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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 months ago

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Like You Mean It: A Nikprice Mafia AU

John is invalided out of the military and is struggling to adjust to civilian life, stuck in a cycle of poor coping mechanisms and denial. He gets sent to Chester by his younger sister to service a client that has scared all her other employees. Little does he know that the appointment will change the trajectory of his life forever.

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder, extremely poor attitude to his own disability, toxic coping mechanisms.

“How is the new hobby going? Painting, isn't it?”

Price frowned at the table in front of him, counting the rings of coffee stains. Four. “It didn't work out.”

“Oh, that's a shame. What happened?”

Price swallowed, his fingers twitching on his knees. He could tell the truth: that the inane, witless conversations had bored him to death, or that one of the women had started flirting with him and it had made him uncomfortable, or that the paintbrush had felt unwieldy and small in his hands, that it looked wrong there, or that he had lost his temper, overwhelmed by something he couldn't put his finger on, and thrown the canvas to the floor before limping out, or…

“It jus’ didn't hold my interest. ‘M sure I'll find somethin’.”

The therapist tapped her notepad with the end of the biro and studied him closely. She was one of the best, Mac had said. Worked with all the old boys that invalided out after a lifetime in the service. She helped them get back on their feet, navigate civilian life, and finally put to bed some of the ghosts they dragged behind them. Price had to give her a chance to help, which meant opening up some of those wounds he’d let heal badly over the years. Sally was nice enough, and he was trying not to let his own internal battles influence how he regarded her. Sometimes, she made that hard.

“How are the nightmares? Any better?”

“Yeah, they… uh, they don' happen as regularly.”

“When was the last one?”

Last night. “Coupla weeks ago, I reckon.”

She wrote that down. Price tapped his knees again and glanced at the watch on the table. She made him take his off because he had spent the first two sessions glancing at it. The compromise had been that she would set an alarm on hers. It was a brand new smartwatch, she said, it tracked her calories, her heart rate, had GPS. The kind of thing his watches had been doing for years, except his watches could call in an air strike and track enemy combatants across the field of battle.

The old one, that is. His new one just told the time.

Her husband had bought it for her, so Price had said it looked very posh.

“Have you given any more thought to the dating app we talked about?”

The watch beeped. Thank fuck.

“Whelp.” He clapped his hands together before rolling to his feet with a quiet groan, a combination of actions that he knew made him appear ten years older than he actually was. “I'll see ya next week then, Sally.”

She handed him back his watch and he slipped it over his wrist, before she placed the notes down on the table. Given that his eyesight was still sharp, he caught the words, ‘denial’, ‘withdrawn’ and ‘isolated’ amongst the scrawl. His jaw twitched and he averted his gaze. This was one assessment he didn't seem to be passing in flying colours. She gave no indication she had realised he'd seen. “Companionship, John. Even a friend that has nothing to do with the service. It will do wonders.”

“Right. I’ll… work on that.”

It was raining when he stepped outside, grey clouds stretching across the skyline in a dark, homogenous blanket. He almost skidded on a drain, his uneven gait prone proving more of a liability in the wet, as he walked across the car park, and he swallowed the resulting grimace even though there was no one around to see. He did it more out of habit than anything else; show no weakness.

When he slumped into the seat of his old Honda Civic, he sat in the mute silence for a moment, watching the raindrops tumble down the windscreen. His leg throbbed, the tight scar tissue pulling, tendons creaking under tension, and he looked down at his knee with a scowl.

It had been a building falling on him that had done him in the end, trapping his leg for seven hours while his task force dug him out. Ghost had dragged him out by his bitch strap, and then carried him to casevac, with Soap doing his best not to look at the mangled state of his captain's leg as he covered the rear. A miracle that he hadn't lost it, they said. That he hadn't been crushed completely.

A miracle.

So, now, he got to rot away slowly in a small, one-bedroom flat in Liverpool, with TV dinners and Coronation Street. He walked through the world numbly, like he was observing it from afar, through frosted glass. The only brief glimpses of feeling he got was when one of the 141 messaged him. Sometimes a picture, other times a text. They were few and far between. It wasn't that they didn't care. They were busy. He knew the demands more than anyone. The world didn't stop turning because Bravo Six had left the game.

That didn't stop him checking his phone every few hours, just in case he had missed a notification. Checking his watch so he could tell himself where in their routine they would be.

He did it now.

1400, Tuesday.

If they weren’t on mission, Simon would have the experienced operators running drills with the trainees. It was autumn, which meant the start of bad weather and low visibility environs. It was likely he would do a jump in a few weeks with full kit to test the development of their survival skills.

He glanced at his phone. Nothing.

With a deep sigh through his nose, Price jammed his keys into the ignition and turned. The old car choked into life, the engine ragged in the cold, and he clicked it into ‘Drive’. He was grateful for the bloody thing, really. Those first few months of riding around on the bus had nearly been enough to send him to an asylum, with screaming kids and the constant smell of piss from seemingly every person that sat down. When his GP had approved him to drive an automatic, he'd almost dropped to his knees to fellate the bastard in gratitude.

He didn't really track his drive home. Stopping at reds, giving way, flicking down the indicator as he turned corners. The streets, houses and people of Liverpool passed by in a colourless smudge until he was pulling into his car parking space and staggering out in the rain. It happened a lot; the disappearing into his own head. Like his brain was giving up without stimulus and switching into standby mode.

The lift was still out of order despite his numerous phone calls on behalf of the residents, so he turned into the stairwell and began the arduous climb to the third floor. Gone were the days when a phone call from John Price moved literal armies. Now he couldn't even get fuckin’ Bill from maintenance out with a screwdriver to fix the fuckin’ lift so Jenny, eighty years old and wheelchair bound, could leave to do her groceries.

By the time Price reached the top of the first flight, his leg was burning; by the second, he was breathless from pain, and by the third, his eyes were welling with tears. The pain from his leg seemed to burn through his entire body, clutching his chest in a vice, bile and nausea building in the back of his throat, and he was having to stifle the sounds punching from his chest by biting on his knuckles.

His hands shook as he extracted his front door key, and continued to do so as he tipped more than a single dose of his strongest painkillers into his palm, the kettle hissing behind him on the countertop as he slid to the floor. He didn't wait for the tea to brew, but necked the pills dry, crunching them down in between huffing deep breaths through his nose.

There had been a time after his injury that he had believed he would recover and return to the field. A small part of him still did sometimes, but all it took was a set of stairs to truly humble him, leaving him whimpering and shaking on his kitchen floor. Pathetic, weak. How far he had fallen. He turned his face into his palms and pressed the heels hard into his eyes.

When he looked up again, the room was dark.

Price latched a hand on the edge of the countertop and pulled. His bad leg was stiff, seized with cold and aching, and his right one was numb from where he'd been sitting on it. His stumbling efforts would have made for a great Benny Hill sketch, he thought bitterly.

Once he had set the kettle reboiling and a frozen TV dinner in the microwave, Price checked his phone. One message. From his sister.

Carol (16:00): How did the appointment go?

Price glanced at the clock. 1900. Bollocks.

Price (19:00): Good.

Carol (19:01): Three hours to write that. Nice one, John.

He sighed, smacking the top of the phone into his forehead in frustration, before typing out a response.

Price (19:04): We talked about the painting thing, some old missions, and she asked me about the dating app.

Carol (19:05): did you make the profile yet?

Price (19:06): what the fuck do you think?

Carol (19:07): stop being a miserable cunt and do it

Price (19:07): No one wants to date a cripple.

He didn't send that one. It read far too much like self pity and that just turned his fucking stomach.

Price (19:07): If I wanted someone nagging me 24-7 I'd move in with you.

Carol (19:08): Prick.

Price (19:08): Yeah, tthat'd be a fine thing.

Carol (19:09): omg 😭

Carol (19:11): Gary says you never text back about games night. Kimmy wants to see you.

Gary was Carol’s “gay bff”—her words. He’d been a godsend when her bottom feeder of a husband had finally pushed the old bill too far and got himself nicked for possession with intent to sell and GBH. Price owed the bloke a lot, because he’d picked up the slack where a big brother should have been. He was pretty sure Carol had tried to set them up once, which would have gone about as well as trying to get a Labrador to date a Persian cat. Gary would have shredded Price with his kitten claws in minutes.

Price (19:12): Depends on my shifts, boss.

Carol (19:13): Ok.

Carol (19:13): Don't give up on us.

Carol had saved him enough already. She had been the one to force him to retrain at college so he could work at her salon. Physical therapy and massage. Something to do with his hands that wasn’t killing people, she’d said. Besides, she wanted to attract more male clientele and his machismo would make them feel less emasculated about seeking support. He felt like there had been a hidden barb there, but hadn’t pressed. Price swallowed the lump in his throat and stared into his dark kitchen for a moment before he replied.

Price (19:14): trying

Carol (19:15): I know

Carol (19:15): love you big bro

Price (19:16): love you too, love to Kimmy.

He shoved his phone into his pocket as he poured his tea, taking it black despite the presence of milk in the fridge. That was at the other end of the kitchen and the pain killers hadn’t yet kicked in properly. His microwave meal seemed more or less cooked through, the steam searing his fingertips as he tugged off the plastic lid, so grabbed a fork and headed into the dark sanctity of his living room.

His flat had always been sparse, with basic furniture, a handful of books and family photographs. None of the ‘homely’ touches you’d expect of a home. In all fairness, he had never spent a lot of time here—only a few days leave if he’d been at a loose end. But even then he had preferred sleeping in Carol’s spare room, doing the school run in the mornings so she could have a less hectic start to the day, and making sure the house was clean, that there was something edible on the table in the evenings. Fat chance of that now. She didn’t need another deadbeat arsehole on her couch twenty-four hours a day. She’d done her time with that bullshit. So Price had only visited a handful of times since being discharged; once to take a look at a leak under the kitchen sink, and then to check the weird noise her car had been making when the temperature dropped.

