicine from Anita and held out a measured spoonful of it.

“Come on, please Kon.” Traya asked, turning up the puppy dog eyes.

Kon scowled. “Fine.”

“Yes! Everybody pay up!” Slobo crowed.

Kon turned to tell him off but was interrupted as Traya shoved the medicine into his mouth. Kon was about to say something mean and then remembered how young Traya was and stopped himself.

“It tastes icky.” Kon complained once Traya had removed the spoon. But he did definitely sound better already.

Traya read the label. “It says another spoonful in two hours. Has Robin come back with that soup, yet?”

Cassie shook her head. “He said he’d be back in half an hour or so.”

“’M not sick. Don’t want soup.” Kon grumbled, sliding further under the thick covers of his bed. He then hacked out a wet cough, expertly coughed it into a wastebasket next to him.

“Riight.” Cassie said, shaking her head.

Kon yawned. “Sleepy...”

“Come on guys. He’ll only heal if he gets his rest.” Greta said quietly. The team shuffled out, and Ray, the last out the door, turned off the light, letting Kon sink into sleep in the dark.

Kon had been sick for a week. Even the best chicken soup in the world, or so Robin claimed, had done nothing but bring down his fever. Bart assumed he was right because Robin usually was about these things. Lots of research would go into his claims Bart had learned. Still, Kon hacked and coughed like someone who’d been smoking for thirty years. Still, Kon blew his nose and sneezed with sounds like earthquakes and gunshots. Kon couldn’t even leave on missions, he was so weak and tired. But hey, at least his fever had gone down.

And his fever wasn’t the only thing that was down, Kon was too. He moped all the time. Kicking his feet, padding around the hotel in his Wonder Woman pajamas sad and pouting.

It was starting to get on Greta’s nerves. Greta’s.

“It’s all the time! Just moaning and groaning and hacking and coughing! Doesn’t he have anywhere else he can go?” She whined to Robin.

Oh. Oh. Robin’s eyes widened behind his mask. Could it be… It had been a while since he’d thought of his theory behind Kon’s sickness. Could it be…?

No...

“Soo… Kon. How you doing?”

Kon slithered up and poked his head out from under his quilt. He frowned and stuck a singular hand out into the cold air, grabbed a handful of tissues, slithered back under the blankets, blew his nose, and then tossed it out and into the garbage can next to the bed.

Robin whistled appreciatively. “Two points.”

Kon grumbled something that Robin couldn’t understand.

“Kon. Gonna come out and talk to me?”

“No.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll talk to you.” Robin turned and sat on the side of Kon’s bed. He could hear Kon behind him breathing. “I think I know why you’re so sick lately and such a grouch.”

Kon’s head shot out from under his blanket so fast Robin almost fell off of the bed. “Really? So I’m not like, a broken Kryptonian?”

“Just answer my questions.”

“Okay.”

“When was the last time you left the hotel? Like, went out to do something that wasn’t a mission.”

Kon opened his mouth and then closed it. “Does coming here from Cadmus count?”

“No.”

“When I went out to the movies.”

“When did you go out?”

“At like, six at night. In like, Novemeber”

Robin frowned. Six at night in the winter… that was already dark.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you were in Hawaii?”

Kon scratched at his stubble thoughtfully. “October? They’ve got a new hero now, don’t want me.”

“And Cadmus? That’s where you live now, right?”

“I mean yeah, but all I do is stay inside and drink coffee and marathon Wendy VCR collections-”

“You never go outside when you stay there?”

Kon shrugged. “No reason. Don’t have Tana… or Roxy… now it’s just me and Sterling sometimes. And you guys. Nothing else really in my life.”

That’s what Robin had feared. “I think you’ve got severe seasonal depression.”

Kon frowned, squinting at Robin. “What?”

“You’re a Kryptonian, Kon. You guys are like sunshine batteries. Us humans sometimes get seasonal depression in the winter. By not seeing the sun for a while, we get cranky and sad and exhausted—some people even get sick sometimes. For you it must be a hundred times worse. Your battery has run out, making you susceptible to colds and being, well, a bitch.”

“Robin!” Kon gasped in fake offense.

“Kon, you’ve started to irritate even Greta. That’s what I would call ‘being a bitch.’”

“So what’s your prescription, Doc? A tan?”

“Yeah, actually. Kon-El, I’m sentencing you to a week on a sunny beach. I’m sure you’ll have a horrible time.” Robin gave him a small smirk.

“Fine. But you gotta tell Cassie why I’m leaving, she’ll never believe me.” Kon said, sliding back under the covers.

“Deal. But only if I can come along.”

“Deal.”

#diana writes dc #kon-el #superboy #my boi #yju

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sincognito · 7 years

Text

Grave Heart | Prologue

Pairing: Papyrus (Undertale) x Papyrus (Underfell)

Universe: Undertale and Underfell

Warnings: None for current chapter

Overview: A small hiccup in space and time sends Boss through the multiverse and into Undertale. The world seems to be nothing short of sweet and rosy, but every rose has its thorns.**Co-written fic by Sincognito and Madmusemagister**

A/N: This is the first part of a new fic co-written by myself and @madmusemagister ! We will be taking turns writing this fic. This chapter was written by: Madmusemagister and NOT me. I have permission from the author to post their work on this account!

Read on AO3! HERE

Coming out of the forest, Boss immediately realizes something is strange. The snow is white and pristine other than footsteps, hardly a speck of dust among it. Everything feels too… cheery. He heads towards his house, but is shocked to find that someone has replaced his expert traps with puzzles! And not even well made ones! A literal child could solve these in minutes! In his disgust, he refuses to solve any of them, just jumping around them instead.

It isn’t until he sees some weird, grinning, soft imposter that it truly sinks in that something is very wrong here.

“Wowie! Yet another me! And this one is pointy! Hello pointy me! I like your boots!” the faker says.

What is he playing at? Is he trying to flatter me? Why? Boss huffs at the other, but sticks his chest out anyways. “Only the finest style for someone as great and terrible as I! What’s your business with me?”

His eyes scan over the other. Much like Boss, his spine is quite exposed from the front, but unlike Boss there’s nothing protecting the back of the spine either. Other him is also wearing a scarf, which Boss approves of if only for the sake of not being a hypocrite. However, beyond that the other’s clothes are absolutely ridiculous! That “armor” is flimsy at best and he doubts it’d offer any more protection than cardboard. And, well, the guy isn’t even wearing pants. Thankfully his weirdly round doppelganger has the decency to cover his pelvis with some kind of… bowl shaped thing, but beyond that he’s just wearing tights. Boss is pretty sure literal paper could cut those. Admittedly the other’s boots are probably a bit more functional for the slush and ice of Snowdin and the marshes of Waterfall, but they look silly!

Then Boss’s mind stalls as he processes something. “Wait, what do you mean ‘yet another me’?”

“Oh! Am I the first one you’ve met? Wowie! Welcome to Undertale! Nyeheheh!”

Boss narrows his eyes and prepares several sharpened bones for a ruthless attack! “Explain, now.”

The weird him grins, “Oh! Are we sparring? Great! You can go first!”

Boss’s jaw drops open in sheer incomprehension. He doesn’t understand this other monster, not in the least. Something’s wrong here. He doesn’t like it. His attack stalls.

“Hmm? Oh! Did you want me to take the first turn instead?”

“What are you going on about!” Boss snaps, stomping his boot in the snow.

“Sparring, I think? I’m guessing it works differently where you’re from?”

Boss’s temper snaps. “You will explain to me what is going on this instant or I will skewer you!” He doesn’t have time for this. He has to go patrol in his world and try to keep monsters from rendering themselves extinct before they can even get the last soul. The mutts that make up the rest of Snowdin’s guard sure aren’t going to do it! Plus, without him there, his 1 HP brother might as well go around naked with “free EXP” written on every bone in his body.

“Oh! Yes, I can do that! You see, one way or another this universe came to exist. Unfortunately, even someone as great as the Great Papyrus knows not how the universe came into existence. However, I know that from there, many offshoot timelines began to occur. Some are almost exactly the same as this world but with minor, largely inconsequential changes such as everyone having fabulous boots, and in others the similarities are purely superficial with the fundamental rules of the universe having been changed.”

Boss glares at his apparent counterpart, but the other doesn’t flinch at all from his wrathful gaze. Boss wants to say that means he’s telling the truth, but the utter lack of reaction disturbs him more than it should. He huffs and shifts his weight to one foot, hand on his hip.

“Alright, let’s say I believe you. What other versions of us do you know?” Maybe they’ll be more helpful than he is.

“Well there’s Stretch, Hickory – you kind of remind me of his brother actually, but much taller and more handsome – there’s this one universe with a giant mirror, one with a line on his face, the spikier counterpart of that one, and, wait…” the other regards him for a moment, then gasps, “Are you the spiky counterpart of me? Nyeheheheh! It’s so good to finally meet you!

“Oh, just a few ground rules, this universe is very not-murdery so please no killing! If a monster tries to fight you, make sure to wait your turn, and then spare them! Some are a bit moody, but usually they’ll get over it if you ACT a bit.

“In this world, it’s spare and be spared!”

Boss just stares. His mouth opens. His mouth closes. Nope, he’s done with this nonsense. Monsters who aren’t murdery? Does this squishy him even know what monsters are? They’re called monstrous for a reason! He refuses to believe that this world is really the sugar bowl this other him is making it out to be. Besides, what are all these monsters planning on doing when a human passes through? One sufficiently nasty human could clear out the Underground!

“Okay take me back home where things make sense now.”

“You’ll have to come with me to get Sans. The Great Papyrus is great at many things, but my brother is better at quantum physics.”

Boss grumbles, but acquiesces and follows the other. Letting an unfamiliar monster trail him like this, especially with his spine on display, not looking around, chattering about inane things like spaghetti and game night and candy, obviously this other him is a naïve idiot. He couldn’t even scare a Whimsun! Well, maybe he could spook this world’s version, but the ones from his world would probably just eat his fingers and run off.