Price slumped into the permanent dip of the right hand sofa cushion and took a moment to bask in the relief, tea and dinner hovering over his lap. Some days, he wanted to stay on the damn sofa and rot into it, but the stubborn streak that had managed to survive the last few months wouldn’t let him. He had to be doing something—anything—even if that was hobbling about the supermarket for Jenny while the lift was out of action. A last, defiant stand against the listless void left behind when they had taken the service from him.

He dug the clicker from where it had fallen down the side of the cushion and turned over just in time for the opening credits of Coronation Street, blowing over the heap of white rice and tasteless curry in front of his mouth. His mind faded out into white noise as he ate mechanically and knocked back his tea to wash the taste away. The episode hadn’t even finished before he was pulling the fleece blanket from the other cushion over his lap, eyes drooping closed. He checked his phone once more before he placed it on the lamp table for the final time.

The storm outside picked up a notch and Price felt it tremour through the old building, and he watched the rain lash against the balcony windows as fitful sleep dragged him under.

—

“This is Bravo Six in the blind; Watcher—ahh, Watcher, do you c-copy?”

Static.

”Kate… Kate, please… fuh-ck, Watcher, this S-six in—“

The rubble above his head moved. He held his breath. There was nowhere for him to move. Nowhere for him to run. It had taken an eternity to wrestle his arm free enough to get to his radio. If the rubble shifted now, it would crush him.

The pain was blinding. Like white hot pokers stabbing through every muscle. If he hadn’t been able to move his arm, he would have assumed his spine or neck were broken. Maybe both. He could feel his right leg, but not his left. Couldn’t even see it.

”Watcher, do you copy?”

Static.

”Kate, please… don’t let me die down here, don’t… please…”

His pleas were soaked up by the oppressive silence. The muffled, muted space that seemed to swallow his voice.

Suffocating nothingness.

Static.

He couldn’t move. Not an inch. His trap was closing in. Crushing him. Several tons of concrete and steel pressing down on his ribs, his legs. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t breathe.

—

Waking up felt like he was having to claw himself out from beneath that rubble himself, chest heaving, the neck of his t-shirt stained dark as he fought his way back to the surface. Early morning light was leaking through the balcony door, the spots of rain still clinging to the glass making the living room glitter like a disco ball hung from the ceiling. He lifted a shaking hand from beneath the fleece and smoothed his damp hair back over his head, mentally counting through the grounding exercises Sally had taught him.

Feel, see, hear, touch.

Like he’d been run over by a Challenger—his ceiling—phone alarm—blanket.

Price threw out a hand and managed to swipe his damn phone off the table. Cussing and snarling, he slumped onto the floor, fishing it out from beneath the lamp stand. He didn’t have enough energy to climb his way back onto the sofa, so he sat there once he’d switched the alarm off, staring into space. The world slowly filtered back in, his senses spreading out through the room, latching onto anything that connected him to the reality outside his head. Unfortunately, that also brought with it the constant dull throb of pain in his left side.

That last mission had been the final crack in a dam he hadn’t even been aware of. Over twenty years of difficult operations in the most inhospitable environs and his mind had soldiered through, unbroken, robust. Colleagues and friends had fallen before him, so he knew what post-traumatic stress disorder looked like, but it was something that happened to other people. Not him. Not in a million fuckin’ years.

But leave him trapped under some rubble for a few hours and suddenly every difficult experience, every interrogation, every period spent trapped behind enemy lines at their mercy, every close call, every fallen soldier, they all came flooding back like vengeful demons that had been caged in the pits of hell to tear off their pound of flesh.

The nightmares weren’t always the same. Sometimes, his subconscious decided to dredge up an experience from over a decade ago to torture him with. A few nights ago, it had been the interrogation that had left him with burn scars over his lower back. A month spent in an Al Qatala detention facility before Mac had extracted him. He hadn’t broken—had given them bloody nothing—and had passed the psych eval after that one with flying colours. Even the psychologist had been a little suspicious—impressed, but suspicious. Turned out all he’d done was squash it all so far down that it was invisible to a prying eye, and then managed to trick himself that he was just made of stronger stuff than average.

He was good at that though: keeping secrets. Pretending, manipulation, getting what he wanted out of people. Out of himself. It was no surprise that he’d got so good at it over the years that he had managed to dupe even himself into believing what he needed to get the job done. Stupid wanker.

Price scowled as he rolled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily at first as he regained his balance, before limping into his bedroom. He had a quick shower to wash the sweat off and threw on his gym kit. Just because his lower half was useless, that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep the rest of him in shape. The physio had told him to keep it light, that everything in his body was connected and his nervous system needed time to adjust, and he had nodded along.

Truth was, he liked the burn of it. It felt like punishment. A punishment that he could control. It was both proof that he was still, physically, worth something and a way to chastise the parts of himself that weren’t as strong as they used to be. John left the house just as his morning alarm went off.

He ignored the sideways glances from the reception staff as he limped through the automatic barriers, his car parked in the second row back because he couldn’t quite bring himself to use the damn blue badge the council had given him when Carol had completed the forms on his behalf.

This early in the morning, the gym was more or less empty. There were a few night shifters getting their end of day workout in at the squat racks, so Price dumped his gym bag by a bench in front of the dumbbells. The powerlifter to the right glanced at him as he grabbed 26kg for a warm up set, and from that point on he let his mind go blank. All that existed as he worked his way through his ‘push day’ was the burn in his shoulders, his chest, down his spine. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was in the gym in Credenhill, with Ghost grunting on his right and Soap pausing to take yet another selfie on his left…

His phone trilled.

He dropped the dumbbells to the floor at his feet and snatched it from his bag. He hated himself for feeling disappointment when he saw his sister’s name.

“Wotcha, love, everyfin’ ok?” He slumped back on the bench, spare arm dangling between his legs as the burn of the lift faded.

I know it’s ya day off, but I need a favour…

”Right…”

We’ve got a regular in Chester who needs a home visit.

”Oh yeah, cheshire set, is he?”

Nah, he’s… a foreign national. Scary bloke, actually. And that’s the problem, all the girls are refusin’ t’ go.

”Did he touch one’uv‘em?”

No, no. Nothin’ like that. He’s just… scary. Lives in one of those big detached houses, and he has loads of… well, they called ‘em henchmen. Said it’s like walkin’ int’ mafia film, John.

”If he’s so bloody terrifyin’, why not jog ‘im on?”

It’s… not tha’ simple, la.

Price’s hackles went up instantly. Not that simple could mean a hundred different things, but all the dots were joining up in a way that made Price want to load his M1911 before he drove over. “Why?”

Look, I… if ya can’t do, ‘ll go meself, but…

”Don’t you bloody dare,” Price growled. “I’ll go. Send me the time, the address, what his usual is.”

He heard her breathe a sigh of relief down the phone.

Cheers, John. I… I owe y’bevvy, yeah?

“Stop tryin’ to set me up with Gary, and we’ll call it even.”

Oi, I was jus’—okay, fine. Gary is off the Price menu.

”Carol, I swear t’…” He glanced over his shoulder as the grunting behind him had gone conspicuously silent and the brief moment of eye contact was enough to make him drop his voice. “Right. Forward me the intel, and—“

She chuckled.

”Wot?”

I will forward ya the intel, big brother. Love ya, see ya later.

Price stared at the phone in his hand long after it had gone black. The heat under his skin was adrenalin. He’d recognise the bubbling rush of it anywhere; the heavy drum of his heart, the tightness in his chest. Excitement.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, get a grip,” Price mumbled as he chucked his phone into his bag and returned the weights. It was probably some sweaty billionaire who fancied himself the bloody Godfather. Normal people—people who hadn’t spent their entire adult lives fighting real mobsters, crooks and war criminals—saw a grim face and a sharp suit and were easily intimidated. Price would scope the place out and gather some more information on whatever the fuck this arsehole had on Carol, and then he would fix the problem. He was good at that. Fixing other people’s problems. It let him ignore his own for a bit longer.

#captain john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #mafia au #long fic

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magics-neptunes-things · 1 year ago

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Fire and Ice

Hi guys!

Yes I know it's me again! I got a request for a story with Leah, so here is a story with Leah.

I'm open to request btw :)

I hope this story will please you, I tried to stick as much as possible to the way I imagine Leah’s dynamique.

Part 2 is HERE :) and the chapter bonus HERE.

Thanks everyone ♥

____________________________________________________________

New to Arsenal, you’ve only been part of this team since this summer. You left Bayern Munich at the end of you contract and after some hesitation between different clubs, you finally chose Arsenal. Lyon would have loved to hire you too, but you felt that English football was probably better if you wanted to continue to evolve in your career. You're only 21 and hopefully, many years ahead of you.

You were scared at first to be honest, you know the team had a lot of players who already know themselves. But Lia was particularly welcoming to you, playing the role of a little mother. Frida, who is also your teammate in the Norway team, decided to show you her favorite places in London and Alessia who arrived at the same time as you quickly offered to do the exercises in training together.

In reality, your arrival at Arsenal was very smooth even if some personalities continue to impress you a little. For example Leah, Beth or Katie. As a result, you have very little interactions with them, as Leah’s injury has not helped to create a special bond with her. Even if she was present on the day of your presentation to the rest of the group, wanted to welcome you like the others.

You do, however, enjoy evenings organized by your teammates and you go regularly. Far from your family, you don’t know anyone here and it makes you feel less alone.

So here you are, in Leah's appartment with some of the Arsenal girls. You hesitated to come since Frida wasn't here, but Alessia is and hasn’t given you much choice to do otherwise. Leah was in charge of the cocktails and only gave Lia a smirk when she asked her what she put in it. You took the time to discreetly sniff the mixture before bringing it to your lips, pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of the drink. A little misleading though, because after two or three drinks, getting up to go to the toilet took a little longer than usual.