With startling ease, they get to the other him’s house. It’s quite… festive. Seriously, who needs this many lights? His house is practically a beacon! Soft him fumbles through his inventory for some keys – at least they have that small precaution – and Boss glances over to the two mailboxes. One is seemingly empty, and the other is overflowing!

“Are you ever going to answer your damn mail?” Boss snips.

“Oh, that’s Sans’s, and I’m going to guess no.”

“What’s he got in there?”

“I don’t know! I’m not going to root through someone else’s mail like a savage!” Finally, Papyrus produces the key and sticks it in the lock.

Inside is, well, just as uncanny as outside. It fills Boss with an unpleasant feeling he can’t quite place. It looks like his house down to the rock on the table and the sock with the sticky notes, but it’s also not similar in the least. It’s too bright, the color scheme is wrong, the notes are more annoying than threatening, there’s not a single hole in the place, there’s no carefully constructed cage around the rock prisoner, and it’s just wrong.

The entire world seems to be some sanitized, sugar coated parody of his world, and he doesn’t trust it for a second. There’s no way it’s as sweet as it seems, no possible way! It must be like that spider bitch Muffet, sweet outside with a rotten core. He just has to find it, then everything will make sense again.

“Are you alright, pointy me?”

“I’m fine. Where the fuck is your bro?”

“Considering that I’m here, I’m guessing that he’ll pop into his room seemingly randomly in a few seconds. I just have to open the cabinet and he’ll play his, ugh, trombone.”

Boss doubts that’ll work, but weirdly round him does just that and on cue a weirdly round version of his brother plays a surprisingly intact trombone. Other him forgot to mention the dog though. There are now a few holes in their floor from his bone attacks.

Other Sans comes down, surprisingly unphased by Boss’s arrival. Boss snarls at him, but he just chuckles.

“Down Fido.”

“I AM NO ONE’S DOG!” Boss screeches, summoning dozens of bones pointed straight at the fake brother. He wouldn’t actually go through with it, it’s his brother, even if it isn’t, but wrong Sans probably doesn’t know that.

Then suddenly he’s wet. Other Papyrus has procured a spray bottle and is currently spraying him with water. “No! No attacking Sans! He only has one HP! Bad edgy me! Bad!”

The attack fizzles as Boss sputters indignantly. “I AM NOT A CAT EITHER! Even if cats are obviously superior!”

“I know, but it works with edgy Sans, so I thought it’d work with you too!”

Boss throws his hands in the air. “I’m done! I’m just done! Do whatever the fuck you do and get me back to my world already!” He plops down on the couch and crosses his arms.

“Language!” other Papyrus snaps.

“Eh, not really feeling like it,” soft Sans says. The little brat dares to sit on his legs. Big. Mistake. Edge hurls the skeleton across the room, but his impromptu flight is stopped short by his counterpart turning San’s soul blue. Other Sans lands on his feet, much to Boss’s annoyance.

Other him takes the worst Sans and they go do a thing, he doesn’t know nor care as long as it gets him home. Until then he… has nothing to do really, so he busies himself with cooking. They don’t have much variety, but they do have pasta ingredients, so he goes with that. He finishes up right as they walk in.

“Alright, think I found what world you’re from. It’s called Underfell by the way, apparently. Dunno how these names work, but they do. Just hop in the machine,” harmless Sans says.

“Finally!” Boss says. He stomps down and follows this weird joke that looks kind of like his brother. He’s a little surprised to see that other him isn’t here. He’s… disappointed? Tch, no, he doesn’t get disappointed. That other him is just an enigma is all. An enigma and a joke, a parody that while unnerving, also serves to be rather amusing and at least partly helpful. More than that though, he’s a puzzle. This whole world is, and while the way his world works necessitates traps, well…

He’s always loved puzzles.

Sans seems to read the questioning look on his face as he says, “Sent him to go get some spare parts. Didn’t want him following you back. Heh, you’re a bit rough around the edges, aren’t you?

“Here’s some advice.” The other Sans’s eyes go completely dark, grin seeming to widen to the point of being maniacal. “Go home, never come here again, and leave my brother alone. He doesn’t deserve to get caught up in all your Fell-verse murder bullshit.”

Boss scoffs, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, you little gremlin, and your brother is an adult, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Now then, if you think I’m getting into some weird gadget, then you’re sorely mistaken.” He shoves the other in. “You first. How the fuck do you work this thing?”

“Like hell I’m going to-”

“Do it or I’ll dust you.”

The Sans pauses, then hisses out, “Red button. Always the red button.”

Boss nods and presses it. There’s a flash, and a distinct lack of dust, so he judges it, if nothing else, to be his best bet to get home. He finds himself in a room he only vaguely visits and sees the blue gremlin scrambling to put together their own version of the machine.

“Asshole,” dislikeable Sans huffs.

“Fix it well you hear me, or else you’re never getting home.”