When you came back, you drop on the couch next to Alessia, trying to get back into the conversation. You became bit uncomfortable when you realize that the discussion has turned on the girls being in couple or those who are not. You are single obviously, finding it particularly difficult to have a long-distance relationship, or with one of your teammates. In the case of a breakup, you were always afraid that it would be too complicated for you to handle.

So you say nothing, hoping that hiding behind your glass will save you from possible questions. You are very naive.

"And you, Y/N? You never mention anyone, I guess you're single?"

Beth’s question makes you grimace and you find yourself nervously biting the edge of your plastic glass before answering a simple "Yes".

"Why that?" asks Beth and you just shrugs.

"We should make her up with someone" Katie decide and you can't help but laugh a little.

"I’m a little demanding about my partner"

"Not a problem"

You roll your eyes before taking a new sip of your drink, crossing Leah’s gaze. She seems lost in her thoughts, twirling her glass in her hand. Your eyes cross a split second and you hurry to report it to Katie when she speaks again.

"We should make you profil though. Like in a dating app"

"OMG yes, I going to take something to write!"

Alessia chuckles next to you and you can't help but smile too. You don’t really take this seriously, given everyone’s blood alcohol levels, you’re sure that half of this evening will be forgotten by tomorrow morning. So you decide to play the game with a smile.

"Ok, first question" Beth begin with a notepad and a pen. "What is your house in Hogwarts?"

"How is that even a question?" Katie answers with a disgusting face.

"It's not because you don't like Harry Potter than it's the same for everyone, McCabe"

************

You let the two girls ask you questions for twenty minutes, ignoring the departure of several of your teammates. Now it’s just you, Katie, Lotte, Beth, Leah and Alessia.

"Are you a good kisser?" Beth asked, looking over her sheet.

"How am I even supposed to know that?" you ask, giggling.

"I don't know, it's your kissing skills, not mine."

You roll your eyes before answering.

"I've never received any complaints"

"Does it count?" Katie asked while looking at Beth.

"Not really. Is there anyone in this room who can testify to that?"

"What? No!" you laugh softly.

You, in reality, only have two relationship in your life and both didn't end really well. Football keeping you very busy, you maybe weren't a great girlfriend. But that doesn’t mean your first girlfriend’s infidelity should be excused, in your opinion. Anyway, the next sentence coming from Beth's mouth take you back in the reality.

"Maybe we need a sincere testimony from someone we trust…" Katie said thoughtfully.

"Maybe we can make her kiss someone here, now?" Beth answers with the same tone.

"Excuse me?" you ask with a certain concern.

But the two women didn't seem to give it the slightest care, continuing in their dialogue which makes you slightly think of Dupont and Dupond in Tintin.

"Leah is definitely the most experienced of us, she has a hunt board longer than the number of goals scored by Alexia Putellas at FC Barcelona."

"What the fuck?"

This is the first time of the evening that you hear Leah's voice, who had been content until then to make cocktails and dance in the kitchen with Lia and Caitlin. Both of Beth and Katie laugh at her offended face, finally out of their common monologue.

"Come on Leah, you have to kiss Y/N to help her finding love"

"Don't I have any say in this?" you say softly.

Beth’s gaze makes you realize that you don’t really have much of a say, but it’s especially Leah’s piercing gaze that you feel on you that electrifies you. Leah is a very beautiful woman and you must admit that if you hadn't been teammates, maybe you would have thought of her differently. But there is also her assertive and confident personality that can sometimes confuse you, you who is rather quiet and discreet, you are a bit like fire and ice.

But tonight, your eyes meet a few seconds and for once you don't look away. It's even finally Leah who looks away to look at Beth.

"Ok" Leah answers before getting up "But I'm not doing it in front of everyone. Close all your damn pretty eyes"

They all agreed without saying any word, Alessia swaping place with Leah on the couches. The captain waits patiently for everyone to close their eyes, before looking at you.

"You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, right? You're sure you want to?" she asks softly.

So softly that it surprises you at first. And you almost immediately feel overwhelmed by a wave of guilt, after all you are very well placed to know that Leah knows how to take care of the people around her. She showed it to you several times as captain of her team.

"I am" you simply answer, before adding "And you?"

"Hey don't worry about me. Go on" she gives you a smirk of her own and you smile back.

You feel particularly nervous though, becoming a little aware of the situation you’re in. Leah doesn’t seem particularly drunk, but you’re hoping she won’t be mad at you tomorrow when she realizes things. You wait a few more seconds, detailing her face and eyes looking for a trace of hesitation. But you find nothing and you finally decide to break the physical distance between you two.

Your eyes left hers and you look at her lips for a few moments, certainly looking at them for the first time. It doesn't last long however. Like a second after that, you close your eyes, your lips gently touching hers. At this distance, you can smell her perfume and shampoo. Her lips are soft and have the flavor of the cocktail she has prepared for you all evening.

But that’s not what’s calling you.

What's calling you is the way your whole body seems to react to a simple peck with Leah Williamson.

You feel like every part of your body is burning up and asking for more of Leah’s. And that's scared the shit out of you. That’s why you step back after a few seconds, wide-eyed, looking for an explanation on Leah’s face. But you can’t find anything and you can’t even determine the emotion in her eyes.

"Tell us when you're finished" Katie points.

Of course, you forgot about them. Everything that didn’t concern Leah directly had been completely zapped by your brain.

"Shut up. We haven’t even started"

Leah answers for both of you and you hardly swallow, not at all recovering from the emotions you felt. That you still feel. A second later, Leah grabs your face with both hands before kissing you. You don't lose a second before responding to her kiss, your lips moving together with an ease you have never felt before.

It's easy for you to get lost in this kiss, the sensations mixing so much that you completely lose the notion of things. Your hands slide over Leah’s hips and you find yourself sitting on her, your legs on either side of hers.

That doesn’t seem to bother her though, her tong easily finding access to yours. Your lips only separate for a few seconds, until you get enough air to start your dance again. And again.

You could have sincerely spent the rest of the evening - the night - kissing her, but one of them had to realize that you were going to get the attention of your teammates. It was Leah who put an end to the kiss first, snatching from your embrace as breathless as you. You don’t look away this time either when she looks at you, before gently pushing you away so that you find your original place on the couch.

You could have taken this as a gesture of reject, but the smile and wink she offers you when she gets up seems to be there only to reassure you that it’s not. You follow her with your eyes as she discreetly go behind the couch, leaning on her backrest, above where she was sitting until now.

"How is it possible that it lasts so long?" Alessia wines and you smile when you hear Leah's laugh.

The other girls open their eyes and the surprise appears on almost every face by discovering your positioning.

"Did you really think I was going to kiss someone to please you? Well everyone out now, I need my beauty sleep."

Rolling their eyes or grumbling, your teammates obeyed quickly. After exchanging greetings, you follow Alessia who promised to take you home. Still disturbed by these kisses, you can’t help but turn around while closing the front door hoping to meet Leah’s gaze.

You succeed, while she leaned against the central island of her kitchen. The same look as the one she used to look at you earlier appears on her face, but you can’t study it as long as you would like since you feel Alessia’s hand grab your arm, suddenly eager to find her bed.

#leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso x reader #woso imagine #leah williamson imagine

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poorlywoventhread · 11 months ago

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I have been hardcore obsessed over Simon Riley X deaf!reader

Deaf!Reader somehow ends up as a drinking buddy to tf141. Though Reader isn't very clued in on what they do exactly, they appreciate the company. So, every month or so, they go out. Communication isn't easy, but Deaf!Reader lip reads and types their thoughts out. Deaf!Reader finds it hard to talk to Simon especially, not just because he's a man of few words but that goddamn mask. Simon is too stubborn to take that thing off and probably never will because of trust issues. When he, rearly wants to say something, he usually uses the notepad app on his phone.

Until one day, while everyone's trying to figure out a way home without driving, Simon catches the readers' attention and signs a basic sentence to the reader. This man is too stubborn to take off his mask, so he would rather just learn an entire ass language. The reader almost immediately breaks down crying. They're not used to being spoken to in their language. It's one of the few times someone has accomodated them.

I have never published a fanfic before let alone a oneshot, but this idea has been rotting in my brain for far too long. I'm considering turning this into a bigger better oneshot/series or whatever. This idea probably isnt original but if someone else has written it i haven't seen it

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#ghost x reader #cod mw x reader #cod #task force 141 #fanfics #cod fanfic #x reader #fluff #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #fanfic #ghost x you #ghost cod #ghost x y/n

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silentscrying · 5 months ago

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🏀 buzzer beater | chapter FIVE.

nba!gojo x manager!reader

summary: you thought you'd gotten rid of arrogant NBA star satoru gojo when he left the curses after your first year in basketball management. but when your contract is up three years later, you find yourself working with him once again as the manager for the sorcerers. as you navigate playoff season alongside long-time friend ieiri shoko and the sorcerers' insufferable star player, you start to realize his sudden departure from the curses may not have been what it seemed, and maybe gojo isn't exactly the person (or player) you thought he was, either.

warnings: language, minor injury, mentions of smoking, obscene amounts of pen-twirling and cryptic conversation. || sfw. 3.3k words. reminder that characters are aged up (bc tiny high schoolers ain't playin' in the NBA in any universe) and megumi & yuji & co. are only a few years younger than gojo.

FUSHIGURO’S PRESS SCHEDULE is wiped for the rest of the Phantoms series before you even get back to the hotel, and you and Nobara have mediated press releases and fielded questions about his condition—and Gojo and Hanami—back and forth for hours. Fushiguro will be out game four, but he’ll be fine, and Gojo has not been suspended from upcoming games. According to Nobara, Twitter is relieved to hear it.

The internet’s also blowing up over Gojo and Hanami’s almost-fight. You scrolled through Twitter for all of five seconds before someone said something along the lines of satoru gojo grab me by the shirt like that fr and you considered deleting the app entirely.

You’re trying to forget about the whole thing, or at least be pissed at Gojo, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but fixate on how protective he was of Megumi. It’s not like Gojo didn’t know the consequences of getting into a fight. Was it just that his need to put Hanami in his place, to stand up for Megumi, outweighed the threat of suspension?

Not wanting to keep Ieiri up (not that she’s sleeping, but on the off chance that her insomnia isn’t raging tonight, you aren’t looking to ruin it), you make yourself at home in the floor lounge area to finish your work for the night. You wrap up the Nike contract and send it over to the rep.

You waste the rest of the night away with the usual post-game rituals of paperwork and emails and calls, and only when you’ve closed your laptop and are about to head back to the room does Gojo poke his head into the common room.

“Hey,” he says, and it feels weirdly simple.

“Hey?”

Gojo takes this as an invitation, dropping into the chair on the opposite side of the table, boneless with the day’s exhaustion. He’s got a nondescript Nike tee and a pair of gray sweats on, and he’s ditched the headband so his white hair is falling haywire over his eyes.

For a second he says nothing, and then he glances at the pen on your notepad and picks it up, twirling it between two fingers. You roll your eyes.

“What’s up, Six?”

“I wanted to thank you for taking care of the Nike contract. And Fushiguro’s press schedule.” He clears his throat, like there’s something else he wants to say, and you wait him out. Without meeting your eyes, he says, “And I’m sorry for losing it on the court today. I know that, uh. Makes things harder for you. And Kugisaki.”

You freeze. It’s an unexpected gratitude. You’re starting to find that the apology, though, isn’t so unexpected. He’s been doing an awful lot of apologizing lately. It’s honestly stopped taking you so off guard. “Uh. Yeah, no problem. Just doing my job.”

“You’re good at it,” he says, pointing your pen at you. “Your job.”

“Thanks.” You laugh a little. “How’s he doing?”

Gojo hums absentmindedly and tosses the pen into the air, catching it with his other hand and resuming twirling it between his fingers. “Better, I think,” he says. “He’s with Yuji. Sleeping. Freaked him out a little, I think.”

Bits of your conversation from the locker room flash through your mind. Gojo’s hesitation, his anger, the questions upon questions building up in the back of your throat, the buzzer interrupting whatever answer you might have received.

“You’ve been… a little off, lately.” You bite your lower lip, debating whether to broach the topic. But his too-bright eyes are already trained on you, inquisitive, and the words are leaving your mouth before you know you’re saying them. “I mean, is it just playoffs? Or is there something else going on?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. You don’t often see Gojo speechless.

“It’s—ah, didn’t mean to worry you, Miss Manager.” He grins, covering up whatever emotion he was about to display with charm, that typical Gojo arrogance.

“Gojo.”

“You don’t have to call me that, you know.” You just look at him, waiting out the deflection. He sighs. Drops the pen back onto the notepad. Taps his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“It’s just San Diego,” he confesses after a moment. “I mean, you know. And Yaga doesn’t want us thinking that far ahead, but I can't help it. I just have this gut feeling they're making it to championships. So if we're really gonna win this thing, it's going to be us against them.”

“Not too late for Manhattan to whoop your ass,” you say, but you’re not serious and he knows it. He cocks a brow and snorts. “What is it about the Curses? Just that they know the way you play? That you’re on bad terms?”

Gojo grimaces. “It’s not necessarily that we parted ways on a bad note. More that Geto’s gonna do some weird psychological shit to trip me out, me and Gu—uh, Fushiguro.”

“Fushiguro.” You tilt your head, examining, searching, and decide to push it just a little. “Earlier, in the locker room—what were you going to say?”

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s long as Gojo searches for the right words, one hand tapping an anxious rhythm on the tabletop. You flick the pen so that it rolls off the notepad, stopping in front of him. Chuckling, he picks it up and resumes using it to occupy his hands. “You were right. That we didn’t play together in college. I, uh, actually met Megumi before he was in college. He was… like, the best point guard I’d ever fuckin’ seen. Recruited all over the place.” He sighs. “Not by our university, though. Probably—for the best.”

There’s a lot to this story, to this history. You know it the way you know Ieiri’s smoking out the hotel window right now—unseen, but inarguable, and not yours to comment on.

You’ll take what he can give you, for now.

“I was on a scouting trip when I met him. The trip was actually for the other team, but I’d never seen a point guard like that.”

Fair enough. Megumi is genuinely one of the best players you’ve ever seen.

“And I asked him about going D1, and he said he couldn’t.”

Couldn’t. What possible reason could he have behind that? Did he not think he was good enough? “But he did go D1,” you prompt.

“I… guess I kind of did him a favor?”

“What does that—”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Gojo blurts, like he wants to talk you down before you can accuse him of something. “It’s just that it’s not my thing to tell, you know what I mean?”

You sigh. “Yeah. I do.”

He drags a hand across his eyes. “I got closer to him than I meant to. Him and his sister, actually. Her name’s Tsumiki.” He smiles softly. “The sweetest girl. And we kept in touch throughout his college career. And then he was drafted here.” He shifts in his chair. “And I was traded here.”

Megumi told you himself that’s not the full story. And you were there when Gojo broke things off with the Curses. It wasn’t some simple trade. But you don’t push. He’s already told you more than you anticipated. You feel like you’re on the cusp of some revelation, some conclusion, but you don’t have all the pieces and you know Gojo won’t—can’t—give them to you.

“I think he feels like he owes me,” Gojo confesses quietly, staring at nothing. “Even though I always tell him he doesn’t owe me shit.” His admission is soft, almost like he doesn’t realize you’re listening.

His gaze snaps back to you.

“It sounds kinda stupid, and I know they’re not that much younger than I am, but they’re like… I don’t know. Family. So when Geto pulled that stupid shit with the Curses, I just—” He drags a palm down his face. “Sorry. I know they were your team too. I don’t mean to… like, try and put ideas in your head about them. It’s fine, seriously.”

Another sorry. You study him for a long moment, him looking more out of his element than you’ve maybe ever seen him, aside from that day with Geto. “Is that why you haven’t told me?” He looks down. “You didn’t want to influence my feelings about the Curses?”

It’s actually such an absurd, but weirdly considerate, line of thinking that you scoff out loud. “You know I left them, right? Same as you.”

“Your contract was up.”

“Gojo, I hated it there,” you say, surprising yourself with your own candor. “They were assholes. It was…” You trail off, wondering whether you should admit it. That it was worse when Gojo left.

You shrug. “This team is better than I could’ve hoped for.” You grin. “But I did not follow you here.”

“Oh, sure you didn’t,” he teases, and whatever unease sat in the air between you before melts away.

He throws the pen up in the air again, and this time it arcs forward. Your hand shoots out to catch it at the same time as his, and you suddenly find yourself staring at Gojo’s hand wrapped around yours, the pen tight in your fist. His hand almost entirely encompasses your own, and his grip is loose enough that you could shake it off if you want to.

He’s warm.

You’re about to say something when you look at his forearm, and realize that the skin has turned a mottled yellow. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re wrenching your hand out of his and grabbing him by the arm, pulling him closer to you, examining the rapidly darkening bruise.

“Did Hanami do this?” And you’re surprised by how angry it makes you. “Jesus, Gojo.”

“It’s fine,” he says softly, and he doesn’t try to pull away. You meet his gaze, strands of white falling into his eyes.

“It’s not.”

Time feels suspended around you, the heat of Gojo’s bruising skin on your palm, his eyes locked onto yours like there’s something worth reading there. You clear your throat. “You’ll just have to kick his fucking ass, then.” You let go of his arm, watch as he pulls it back to his side, drops the pen on the table.

“Guess so.”

“Rest up, Six. Phantoms won’t beat themselves.”

“Won’t they?” Gojo chuckles and rises from the seat, tapping the table in a farewell before taking his leave.

“Gojo?” He stops in his tracks, tilts his head like a confused puppy. It’s almost endearing. “Thanks,” you say. “For telling me, I mean.”

He grins, a surprised little smile. “Thanks for listening.”

When he’s gone, you stare at the place he was sitting, the pen he was twirling in his fingers. Thinking about the person you thought he was, the person he might be.

You’re so goddamn confused.

—

Hanami is starting for the Phantoms. That’s their first mistake.

You’ve seen your team pretty divided on a breadth of issues, from which pizza joint to eat at last night to political stances to play strategies. But the one thing they’re unanimous on is that nobody can hurt Megumi Fushiguro and get away with it.

Toge starts in Megumi’s place, which means Ino subs out pretty quickly so that Toge and Yuta are on the court together. But Ino doesn’t seem to mind, leaning in as he swaps out with Yuta to tell you, “I think they might kill Hanami by the end of the half.”

You should probably oppose murder as a general moral standard, but at the moment you kind of just want to see him get absolutely decimated.

There are a number of players you really haven’t seen angry before, Toge most of all—he’s not a vengeful person, not petty, but now he’s playing like Hanami has always been his rival, like he wants to drive him into the court and kick him while he’s down.

Gojo stays on Hanami’s heels like his giant, leering shadow. He’s making comments out of the corner of his mouth, and you don’t even want to imagine what kind of shit he’s saying. Hanami can barely move around on the court, let alone get a shot in, and you can see his frustration building.

Eventually he gets fed up and shoves his shoulder into Gojo’s chest to get past him with the ball, and the ref fouls him. Gojo grins for the entire duration of the free throw, practically dancing to his place on the court.

You’re trying to hide your grin, and by the look Nobara’s giving you, it’s not working.

She texts faster than anyone you’ve ever seen. Apparently she’s keeping Megumi up to date, because Yuji made him stay at the hotel and said if he turned on the TV with a concussion he’d sing “the concrete jungle wet dream tomato song” the whole flight home.

“Are you doing this in a group chat?” you ask, leaning over her screen. It’s called fushiguNO, and you laugh at loud as you realize it’s only Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi.