If the multiverse is really a thing, then there’s no way in this long-forsaken world he’s going to stay ignorant of it. He’s the Great and Terrible Papyrus after all, and he’ll go wherever the fuck he damn well pleases!

But for now, he’d best inform Sans and the others that he’s back.

#literature #a dragon writes #cowork #madmusemagister #edgepuff #underfell #undertale #fanfiction

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snowdice · 4 years

Text

Finding the Time to Study Fic 2 [Day 3]

Chapter 1 and what I have finished of chapter 2 are under the cut.

I probably won’t be studying too much today, but I wanted to get a bit done. I’ll be constantly looking for ideas of times and places for Janus to have missions, so feel free to send in any you can think of at any point!

Chapter 1

“There’s a message inside!” Remus replied, happily.

“I still have to finish this report about the New Easter Island mission,” he said to Remus.

“I’ll do it,” Remus said. “You’ve been working without a break for hours, and I probably owe the agency some time since I took a coffee break to 22nd century France this afternoon.”

“You what?” Janus asked.

”They have the best coffee,” Remus said, and then grinned wolfishly, “and the best guys.”

“Stop doing that stuff,” Janus hissed. “Your lucky I haven’t reported you already.”

Janus sighed and stood. “Fine,” he said. “I’m going, but that report better be done like you said or I will report you for your coffee excursions.”

“Sure, you will,” Remus said. “Now shoo.”

He groaned and fell back onto his couch immediately. “Time?” he asked.

Sure, he had been fine with it, encouraged the policy even, when the agency was created, but that had been before he’d had to live it.

The 2510s were an odd set of years.

He eventually groaned and rolled over in bed. “Play something,” he requested. The screen by the side of his bed lit up.

“Randomizing the ‘Something’ video playlist,” the soft voice said from the ceiling.

Chapter 2

Someone, probably Remus, had shut his integrator down. He swiped a finger across the power button, and it flickered back on, scrolling through its morning start up routine.

Sitting down in his desk, he dismissed the notification that Remus had finished and submitted the report from their mission the day before.

#study break stories #not writing

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a-writing-bear · 7 years

Text

[PruCan] Chapter 4: Soft-Spoken Calling, They Want Their Shyness Back

Ao3 Link:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11159997/chapters/24905436

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

You can read this Fic on Tumblr under ‘Keep Reading’

Previous Chapter

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Main Pairing: Gilbert Beilschmidt & Matthew Williams (Prussia & Canada)

AU: College AU - Art Student Matthew and Media/Film Student Gilbert

Age Rating/Mature: Teen And Up Audiences (12+ due to mentions of mature themes as well as swearing)

Trigger Warnings: Recreational Drugs & minor connotations of anxiety (Future addiction to mention themes such as addiction, rape etc.)

Within his short 18 years of his life, Gilbert knew he fell short of a lot of things. Most of the time the list of his personal struggles were propelled far away from the contemptuous moments of strife that he was forced to worry about currently so in turn of all that he wasn’t used to being open to his subconscious pacing mind. All the repressed trouble he cooked up was bubbling over- much like Arthur’s attempt of ‘soup’ from last week. Whenever he seemed to not be distracted by a family issue presented by his brother, it was coursework that acted as blockade from having a social life, or sometimes the extremities faced when dealing with pesters from Elizabeta and Roderich (Only God knows what those two would be doing on a weekend...); even the occasional whining from a certain Frenchman.

A chime of a small bell over the café’s door announced his presence to the other inhabitants. The oaky smell of old counters flooded his senses and the light yellow walls plastered with generic atmospheric photos of Himaruya Academy’s campus populated some of the emptier spaces (You could tell these were taken by students as well, what with the tiny label under each photo). Aromatic aromas of freshly brewed coffee and whiffs of alluring chai lattes made Gilbert smile warmly, it was if he had been hugged by comfort itself. You would think a café would be empty at around 10 pm, but it seems like the need for caffeine for any student was a constant. The distance between his dorm hall and the small campus café was luckily close, a breeze of a stroll that delighted any exhausted student, thus his tardiness in his arrival was actually inexcusable. He mulled over trying to produce an excuse to give later to explain his delay… Of course, his overall excitement was at an all-time low considering Gilbert would have to deal with an infuriated Ludwig-

“Seriously Gil? You’re late 20 minutes”

Speaking of the organised stick-in-the-mud devil, his younger brother (Who, unfairly, had grown taller than the paler of the two) was eyeing him with annoyance and the albino could practically feel the dagger-like stares pushing into his chest. A cockier-than-usual ‘I’m more organised than you and you know it' looks of disapproval caught him off guard… Oh god is he going to say something about the new shir-

“Mein Gott, How the hell are you funding your wardrobe when you can’t even pay me back?”

“Lovely to see you too dear West, I’m doing fine, Gee thanks! How thoughtful for you to ask.”

Sarcasm and mock pleasure rolled off his tongue easily and with a sublime sense of satisfaction. But as he went to sit down at the small table he noticed the change in mood. facing diligently and apprehensively at the stern look of his brother he realised that his obvious joke will not go without consequence…clearly, Ludwig had something serious this time and the call for the older sibling was not an act of choice but instead an act of necessity. Gilbert gulped. Fidgeting slightly, preparing to be the bearer of bad news, the blue-eyed sibling attempted to keep his voice lower than usual and to keep the conversation at a seemingly okay level of panic:

“We can’t exactly quit our jobs this holiday, and my calculations state that we might even have to pick up an extra shift. There is no way we can visit Uncle this year.”

Gilbert flinched and could swear he felt his heart break a little. To others the news may not seem to be ‘that serious’ – sure it was bad but being heartbroken was an over exaggeration right? Consider the fact you had been working your FUCKING ass off your whole life, juggling multiple jobs while studying with a crappy stream of income and pay check-to-pay check funding, being robbed of countless hours of personal time that in your eyes were a privilege, never a minimum, and last but not least the breakdowns when you realised you felt so alone. This news would make your heart shatter like fragile glass. ‘Fuck karma, Lady Luck couldn’t give him a day off,’ It seemed like dog days would never be chased off. Unbelievable. Inconceivably pissed off. Flipping the table, walking out and burying himself in the nearest graveyard felt like a reasonable move as of right now.

“What. The. FUCK.”

“Calm down we can handl-“

“I can’t!- There has to be some miscalculation, last I checked we had enough for that break, I was given time off and a pay raise! This shouldn’t- What-WHY? I PRACTICALLY DIED.”

“Look I get it- I’m not happy either?! But shouting won’t do us any help either!”

He was fuming and he could see the fury shining in his company’s eyes as well. Growing up Gilbert always hid his vents and rants and kept his true thoughts away from the impressionable mind of his sibling but at times like this, it was clear what they were both thinking. Ludwig must have known this news hit his brother harder than it would him, and those awkward compassionate pats were a pitiful attempt at family comfort. They never really used affectionate gestures in the past, there was never any time for stuff like that.

Years and years, harking as far back as the tender age of 14, he could recall working for an extra bit of pocket money. Pocket money soon evolved into a college fund for himself and West within 2 years. Not to mention the small amounts he had to save for indulging to keep the sanity that prevented him from turning into an emotionless working robot. Thankful was not a strong enough word to describe what Gilbert felt for his uncle, there wasn’t any word that could achieve the level of gratitude the boy held for the old man. Respect towards the old man was something he taught Ludwig early on (Come to think of it, they moved in with their Uncle when Ludwig was only...12?), even if the latter didn’t understand their situation at that very young age. Spaced out due to the reminiscing he hadn’t noticed the warm cup of coffee that had been kindly delivered to him (Yes, a nice cup of coffee at 10 pm, go college life!), Ludwig’s strong voice started to come back to the forefront of his attention;

“You take your rest, you deserved the break, Bruder. I can do an extra shift- Feli says his shift has an extra slot anyway that I can take and it’s not very long, we just need to rearrange the bank allocations…” The blonder German was droning on and was in actual fact, talking to himself more than he was meaning to actually converse with the other.

Sighing into his now slightly cold coffee, the teen pondered over his choices and reviewed his recent schedules: wake up, eat, Attend lectures, go to multiple work shifts throughout the day during his study hours, do some coursework till the morning light and pass out, repeat. He had started slacking this continues the cycle of college-life torture. He had finally worked enough to wager a good break that his boss from his large shift (A shitty – but hey it’s decent? – 7 bucks an hour) at the local cinema, an undesirable night shift that no one wanted to partake when they could be partying. Only this month had he been throwing away his frazzled mind with hook-ups and well-deserved parties with his former Misfits. He had ached for those nights again, and for a short while, he had them back. What was the point of being a ‘creative’ mind when you can’t produce any of the garbage you actually want to?! Being stuck in the mantra of: “How many tickets sir? Which seat..? Hope you enjoy the show!” was the cause of the internal bomb of irritation that ticked faster and faster and Gilbert wasn’t even sure he would have any fuse left soon.

I’ve got to go. Was it ever possible to become unattached to reality? God I wish, with haste Gilbert suddenly got up and bolted out with mutters of incomprehensible frustration.

“Gilbe-Where are you goi-Hey we aren’t” the protests over his disappearance faded into the background as Gilbert left to walk back to his room. He could really do with some music.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE LIVES NEXT DOOR?! HAS HE HURT YOU? OH MY GOD”

Matthew lamented over his wasted time, the paint covered boy had nestled down on his bed with his ruffled hair and head thrown back onto the cushy red covers, He could be actually painting right now…or y’know…seeing Tim for a drug hit. Eyes shut with another exhale of boredom as Alfred rambled on, shooting an overdose of “He’s the bad kind, he’s not good, and he could be a murderer” lecture into the strawberry blonde’s tired ears. You would think a prodigy with a near IQ of 160 would be able to identify a real threat.

Sometimes he really just wanted to forget about this.

“I don’t think we are even thinking of the same person Al” blurting out quietly, still trying to zone out from his brother’s incessant fussing. “Have you even met him?”