“It’s mostly me and Yuji. Fushiguro just lurks and dislikes every text with his name in it,” she says.

Over the course of the first quarter, your guys whoop Hanami’s ass. They’re pulling every trick in the book to make his life hell without getting called. It only works sometimes—Yaga has to tell them to cut back when they start running up fouls, especially Gojo, though there’s really no heat behind his voice. It’s just a practical matter. He wants to see Hanami get his ass beat just as much as the rest of them.

After halftime, the Phantoms coach pulls Hanami and doesn’t put him back on. It feels like even more of a victory than the 79-56 score.

As third quarter starts, most of the usual starters aren’t even on the court—they’re toying with the Phantoms. Kusakabe lets Junpei on the floor for more time than he’s ever gotten. You catch a few Phantoms fans slipping out early. There’s no coming back from this.

Gojo probably hasn’t had this little playing time in years, but he doesn’t seem to mind, at least as long as Hanami’s off the court. The point deficit has gotten so insane he could take a nap on the floor and it wouldn’t matter.

Anyway, the Sorcerers fucking sweep.

They win against Manhattan, four games in a row, and just like that the first round is over. It’s hardly a competition. You watch the Phantoms fans file out of the stadium dejected, their home team knocked out of the playoffs before they could really get going.

Ino grabs you by the arm and tugs you into a sweaty team huddle, a few of the other guys doing the same to Nobara and a very reluctant Ieiri. “Semis!” Hakari shouts, and the rest of the team echoes it, jumping around and putting each other in headlocks and being all-around obnoxious boys. Yuta hugs you and you smile, and then Nobara has Megumi on a video call, and then Yaga herds the team out of the gym with a barely-repressed smile.

“Baltimore!” Gojo hollers, coming to walk alongside you. “Gojo City. What do you think of that, Alley-oop?”

“Charm City,” you correct.

“That’s what I said.” He winks.

You roll your eyes. “I think I’m glad we have a fucking week before we have to fly back up to New England,” you say, but you can’t help grinning back at him. The week will be full of practices and film studies for the team, but you’ll at least have a bit more free time once everything is set up with Baltimore. You might even make it a whole day without seeing Satoru.

Oh, shit.

Shit.

When did you start thinking of him on a first-name basis?

“We swept specifically so you could have some free time,” he lies, and you chuckle.

“Giving yourself an awful lot of credit there.”

“That’s what he does best,” Kento drawls from Gojo’s other side, and then Ieiri catches up to you and shoos the boys off.

��Get your asses changed and out the door,” you call after the guys. “We have a flight to catch!”

The team disappears into the locker room, and you, Ieiri, and Nobara catch a cab back to the hotel. You settle the bill, make sure everyone’s luggage is accounted for, and find yourself doing a headcount on the team jet within two hours—an impressive turnaround, by their standards.

You throw Yaga a thumbs-up and head to your seat beside Ieiri, tugging your laptop from your bag to work on the short flight home.

You do not envy anyone who has to fly with a concussion.

Megumi spends most of the flight home with his face tucked into Yuji’s shoulder, headphones on and nose scrunched against the air pressure, and Yuji doesn’t stop rubbing reassuring circles on his shoulder the entire time. Yeah, you’re pretty fucking sure there’s something going on there.

Beside you, Ieiri is way too invested in a sudoku puzzle while you work furiously on your laptop, scribbling notes in the margins of your planner and reading up on the Wolverines.

After an hour or so, Ieiri gets up to go to the bathroom. You’re considering sprawling yourself over her vacant seat when Gojo slides into it instead.

“Well, excuse you.” You close your laptop before he gets any ideas about messing with your work, turning to him expectantly. “What?”

He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “I can’t spend time with my super lonely manager?”

“Ieiri left two seconds ago.”

“A long time to be in solitary confinement,” he says solemnly, leaning back and making himself at home in Ieiri’s seat. “Whatcha doin’?”

“I was working, until someone decided he needed attention.”

“Working on what?”

Resigned to the conversation, you maneuver yourself so you’re leaning against the window, one foot up on your seat. “Stuff for Baltimore.”

“Ah. Don't even worry about Baltimore. Non-issue. We'll win."

"So humble," you mutter. You glance at the printed bracket clipped into your planner, noting how the rest of the Eastern Conference is shaping up. "Well, they're higher seeded than you. Watch yourself."

Gojo waves his hand like this is irrelevant. "We got 'em. And then we'll play the Samurai, and it'll be great."

You do really want to play the Savannah Samurai. They've already won three games in their own series. Technically, you won't know if they sweep until tonight, but there's really no world in which they lose to the eighth seed. You played with their manager in college, Ieiri's friends with their trainer, and there are a bunch of connections among the players, too—trades, college teammates, even family ties.

"Hey, you know how Itadori’s half-brother plays for Savannah?” You nod. “Well. According to Yuji, he says their trainer is very not thrilled about the possibility seeing me again. Which is absurd, I think. I am an angel walking God’s green earth.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And so charming.” He nods, like you’re the one who said it and he’s just agreeing. “Just giving you a heads up that Utahime hates me. So you can defend my honor in the conference finals.”

“Bold of you to assume we don’t have a secret Anti-Gojo society already.” You’re well aware Iori Utahime isn’t Gojo’s biggest fan. You know they went to high school together, and you’re honestly just impressed she hasn’t killed him yet.

Gojo gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“She would,” Ieiri says, standing beside Gojo with arms crossed and brows raised. “I don’t recall inviting you.” She glances over Gojo’s head at you. “Do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Shokooo,” Gojo protests, but she jerks a thumb over her shoulder and he sighs dramatically and vacates her seat. He grins at you. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You scoff as he retreats back to his own seat, probably to bother Kento. Ieiri sits down beside you and gives you a weird look.

“What?”

She just smirks and goes back to her sudoku.

directory. || prev. || next.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #nba basketball #yuta okkotsu #geto suguru #ino takuma #ryomen sukuna #shoko ieiri #jjk hanami #nanami kento #hakari kinji #itafushi

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a-memory-a-distant-echo · 3 months ago

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ok! so i know that you're not to try to motivate yourself with punishment, however: i cannot argue with the results. also, @failonade asked, and who am i to deny the people in my phone the right to make fun of me?

most of this is under a cut because i cannot imagine it will be interesting to most people, but two or three of you will think it's hilarious.

why am i using a silly wip game to organise my stuff? well. because i am, generally, not much of a writer. when i'm working on things—like, for work, etc—they always end up with a standardised name, and i take notes as needed in either a notebook or a text file entitled 'work', as the vibes suit. this is not especially descriptive, but ctl-f for keywords gets me where i need to be, and it's fine!

unfortunately. this meant that when, for the first time in nearly a decade, i considered writing something, i thought to myself, 'it's fine! just stick it in a file called fic!'

it's worth taking a moment here to tell you that one of the things i enjoy about notepad++ is that it autosaves your tabs. they're not saved saved, but when you open the program again, they're in the same state. unless something went catastrophically wrong at some point. but usually they're in the same state! i mention this only because i have a bad habit, especially with work-related things, of simply closing notepad++ and telling myself that it will preserve things for me, something that works well 99% of the time and completely loses all the information that i'd made note of the remaining 1% of the time.

and so, for a minute, i did fic notes more or less the same way i take notes for work-related things: just an unsaved text file with no real headers or organisation, and nothing to mark the transitions between projects, because i can obviously tell that by keyword.

you may, at this point, have spotted the error that i did not: if one is writing several fics about the same show, there are not, in fact, easy keywords in the text that will tell you which bits were intended with which fic.

so i again, cleverly, thought, well, the solution to this is to use more text files, obviously. simply make one for every project.

an interesting thing about living in the future is the way that everything's so connected. people move seamlessly between locations and devices and you never even notice it happening, because everything is so connected. is my friend on the train while we're talking? on her sofa? at work? quite possibly all three, and on my end, this is entirely unnoticeable.

however, i am, it turns out, also a people! but do you know what is not connected? that's right. text files, especially if you are the sort of person who simply does not believe in saving text files, and believes in your heart that if the contents disappear, it's a sign that you should just let it go.

at this point, some people might stop and think, 'are all these text files really necessary? maybe there's a better way!'

that's quitter talk, tho. what i thought was 'yeah, i mean, i'll just add bits in my notes app or in my private discord server and then paste them into the text files later!'

which is a thing you can do. but at some point you find out that discord only likes to scroll back so far, and also that your notes app has a character limit, after which it tells you to get the fuck into the docs.

which you do, because what other choice is there?

a skilled observer, someone who's good at math and counting, may at this point notice that there are now four locations involved in this process. a skilled observer, or simply someone who is smarter than i am, which is a very low bar, might think, wow, that's kind of a lot of locations you've got there, buddy! sure would be a shame if things got all nonsensically jumbled together!

i, on the other hand. i found out about ellipsus, and i thought, oh, i'm just going to try this, i'll just throw a couple things in there and see how it goes. and so i did.

here is what i did not do: stop writing in the text files. or in the notes app. or in discord. i also did not transfer everything from the text files to ellipsus, or anywhere else. i also did not transfer everything from gdocs to…anywhere.

unfortunately, at some point in the past week, i've realised that at this point, i have a truly horrifying number of versions of some files. they're not labelled or even saved, in many instances. i keep finding things that i thought i'd fully deleted, or things that i have three versions of, and they're all within a couple hundred words of each other, but the most recent scenes have nothing at all in common.

which is to say that currently, my notepad++ tab bar looks like this.

if there's a .txt in the name, it means that it was, at some point, saved. when? well. that's not my business. i am now down to twenty-two open files. some of them have literally tens of thousands of words; some of them have work-style notes about medical appointments and bills and random phone numbers; some of them have notes about fics my friends are writing; some of them have as many as two or three sentences with absolutely no further context.

one of them contains, in total, the words 'not actually dead'. that's it, that's the file. 'not actually dead'. the period is outside the quotes because it is not in the fucking file. what did i mean by that. why did i feel that it needed its own file. what the fuck does this mean. we may never know! there's certainly not gonna be any insight from this corner!

another uninteresting fact about me is that i am, in many regards, sort of a minimalist. there are three open tabs on my phone. i have never accessed ao3 except in an incognito window. my search history is empty. i feel like having a dozen tabs open is a lot of tabs. (not you, text files, you're perfect.)

however, right now, i have seven tabs open (normal! fine!), and then…i have. this.

i am sitting here, three in the morning, waiting for a storm to (please please please) roll through, picking at a fic that i'm writing and also sieving through all these goddamned files (yes, the ones in notes and gdocs, too) and consolidating.

questions you may have, at this point, because they're certainly questions that i have:

is this productive? i don't know.

will this fix me? almost certainly not.

is this a good use of my time? i honestly could not tell you; never before have i been in this position, and i don't quite know what to do with it.

will this make it slightly less likely that i have to spend between three minutes and three hours skimming files and looking for the one thing that i want to work on? possibly. hopefully. perhaps. god i hope so.