“I don’t neeeed to meet him. I KNOW he’s bad for you, I don’t want him touching and getting all up in my little brother’s space and…poisoning him with all the college nonsense.”

Bullshit, poison what? I already drink and take- Ahh that’s right he doesn’t know about the ‘college nonsense’ I actually do participate in. Woops.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, hell you’re starting to sound old like Artie”

“I am not-I am NOT like Artie! Why the sudden interest in this Gilbert GUY ANYWAY??” This had dragged on for an hour and Matthew needed to make a dash for Tim’s house if he wanted to get done in time to come back reasonably sober.

“Don’t you have some project to do Alfie? It’s getting late and I want to do some work-Besides wouldn’t you want to call Kiku~” 1 point to Matthew, He had gotten his brother to look off in revelation and gain some red tinge on the cheeks. Kiku, a Japanese student who his American sibling had met and been pining for, was located at Himaruya Academy’s Tokyo campus (Mostly shortlisted to ‘The Deen Campus’ after its association). The two had been introduced during their foundation year and it was clear his sibling had a very big soft spot for the guy, so much so after the Japanese student transferred back to Japan they kept in touch with long Skype calls and endless texts. They, to quote: “Are n-not dating!! Kiku’s Not even interested…in guys…..or me.”

Hurriedly and trying to look less embarrassed, Alfred scuttled out. ‘Finally’. A glance at his watch told Matthew he would need to leave now or else Tim will call him out for bailing- ‘I am not gonna lose this cus of Al goddammit’ – Grabbing his trademark and overused hoodie, the stocky 18 year old climbed out of the way too small dorm window. Armed with his phone and car keys, he clambered into the cramped car and drove steadily down out the campus to his friend’s rented house; a typical scene for bad cliché college parties – happily it was not time for any party. As idiotic as it may seem, Strolling through the front door would not be a good idea as his childhood friend always warned him his sister would not appreciate visitors at this time (Matthew was 100% Laura didn’t even know Tim did pot, nonetheless that he did pot WITH Mattie), so he took the safer route (‘Well, physically more dangerous’) and climbed onto a small balcony on the side of the house, softly knocking on the glass that had the curtains drawn-

“You’re late.” Looking up to face his taller companion, the Canadian heard the gruff voice of annoyance as he pulled back the curtains and the sliding glass door opened.

“Sorry T, Al got me caught up in some bullshit, the hoser kept me busy…” The scarfed house owner moved aside and silently invited him into the messy room. On closer inspection, messy would not be applicable – while the floor was covered in some clothes, questionable (?) magazines and beanbags, the dark blue walls hoisted clean neat shelves which held a multitude of knickknacks.

“..You know you could’ve gotten started without me?

“Hah. Yeah right, where’s the fun in that Mattie?” A small tired-sounding chuckle flowed from the taller of the two, a bong had been passed towards Matthew who had founded himself cosy in a familiar beanbag. The haze felt good already. Matthew took it eagerly and grumbled: “How much do I owe you?”

“Honestly…Too much. Hah, No but like come on Mattie, I thought we got over this already. I’m not gonna charge a friend for this stuff. Especially not you.” Grinning with humour the Dutchman took the beanbag opposite to him.

It was all very strange at the beginning of this whole ordeal with his Dutch friend. They had grown up together and Matthew had very good relations with the ‘Van-der-Berg’ family. After joining the Academy he was glad he at least had a recognisable older pal but throughout all of the years that had gone by knowing him, he always noticed the precise and businessman-like nature of this man. Yet when he offered to help Matthew get his usual weed (Something Matt had easier access to in Canada and the times he visited the Netherlands and definitely something you don’t shout about) he didn’t charge a single penny. Hell, this fucker had once charged him after Matthew dragged them to the bathroom at camp…when they were 12 YEARS OLD. This guy always needed wanted to make a dime. Except for drugs. Which…was insanely strange AND expensive. ‘Especially not me? Ah Tim, I still really don’t know you.’ He tried not to think about it so much as when there was sweet dreamy smoke being smothered and pushed into Matthew’s body.

Sometimes it is possible to forget about things, you just need the right stuff.

#prucan #aph canada #aph prussia #SoftSpokenCalling #prussia x canada #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #Hetalia Fanfiction #fanfic #multific #college au #alternate universe

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gothtistic-stims · 7 years

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I was feeling invalid

Quick warning: the is a *long* post, and the invalidity I felt was actually remedied by writing this, so do not feel obligated to read it all! Sure, when I was younger I chose to be alone a *lot*, but I had friends. I was socially awkward, sure, but what 5 year old is really that great at being social? Yeah, whenever I went somewhere new I would cling to my sister and be completely unable to make new friends, but by the same token, at a *very* young age I figured out an algorithm for making and maintaining friendships: compliments! I think it was when I was 8 that I figured this out, which was fortunate because at around 7 kids were no longer friends with the entire class, and making friends was no longer easy. At 7, I found myself alone at recess nearly every day, hyperfixated on finding 4-leaf clovers (I was finding at least 1 a day at one point), so when I discovered the compliment algorithm I was able to smoothly transition and continue making friends. Of course, I still chose to be alone for a vast majority of recesses. But being asocial doesn't mean I'm autistic. I was an extremely naiive child, kids easily lied to me and I believed them. But being naiive in and of itself doesn't necessarily mean I'm autistic. When I was in kindergarten I was friends with someone. Close friends. In first grade, however, she avoided me like I was the plague. I cried and cried, and even confronted her, and she basically just told me "idk, I guess I just don't really like you." But having a person dislike me doesn't mean I'm autistic. I was always moving as a child, I had attention problems, and I also was diagnosed with both adhd and ocd when I was only 8. I talked too fast and was known to mumble (I say "was" as if I don't still do those things now lol). I also many times forget the word I want to use, and I end up blabbering nonsense trying to figure out how to convey what I want to say. Sometimes I don't forget whole words, I can't translate my thoughts because my thoughts aren't organized like normal thoughts. A majority of the time I am thinking in either pictures or feelings rather than words, and I simply can't say anything related to the topic I want to talk about because in my mind there are literally no words to even begin explaining it. I'm 1000% better at writing than talking. But speech problems don't necessarily mean I'm autistic. I guess I had experience with going partially nonverbal, but I never had a word to describe being physically unable to speak or initiate conversations unless spoken to first. But again, going partially nonverbal sometimes doesn't mean I'm autistic. When I was little my sister was diagnosed with aspergers. She would throw huge tantrums/melt down easily, so a lot of the focus went to her. I never really had any melt downs. In fact, when I was 6, my sister paid me a nickle to not cry in front of her, and it took *years* to be able to cry in her vicinity again. However, I was certainly not immune to crying; I was an empath. If you were crying, chances were I was crying too. Whenever my sister had a meltdown I would feel her pain, and I would hide in my favorite place underneath the same chair. I *had* to cry there. But high empathy doesn't mean I'm autistic - in fact, there's even a stereotype that autistics don't feel empathy at all. When I was 11, I was half forced out of my friend group and half decided for myself to leave it. I had one friend at the time, and she (let's call her "M") was hella popular. I never fit into the friend group. I was invited to fewer and fewer parties as time went on, and no one in the group except for my one friend liked me. Eventually she stopped liking me too, and I was left to fend for myself. But being disliked doesn't mean I'm autistic. I was briefly friends with the girl I was assigned to share a seat with on the bus. We started a whole mini show routine that we would do every day on the bus. It was called the Stupid and Cupid Show. Despite my efforts to get her to change the name, I was stuck being known as "Stupid." I never realized at the time how horrible that name made me feel, but it didn't matter, because eventually she left me as well. As is said in the last paragraph, being disliked doesn't mean I'm autistic. In seventh grade I was looped into a whole strange "family" (which is a story for another time) and suddenly had a *ton* of people considering themselves to be friends with me. It was around then that I realized I was touch averse, because PEOPLE I DIDN'T KNOW KNEW MY NAME AND KEPT HUGGING ME WITHOUT ASKING. Fortunately this didn't last long either, because like all of my frienships, it dissolved pretty quickly. This time, however, everyone blamed me for something I didn't do, and I was left with that entire huge group hating me. I didn't even find out why everyone suddenly hated me until a year later. But useless teen (not even, we were like ~11-12 years old) drama doesn't mean I'm autistic. My entire time in middle school was honestly horrible. My typical algorithm for making friends stopped working, and while I found a temporary replacement (empathizing with people as conversation) it was not nearly as effective. I was never exactly bullied per se, I just got stuck in the same classroom with some really fuckin mean people. I called them all "Tapper Dude." They would bang out off beat tunes on their desks *constantly*. This banging was sensory HELL ( though i didn't know the term "sensory hell" yet). I was going home and often crying because of the stress of being trapped with these people who wouldn't stop (the teachers didn't even try to stop them despite my many, many complaints). I couldn't do anything, couldn't work,couldn't concentrate, and would literally beg my teachers to let me work in the hallway so I could finally have some peace. They literally never let me work in the hallway, despite it being silent (except for that damn banging) individual work. ( I'm honestly still fuckin pissed that my teachers did nothing to help me!) But being hypersensitive to some banging on a desk doesn't mean I'm autistic. Jumping back to never being able to sit still, I still stim today. Not nearly as much then as I do now though. The need to stand rather than sit in my desk at school coulde easily be attributed to my adhd. On top of needed to stand, I was always doodling on my worksheets. Teachers would make me redo the entire sheet if they found my doodles, or they would grab my drawing off of my desk and crumple it up and throw it in the trash. Even as I type