#writing #can we call this a ~process~?#that makes it sound so much better than my disastrous life choices #it just never occurred to me that i would need to be able to reference my own files #they're not my business! why would i need to know what's in them!#turns out—#echoes linger #long post #<- that's a warning

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vampziry · 1 year ago

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law of assumption: diary/journal method.

—i was journaling and a thought just crossed my mind. if you are someone who loves journaling and writing down your thoughts, feelings or emotions, this might be good for you.

—i don’t know if someone already thought about this out there, this is called the diary method because this requires scripting.

what will you need?

—a small notebook/notepad (if you get tired easily while manually writing in paper, then you can use your phone notes) although i recommend you find an app specifically made for decorating notes so it can look prettier (your own choice though, if you like things plain then use your normal notes app instead)

—your desire (eg. something you really want at the moment or anything else)

—knowing how to live in the end.

why is this useful?

—some people find it hard to concentrate when manifesting, also going and affirming robotically doesn’t really work on them, instead it makes them feel more anxious. this method is gonna make your journey way easier if you struggle trying to live in the end. this is sorta like a rant.

what are you gonna do or how are you gonna do it?

if you’re using the notebook:

1- pick a desire of your choice, whatever it’s in your manifestation list.

2- start writing in a new page, get creative with it you can add deco, cute lettering, whatever makes you feel good or make the writing pleasant to your eyes. it’s like giving love to your desire.

3- script down everything about your desire in past tense, as if it just happened, explain in depth: your emotions, your mood after receiving it. your desire is supposed to be materialized and you’re telling your diary about it because it’s an event that already happened.

4- optional (only for people who struggle a lot while living in the end, if your self-concept is good, skip this step): read your script everyday or whenever you feel like youre doubting your assumptions, live in the end with each desire and set a time for it. (eg. i want a new dress, i script about it, down to every detail, how i felt wearing it, how cool it looked on me, how happy i felt when i first touched it, etc. choose a maximum. if u choose 3 days: live in the end for 3 days acting as a person who already has all that)

if you’re doing it in your notes app:

1- start a new note: each desire ≠ new note.

2- script down everything in past tense including your emotions, thoughts, feelings as a person who lives in the end.

3- if you have trouble, add a picture of your desire (if you can’t find the specific picture that may characterize your desire, then visualize vividly if you’re able to or add more depth to the script)

4- optional again, if you struggle by living in the end, re-read as much as you can. THIS IS ONLY TO REMIND YOURSELF THAT YOU ALREADY HAVE IT AND THAT CREATION IS DONE. don’t look for a how or for a why. it is done.

5- deadline for your desire and stay persistent.

#law of assumption #manifestation #affirmations #loassumption #loa success

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bows-of-velvet · 2 months ago

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Weird and entertaining things to do instead of e@†!ng.

( See my pictures! )

.⋆｡☾⋆☂˚｡⁺₊⋆.* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪ ☁︎.⋆｡☾⋆☂˚｡⁺₊⋆.* ♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪

𐙚 I love to organize my phone!! And getting the app themeopack so I can have decocted app icons 🥰 , getting rid of all the unused apps feels so refreshing.

𐙚 Make one of your stuffed animals into a purse!!! It's so so easy. ( Cut a straight line in the back of your stuffie, remove some of the filling, put a cloth zipper bag inside, then sew the zipper to the cut)

𐙚 Hair care!!! (Better to do in the evening ) I like to first do a scalp treatment, something with witch hazel or apple cider vinegar to cleanse my scalp. Then a leave in mask (Kristen ess is really good) or a spray conditioner (it's a 10! Brand) then do a oil ( Rosemary or keratin infused) on the very ends where it's dry. Put a shower cap on and go to bed, shower and double shampoo, and your hair will be so silky!

𐙚 Make bows!! There's some simple tutorials on YouTube. And put those bows on EVERYTHING. on your undies, on your clothes, on your bags, on your coffee cup.

𐙚 If you have ribbon, decorating your sweaters! There's the ribbon through the kneck line, or sleeves to add a cute touch!

𐙚 If you have clothes you want to donate, but you like the print (like a cute disty floral) make it into something else. I like to use old shirts and sew them into cute pouches for pads or makeup.

𐙚 Online shopping is definitely fun, I like to create like an inspo board using PicsArt. I love fashion so it's super entertaining.

𐙚 Go hunting for cute emoji things (˶ˆᗜˆ˵) and make a list on your notepad of cute ones. Using (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*。 Instead of 🥰 just feels so much more adorable.

𐙚 Clean your room, but get boxes for things to donate. Thin out your stuff. We all have things we haven't used in years. Then when you have less stuff redecorate and make it Pinterest worthy. (Currently in the middle of this!)

𐙚 Play brain games, like spelling or math. Sounds lame, but it feels kinda good.

𐙚 Go shopping for really unique things, right now I'm trying to find a floral flavoured toothpaste. I only found one brand..

𐙚 Go perfume shopping online. So so many different scents.

𐙚 Propagate plants LOL a lot of plants, like ivyz are easy to propagate.

-Look for a long, healthy stem with multiple leaves and nodes (nodes are the small bumps or joints where leaves grow out of the stem).

- cut a section of the vine about 4-6 inches long. Make sure it includes at least 2--3 nodes.

- Place the cut end in a glass of water, ensuring at least one node is submerged. Keep it in indirect sunlight, and change the water every few days. Roots should appear in 1-2 weeks.

Decorate your room with all the cute propagations!

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pillowspace · 2 years ago

Note

I just randomly was scrolling through my feed and saw something about you being a songwriter?

If this is true, do you have advice for writing original songs?

Thank you and have a good day

-Q

I've been songwriting since I was 2 years old, so I'll try my best to explain, but I've never put it into words before. Nor do I know if this is good advice, but!! This is how I do it

An app I use for songwriting is Lyric Notepad, but if you just want to use a website for finding rhyming words, that can work too. So: if you don't know what you want the next line to be and you're stuck, it's good to check what would rhyme with the previous line. I've found that just seeing these stray words can give me ideas for what the entire section could be

Don't force it if you're not in the mood! I've had to scrap entire songs because I pushed myself past a limit, and the quality significantly suffered for it. Only songwrite if you think you can

If you come up with a stray tune or line that you think sounds good but you don't know how to progress past it, record it or write it down somewhere and just leave it for later. Then when you're next writing a song and you don't know how to progress, you can add in that tune/line if it's fitting to the song you're writing. Like a... recycle bin

Sometimes I stop singing the lines to myself while writing, and pretty much just start writing flat poetry that doesn't actually have a flow of any sort. Um. Avoid that. Make sure there's an actual tune to what you're doing <//3

I've found that my best songs come from me recording myself humming random notes rather than just diving straight into the words. If I think something I hummed sounded very good, I then write down a bunch of placeholder words for the tune (it can be literal nonsense, just whatever makes you remember the syllable count.) After that, I go over it with actual lyrics. I only sometimes do this method, but it usually goes well

If you songwrite a lot, you'll start to pick up on what phrases and words you like, making things easier and easier. There's no shame in taking a little bit of inspiration from your surroundings. For example, I seem to often write the words "debris," "rotten," etc.

You can set a theme for yourself at the start of a song! My most recently written song had the theme of "ballroom yandere," my song before that was "touch-starved vampire," uhhh a song of mine that I love but haven't ever posted was "someone meeting a faery who tries to learn how to love the singer." You can get fun with it. Don't worry if you stray away from the theme, my "person who's distraught by their enemy apologizing to them" song quickly turned into "enemies who care about each other somber in the aftermath of a battle"

You can study how the lyrics of other songs are structured. Like verses, chorus, etc. You don't have to follow this too closely though if you don't want to

Uhhh!! I'm not sure if I have anything else to say

#ask

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justslowdown · 8 months ago

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Creative development I didn't see coming... I've always been an intensely visual artist and trying to learn instruments feels like my hands are made of wet spaghetti. I was too afraid of embarrassment, even alone, to learn to sing before the past 8 months or so, but I've found my voice and opened up new parts of it

Turns out the painful process of getting out of your head, of discovering how much more there is to experience, can open up new ways of processing and creating

I won't be ready to share any of it for a long time

but it feels right to be doing this, just like the collage-poetry

I keep waking up with song in my head, or finding it when I'm running or in some other flow state, that I've never heard before but isn't new at all--it feels like it's always been there. Not just lyrics, but the rhythm and pitch of it just feel... natural or innate

The subconscious and the deeper current of the river is so much more aware than surface consciousness! Learning to experience, sense, and trust the 90% of my mind and soul that ISN'T conscious thought has been necessary for this, I think

The songwriting comes easily, easier than poetry for me, which is strange because I could never incorporate rhyme in my poems and rhythm was challenging. Now, as long as I don't think about it, the songs are just... there, if I can write them down before they go. Or sing them! That's what makes the rhyme and flow make sense

The first time it happened, I was trail running and a ray of sun hit my eyes through the pine trees. I was struck with an intense sense of singularity, of being there, then, and how deep of an honor it is to experience living. A few lines bubbled up in my head and more came as I kept running

The strangest thing is that I only understand about half of what I'm writing. I'm very certain the other half is going to make sense eventually. I don't mean sense as in logical; it's all easy to follow, but experiential/emotional/spiritual/metaphysical. The discovery ahead is thrilling to me

Especially when I'm in a half-lucid dream and experiencing so much more that I CAN'T bring back in conscious thought, but feels the exact same way!