this now, my legs are shaking and bouncing and hitting each other. But this could easily be blamed on my having adhd. Having ADHD doesn't mean I have autism. I had weird fixations when I was younger. At 5 it was finding 4-leaf clovers, at 9 it was arranging bookshelves, which after ~6 months evolved into an obsession with reading classics. At only 9 years old, I attempted to read the entirety of Mobey Dick (I didn't get a chance to finish, the school year ended and I had to return the book to the school library 😣). Up until I was 8 I was obsessed with all things medical ( which involved reading the same 3 books over and over and over again). At 17 I became obsessed with slugs /sea slugs ( as I'm sure many of you are aware) along with developing an obsession with autism in and of itself. And ever since I was 5, I've been obsessed with hypnosis, the topic is in my brain basically 24/7, though I try to ignore this obsession because it's nearly impossible to find good media representations of it. I was exposed to porn at a very young age because of my seeking out hypnosis related material, and ever since then I've been wary of seeking it out for fear of finding even more erotic content 😣😣😣. Basically, what I'm saying is, I have had special interests, but I've also seen that something similar (hyperfixations) can be found in, once again, adhd!! So special interests don't necessarily mean I'm autistic. Eye contact. Hello darkness my old friend :)). I honestly have always hated eye contact, but, just like with my social skills, I figured out a loophole at an extremely young age. Foreheads and noses are an autistics best friends, and using these tools, I believe I've effectively fooled everyone I've encountered into think I have good eye contact. Honestly, up until I learned more about autism, I kinda just assumed eye contact was a figure of speech or something that people said better never actually did. But poor eye contact doesn't mean I'm autistic. Figures of speech are weird. I often overthink them to the point of incomprehensibility. I use figures of speech all the time (in fact I believe I used one earlier in this very post), but I've begun to suspect that all of the figures of speech I "understand" are only understood because school spent so much time drilling the meaning into my head. My suspicions arised from the fact that whenever I hear a new figure of speech, I don't understand what it means, even sometimes after it's been explained to me. On top of that, with sarcasm, I can only understand it if it's used by someone I know well. Understanding or not understanding figures of speech don't necessarily mean I'm autistic though. I've always been accident prone. I crash into walls and tables and chairs. I've also fallen both up and down the stairs. My fine motor movements also took much longer to develop as compared to others. Messy scissor cuttings, messy shirt after eating, and messy handwriting. My mom calls my handwriting "chicken scratch", though I personally don't think it's that bad. But poor coordination doesn't mean I'm autistic. When I was little, I only ate like 3 things. Everything else was considered absolutely disgusting. My parents would literally pay me to try certain foods, but it usually ended up being gross or a bad texture. Smells could also be *incredibly* overwhelming. Ketchup especially. I was supposed to clear the table every day, but whenever my parents used ketchup, I would either cry until they let me off the hook or pay my sister to do it for me. Even now, I refuse to even touch a clean ketchup bottle, it's just g r o s. My mom also eats this really gross cranberry chicken salad thing that I can't even be on the same level of the house when she's eating it because it'll literally cause me to cry. I also can't touch the carpet barefoot, and certain textures are *horrid*. Though not formally diagnosed with either autism or sensory processing disorder, I am 100% sure I have sensory processing disorder. My sensory issues are worse than my sister's, and she's actually been diagnosed with autism! From others, I've never really mentioned that I think I'm on the autism spectrum; I don't think they'd believe me. I seem to hold a conversation just fine! ( that is,until we're in a group of more than two people. Then I lose the ability to tell when it's my turn to speak, so I end up remaining silent, half because I don't know when it's my turn and half because I can never get a word in anyway). Sure, the few friends I have (the empathy algorithm stopped working because my friends broke me and I actually lost all empathy, which I'm still trying to recover from. The latest algorithm is bombarding the person with questions when you can't get a conversation going. * something* has to spark a conversation, right!? W r o n g. This is why I'm down to 3 or 4 friends.) all agree I'm incredibly socially awkward. And sure, I fill any silence with stimming, usually involving grabbing things I'm not supposed to touch or poking the person I'm with (idk man, my brain goes into panic mode and it just keeps repeating "poke them" until I appease it). In fact, just yesterday I hung out with a friend, and we had a casual good time. It's times like these that *really* make me question whether or not I'm autistic. Though it may sound like it, I'm not saying it's impossible for an autistic to have friends - in fact, in the short year that I've had this blog, I've managed to befriend quite a few of you wonderful people! I guess I'm just saying that while autistics can have friends and still be valid, *I* can't. Of course, having no friends doesn't mean I'm autistic ( much in the same way having friends doesn't mean I'm *not* autistic ). Overall, I'm worried my social awkwardness / social deficits, though they do exist, aren't enough to actually consider myself autistic. I am confident that I have ADHD and SPD, but what if those two are just combining to closely mimic autism? My blog has gotten fairly popular, and I'm really feeling invalid tonight, so I figured I'd outline the main symptoms and let you guys determine if you're okay with me running an autism blog and using the tags. I still think I have autism, and I shouldn't need to get validation from strangers on the internet, but I felt like it was important to outline this.

#actuallyautistic #?#actually autistic #Am I autistic #My post #Valid

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deltaengineering · 7 years

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Spring Anime 2017 Part 1: woke up late

This time I prepared so I could get to the procrastinating right with the first post! Yay! Let’s get this show on the road.