I still get that "can't bring it back" with the instrumental or electronic parts of the songs, which is intensely frustrating. Some of them are like Aphex Twin, Royksopp, and Sufjan (of course) had a weird baby, some are more like Beach House, or basic indie singer-songwriter stuff, so it's all over the place

Rarely do they stick in my brain, since I can't play any instruments (yet? I'm hating trying to learn from videos, I need human hands to help show me)

so I don't have context to remember the "grammar" of it

Going to try and learn how to do some electronic stuff today. At least I already know how to use Audacity from my freaky, morbid, multimedia sculpture days. Bless programs that still function exactly the same instead of looking like iPhone apps........

Speaking of, I finally moved all of this from my notes app and something about how bare bones basic Notepad is has sparked some organization

#my art #i guess?

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classystudentpartyslime · 5 months ago

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You ain't reading allat

Found this in my notes app, it's a year old, let's go (⁠ノ⁠ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ⁠)⁠ノ

Hangout later

The fan in my bedroom hasn't been working for the past few days.

This isn't a problem– shouldn't be, atleast. It's winter.

Or that's how it may seem to others.

It has caused issues for me.

I mean, I find myself staring at it more often.

That in itself wouldn't be the problem, if I hadn't also been staring at the sturdy looking bedsheets, the calendar, the small ladder, a notepad, and a pen.

But I am. Way too often.

I think we often tend to miss things when they're in motion. Or we're in motion. Aren't we all in motion? The earth is spinning, after all. But it seems with the fan, I have stopped too. So now, with many thoughts behind my unoptimally functioning eyes, and from behind the sizeable lenses cased between the frame of my painfully dull black glasses, I stare.

I stare at many things, but the fan, mostly.

You see, it's not that cold yet. If the fan hadn't stopped, I'd be cozier in the night, with its regulator turned to the second last notch complimenting the weight of a thicker-than-usual blanket on my body in a way that lulls me into an easy sleep.

But, no. It had to stop. So I stare as sleep evades me, today of all days, when I felt I needed it most.

It's too warm with the blanket, suffocating. Just slightly too cold without it, in a way that stings only the back of my legs and my thighs. There is no peace either way.

My phone's ringing. I ignore the sound till it stops. I think of the days where I didn't, and how those conversations went. Tonight I don't feel like listening. Or speaking, for that matter. So I settle with staring at the fan. The phone finishes ringing and doesn't ring again.

I remember when I was younger, I used to get on top of the ladder and try to reach the blades. I'm sure I could now, if I tried, but I haven't in a while.

Maybe because that information would only cause me more unrest. Push me harder towards resting once and for all, maybe not flat on my back, but not on my feet, either.

Because I'm not that tall, so my feet wouldn't touch the floor, even if the fan hanged a little low.

The right earphone is working. The sound of chirping crickets replaces the music that's supposed to flow in from the left one. It's been broken for a while, now. So many things are, now that I think about it.

My right ear starts ringing, and suddenly I can't hear any music at all.

Usually, I'd hear the dull whirring of my fan, and the sound of air being whipped around. But there's none of that either. The sound of my thoughts occupies that silence.

I think the fan's staring at me, too. Wondering why I spend so much time decomposing on this bed. Why I'm thinking so hard, prolonging a decision that I know I will end up taking. Why I've been here so long, not even moving any part of my body except my eyelids and irises. I think the fan is tired of looking at my face. I feel sorry for my fan. Maybe things are easier for it when it's spinning, too. I feel it isn't happy with the way I'm planning to use it, at all.

What if it gives out from the ceiling, and we both fall?

My fan falls, and it says, "It's all your fault. Maybe I was a little flawed– maybe I stopped spinning for a while. For such a minor crime, did you really have to destroy me? Now I've left a hole where I was, and the ceiling misses me. I will be thrown out soon, and I'll end up in the dumpyard with the rest of the trash. Can't you have done something different?"

"Stupid girl. Look at what you did."

And I don't have an answer for my fan. Really, this was an inconsiderate decision. I never thought it would fall alongside me...but I'm not really sorry.

"So what if you didn't?" My fan says. "It's still your fault."

Still my fault. That sounds right. I've decided that most things are. I think about how I haven't heard an apology in very long.

I must really have gone insane, because fans don't speak, and I never even left my place on the bed. My fan still hangs from the ceiling, perfectly still, like it has been for days.

I think about what my fan said to me, when I realise that maybe sleep is upset with my eyes tonight for having paid no heed to it's gentle nudges throughout the day, and has decided to refrain from paying them its daily visit out of pettiness.

I think of asking my fan why it stopped.

My fan reads my mind, because it answers though I never end up asking. "Why are you always questioning me? Can't you be glad I chose a time where you don't need me as much? Atleast it's not summer, I worked hard for you this summer." my fan says.

"I gave you what you wanted, when you wanted it. What more do you want from me?"

And my fan sounds so upset, that I feel a little bad for asking in the first place. Even though I didn't really ask, and it never really answered. I'm going to stop asking if it's so sad all the time.

This whole back and forth that I just had with my fan, or didn't, sounds a little familiar to me. Or doesn't. Because I never had this conversation with someone else, but if I did, they would act out my part, and I'd be acting out the part of my fan.

I think I already do, to some extent.

"I don't know, have you thought about apologising?"

"Hello? But I'm not sorry?"

"Oh. Okay."

"..."

I think about how I don't exactly sympathize with my fan, and wonder whether it's the same for other people too. How exhausting it must be to have to badger me with questions even when I'm not causing them trouble.

"I gave you what you wanted, when you wanted it. What more do you want from me?"

"...I'm going to stop asking if you're so sad all the time."

Maybe my way of looking at this is wrong to begin with. Maybe my fan stopped moving because it died. Maybe what hangs above me now is its corpse. Such a morbid thought. We'd match if I hung my corpse from it, too. Just two hanging corpses, that were maybe friends.

"I don't know," my fan says. "Are we friends?"

"You're supposed to be dead," I say, or don't.

"Well, if you want me to be." My fan sounds upset again. "Do you want me to be?"

"That depends. Do you want to be?"

My fan doesn't answer that question. Maybe it realised that it's supposed to be dead, and shouldn't have been speaking in the first place, or it just now died, or it simply didn't feel like answering. Looking at my fan, it's not clear which one it is. Maybe it has no answer.

It's silent now, it occurs to me. It's a weird thought because it has been silent the entire time, but this silence feels more concentrated. Atleast now I'm thinking about a possible schizophrenia diagnosis instead of about killing myself. If I told someone about tonight, they'd probably laugh at me. I'd laugh with them, because it's funny, there's no denying that.

"What do you mean? I do tell you everything."

"That can't be true."

"Yes it is. It's not my fault my life's so uneventful."

"...."

"What? It is true."

Because my fan speaking to me, but not exactly, can't really be considered a real event. Right?

It's too quiet save for the ringing in my right ear, and that sound is not one that I'm fond of. So I ask my fan why it's speaking to me.

"I'm not," it says. Now that just makes matters worse.

It doesn't clear up whether my fan is dead or not. Can inanimate objects die? It doesn't even clear up whether or not it's speaking to me. I suppose if a fan can speak, a corpse should be able to speak too, since they're both inanimate. What about a fan-corpse then? Or a corpse-fan?

There's an obvious answer to all of this, of course. If inanimate things never lived in the first place, then they can't die. And by that logic they can't speak either.

"That's right." My fan confirms.

"You're going against what you're agreeing with," I say. Or think. I don't really know.

"No, that's you." My fan says, even more upset for some reason. "I haven't been speaking in the first place. It's all you."

Jesus Christ. Maybe I shouldn't have asked why it's speaking to me.

My fan doesn't respond any further, probably since my right ear stopped ringing and I can hear the music again.

I pick up my phone and turn off the song, but my fan doesn't speak anymore. This time I don't bother figuring out why. I'm not sleepy, but I don't have the energy to move more than my hands. My fan can't die, so it stays stuck between being alive and being dead, miserable in its own existence. There's no reason for me to exist that way, except for right now, when the reason is that I'm exhausted.

I don't know how much longer I can farm that excuse, because I'm growing increasingly frustrated with my own incompetence. Can't even get up to hang yourself? What a joke.

I'm miserable tonight, like I've been last night, and the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that, and many many nights before that. My body aches and so does my mind, especially my eyes as they stare at the fan.

I want my existence to end.

Was that me or the fan?

Whoever it was, it's now 2:32, so I have to wait till 3.

__________________________________________

My fan is fixed now btw

#writing #first post #writeblr #rambles #rant #fan #like the actual ceiling fan #i don't fucking know #what was i on #vent #vent post #bungou stray dogs #because why the hell not #??? idk

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virgo-moonlight · 1 year ago

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does anyone have any tips for keeping up with your book of shadows? I’ve been practicing for quite a while now and I did start a BOS in the very beginning but I’m just so bad at putting things in it… I often find myself writing notes and spells on various notepad paper and in my notes app and there’s just a collection of info and workings scattered around my altar and in the box I keep a lot of my books and other tools for practice. sometimes I don’t write anything down and just wing it based on what feels right in the moment.

something I’m really going to try to work on this coming year is to get all the things I’ve learned and understood and researched into a book for my reference. but I also think I want to create a separate book specifically for spell work and ritual. that feels best to me. a sort of ‘textbook’ of my current practice, and an active book of my ongoing workings and rituals.

any tips or advice and recommendations would be SUPERB 🫶

#witchblr #witchcraft #witch advice #witches of tumblr #witch #book of shadows #grimoire

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mustfindcreativeusername · 7 months ago

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Granada Homes Season 2 thoughts

(again, straight from the notepad app)

1. COPP (7 aug)

Well i didn't recognise the title at first bc i read the story in Romanian and the translation was. Different than i would've expected. But yeah. I think i said "oh i did read this" three or four times.

The guy was... creepy. And i did not enjoy the telling-funny-stories bit. I'm usually not impressed with "and this is the ending of a very funny story!" *Everybody laughs* bits in tv shows/movies, i can only remember one time** where this sort of thing made me laugh. But... Yeah. Were we supposed to find him funny then? Miss Hunter did. Anyway, it just seemed extra creepy to me.

I think my favourite part was Holmes talking about the dangers of remote rural areas. I mean. He's right.

**The pool story from Doctor Who S4Ep10 Midnight. Here it is, 1:02

2. GREE (8 aug)

Watson being shocked that Holmes has a brother:))

The quiet bit in the club was actually a bit creepy. Unsettling at least.

Also i think Watson was trying to guess which one was Mycroft.

Was that one child tripping unscripted? Seemed so.

I loved the train scenes. Oh and i loved the scene where that guy falls out and Holmes has too phisically hold back both Sophia and Watson. Poor Watson seemed genuinely horrified even tho the guy was a murderer.

Bonus:

Me: Look!! They're holding hands!!

Roommate: Uh. A man just died?

Me: And? :D

3. NORW (9 aug)

Oo i enjoyed this one.

I had no idea what was gonna happen, did not read the original story.

Obviously the premise was pretty cool, i kinda called that he faked his death to blame the boy but still.

I love seeing Holmes in disguise.

Also, the part with Watson coaxing him to eat something?? Bro when i tell you i teared up. He was so gentle with him. *Massive sigh* I love them sm...

Also when Holmes motioned for that housekeeper to go away? He almost killed both of us in one go- i choked on air, my roommate choked on her drink. He's so drmatic, he's a danger to society (affectionate)

Also both me and my roommate wanted to kick Lestrade in the face at some point.

Yeah

4. RESI (10 aug)

"What in the magnus archives is going on?"

Twas a nightmare.

I liked this episode. Fun fact: i am currently midway thru this story in the books. So. Pretty cool. Yea.

Man i was so proud of Watson for deducing stuff about Holmes and then Holmes was like nahh actually you're very wrong

(I did guess he was tapping to a song tho, it was pretty obvious)

...i must say. The... Vocabulary in this episode. ...interesting. 👀

Does Holmes really not know where he keeps his papers?

Poor Mrs Hudson tho :((

I actually saw that *enters the room* *screams* scene a couple years ago, but i didn't know what adaptation it was from.

5. REDH (11 aug)

Mhmmmmmhmhm i dont like thissssssss

I know this story very well and i did not. Expect Moriarty.

I mean it makes sense bc the next one is the final problem (mmmmm😞😞) but i didn't quite put two and two together

[Also i kinda expected them to be lazier and just introduce him at the beginning of FINA]

Umm but yeah about the episode. As i said, i knew the story, one of my favourites since i was a child.

I really loved Watson this episode. He gets to explain Holmes' deductions again. Oh and the part where he was trying not to laugh while the client talked about the letter A.

I guess both him and Holmes lost it at "artificial kneecaps"

Yet another episode where someone doubts Holmes' abilities. (Tho this one was slightly less annoying about it)

"Amateur"

At least Watson jumped to correct him

Oh and i think my brain had an error at the end when Holmes lights Watson's cigarette while speaking french. Like i had subtitles but i have no idea what he said.

Roommate didn't catch it either ("for the best, i choose to believe he was telling Watson he loves him:))" )

Also: Holmes at the concert looked like a cat. A very pleased cat

Also also: If i ever jump over a couch to get someone to stay with me and it's not a life-or-death situation, consider me absolutely smitten.

But.. yk.. that's just me 🤷

6. FINA (11 aug)

Well it certainly got my heart pounding

The first five minutes or so were actually the worst i think

I mean to say, he looked more in control of himself at the end than in those first 5 minutes. Like i legit almost started crying seeing him scramble for his life like that. Horrible

Mrs Hudson wanting to celebrate...... Stop..

Did NOT enjoy looking at Watson through that sniper's lens. (+ I had Bbc Sherlock flashbacks)

Honestly about the whole middle part.. i don't know what i can say that has not been said. Them in the dark, with only a candle, the "will you come with me" part, Watson rushing to the train and looking so worried bc he wasn't seeing Holmes

*Sigh*

And the fuckin letter. The fact that Holmes knew it had to be a trick but he didn't wanna give it away so he just. Waved him off so hurriedly.

Yea yea run along we'll meet up in a bit I'm not even gonna look at you go that's how normal this goodbye is (I'm probably never gonna see you again)

Oh and the way he rushed back when it clicked.

That's probably the first time in ~a week they were apart. And the one time he leaves him on his own...

Yeaaaah

The fight was silly. And kinda. Anticlimactic. I mean at least make Moriarty have a gun.

(He'd allow Holmes to write the letter while holding him at gunpoint. The letter is done. He approaches to execute him. Holmes lunges at him to get the gun. They struggle. The gun falls, so now they're just beating each other up. Aaand then they fall.)

But. Yeah. Poor Watson. It was a very restrained reaction but still. It was so sad to see him cry.

Oh and as if that was not enough, Watson's "this is the last time I'm telling you a story about Holmes" bit was double damage bc.. yeah. This is the last time we see this guy talk about Sherlock. This guy being the actor but still.

(Ngl it reminded me of the Doctor Who regeneration scenes)

#granada holmes #thoughts #copp #gree #norw #resi #redh #fina #the copper beeches #the greek interpreter #the norwood builder #the resident patient #the read headed league #the final problem

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darkx-the-dragon-kn1ght · 1 year ago

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Pokémon Reborn Screenshot Let's Play: Chapter 2

Welcome, anyone and everyone coming here from Chapter 1! If you’re one such person, then I must have been at least somewhat entertaining for you to have come here for more.

So! The second installment of my Pokémon Reborn screenshot Let’s Play. I actually planned on posting this yesterday, but I discovered that Tumblr has a "daily image upload limit", which...because of how many parts this chapter is, I ended up reaching, so I had no choice but to wait until today.

As alluded to in the previous chapter, I’ve decided on a new method of taking notes for commentary as I play the game- and by that I mean I’m just taking brief notes using the Notepad app on my phone off the side while I play. Quicker than writing out all the commentary as I go, right? I vibed with it pretty well throughout the making of Chapter 2- you can see the change in results for yourself, with how much longer this part is compared to the last one (hence my issue with the image upload limit).

Also- another slight change to how these are being written.

In order to make it less awkward for me to distinguish between me X (the actual real-world person writing all of this) and the in-game X (the player avatar Pokémon Trainer) in my writing, I will henceforth be referring to my player character in these posts with an actual name, that name being: Xera.

Why didn’t I just give my character this name in the first place instead of naming her after myself, you ask? Simple: I did not consider how off it would feel writing-wise to keep trying to refer to me myself IRL and my player avatar differently when the names are literally the same.

Normally, naming my characters after myself is fine for me- calling my player avatars in certain games “X” is second nature by now. However, normally I’m also just playing games myself, alone, I’m not usually writing down commentary and posting it publicly. Therefore, there’s no need for me to distinguish which is which in writing, because I’m not writing down anything. So, to emphasize: this is for my own sake, you’re all able to tell the difference I’m sure, but this is to make writing recaps and commentary easier for me in the future.

Don’t worry, Xera will be just as much of an avatar/player surrogate as ever as I simultaneously attempt to develop my own sense of character for her; yes, these can and will coexist, you cannot stop me.

Oh, speaking of recaps!! What actually happened in the last part? Well, in summary:

I chose and named my avatar (one can just say “X” is like a nickname for her or something if they want), at the same time discovering brunettes don’t exist in this world and thus choosing to be someone with white hair instead.

Xera meets Ame, a fellow white-haired lady who is also the manager of the Reborn Pokémon League and is thus trying to recruit other Trainers to sign up for it.

Ame brings up an Incident(TM) in Reborn’s semi-recent past that wrecked the League and almost left the region abandoned. She does not elaborate.

Ame also asks Xera if she had some message/password for her (she didn’t). She still does not elaborate.

A fedora-wearing ghost figure appears, then disappears just as quickly. Shortly after, the train we’re all on crashes into the train station (called Grandview Station) and explodes.

Just before the explosion, Ame is able to save Xera by tackling her and herself out of one of the train’s windows in a certified “MISS PRESIDENT LOOK OUT!!” moment.

Xera awakes to find Grandview Station in ruins, with everyone else on the train (including the other Trainers) presumably killed.

A green-haired woman named Julia arrives on the scene, drawn to the sounds of explosions and death and destruction. Ame is not amused.

Ame determines that this was a deliberate attack and heads off to help with the investigation, instructing Xera to go look for another Trainer who was supposed to register as well. She is to then head for a building called Grand Hall, where she will receive a starter Pokémon.

After Ame leaves, Julia properly introduces herself: a cheerleader with a love of all things explosive and also the Electric Gym Leader.

Absolutely no technical issues with Tumblr and private post URLs took place at all, everything was uploaded correctly the first time.

And now- the second chapter! Let’s see how this’ll go with the changes to commentary-writing and avatar naming I brought up.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

#pokemon reborn #pokemon reborn spoilers #pokemon fan game #pokemon reborn screenshot let's play

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