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songbird-of-eden · 1 year

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A CLUE?! The Missing Death Theory

Good Omens S2 SPOILERS below!!!

Okay, it has been the nocturnal habit of mine over the last 3 days to suddenly dwell on the Good Omens finale and scrutinise every detail in a sleep-deprived thought soup.

And apparently, tonight, my last two remaining braincells fired up their little engines and decided to put something rather interesting together.

One thing that got me when I watched the finale was the book that Muriel was reading. "The Crow Road."

So I decided to give it a quick Google, and realised the opening line of the book is one that Gabriel, or Jim, stumbled across earlier in the season. It goes like this:

"It was the day my grandmother exploded. I sat in the crematorium, listening to my Uncle Hamish quietly snoring in harmony to Bach's Mass in B Minor, and I reflected that it always seemed to be death that drew me back to Gallanach."

Now, you may be thinking, okay, but what does this have to do with anything? And you would be right to be confused, but hear me out.

Death has a major, reoccurring influence in S2.

Yes, we have the obvious coffee shop "give me coffee or give me death" reference (this has a major point that I will get to a little later, but please, bear with me). But that is not the only one.

Throughout each episode, Death has been raised and eluded by numerous characters. In ep2, Jobe's family were saved by our ineffable duo. In ep3, we have the incident with the graverobber and stopping her from calling it a day. In ep4, we have the rise of the nazi zombies. In ep5, our unfortunate fellow from the ball gets thrown to the demons and appears to die, only to make a reappearance later on in ep6, albiet looking a little nibbled on.

And then there's the fact that miracles, as Crowley points out, are measured in "the power required to raise people from the dead."

Still with me? Okay good. Because its gonna get a little more crazy from here. Time to break out the funky tinfoil hats.

So, yes, many of the characters seemingly ellude death, right? Not a big point at first glance, considering the upbeat nature of the show... until you consider this.

Whilst in the coffee shop, the Metatron asks whether anyone ever chooses death instead of coffee. A weird line to be sure - perhaps an awkward statement of an angel unsure of how to interact with mortals. Totally plausible, right? Well, what if it was a test?

Nina claimed to remember everyone by what they order, and replied that no one has ever chosen death. I mean, I would hope so, but what if Death was no longer a thing that happened?

What if our devious Metatron wrote Death out of the Book of Life, considering that Death is a being instead of a simple concept as shown in S1 - and so the Metratron was asking as a test to gauge Nina's response. To figure out if his alteration had taken effect?

Okay, yes. It sounds a little wild, but if that is not the case, it does not mean that something is not going on with Death.

Going back to The Raven Road book, the plot follows a boy in pursuit of uncovering the mystery around his missing uncle. So perhaps, it is not so crazy after all to believe that something, or rather, someone is missing.

Which leads me to another missing creature.

Remember that heartbreaking line from Crowley? "You hear that? No nightingales?"

It was the dagger in many fan's hearts, but potentially held another meaning. Because in the poem: "Ode to a nightingale", the bird is used to represent, to an extent, death. As well as the concept of immortality.

Which means it's disappearance may be signalling a strange shift in the world.

Which brings me to my final point. We are in the home stretch now kiddos!

The second coming. The Metatron's grand plan.

In biblical text, it states that the Second Coming will be a sudden and unmistakable incident, like "a flash of lightning".

Now, where else did we see lightning? Hmmm. What about Crowley's enraged outburst that sealed poor Maggie and Nina in the coffee shop?

Which makes their line an episode or two later even more interesting...

Maggie: "Did it all start with the lightning?"

Crowley: "No, way before that."

Does this mean that events were starting to be influenced and set in motion way earlier as the Metatron began to tinker in the book?

We also have the name of S2 ep1 being called "The Arrival" - a name the Second Coming is sometimes referred to as, along with the text: "For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel's call and with the sound of God's trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise."

So, just take a moment to digest that.

An archangel's call. Well, we've had two of those - Gabriel calling on Aziraphale as well as Aziraphale being called to heaven. Then we have the trumpet that plays whenever Micheal and co descend from Heaven, a sound Aziraphale actually asks whether Maggie could hear.

Which leads to the final part: the dead in Christ will rise.

People are not dying as they should, be it from the influence of our ineffable duo, or perhaps, it is the Metatron's plan after all. A way to start the second coming.

Even the opening credits alludes to this with Crowley and Aziraphale seemingly leading a crowd of humans out of hell and through various time periods, but perhaps I really am getting ahead of myself.

So yep. Something is very up with Death.

Anyway. I need to be up in 5 hours for work. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk before the incoherent babbling begins.

#good omens #neil gaiman #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #goodomens #missing death theory #the missing death theory #theory #good omens season 2 #good omens season finale #good omens theory

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annwayne · 1 month

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Writing Interview Tag Game!

Thanks @bagheerita and @chaniis-atlantis atlantis for the tag!! This looks like lots of fun :3 Interesting to see what all everyone says.

(questions w/o answers below the read more.)

About me

When did you start writing?

Sixth grade, otherwise around 10/11? I think that's how old I was in sixth grade lol.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Absolutely! I write mostly romance and fantasy/sci fi, but I love most genres. Murder mysteries are a particular favorite of mine.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Not a clue. I read voraciously as a child until college, and just now I'm starting to pick the habit back up again-which is to say I couldn't tell you what authors inspired me as a kid and I'm not familiar enough with any authors I'm reading now to tell you what I want to emulate. No one has compared my writing to anyone that I know of.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I mostly write on the pc, which is in our office. The desk is not deep enough to my liking but the chair is comfy. Perry's got a bunch of little knickknacks all around the monitor (since it's his side of the desk technically) and I've got a bunch of shelves full of decorations, collectables, so forth, along the wall/in the shelves that connect to the desk.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Engage with the material that first sparked inspiration over and over and over again. This keeps the ideas flowing and often brings about dreams of said material, which help greatly.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Hahahahahaha. Ha. Yeah, you could say that.

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Yes and no. See the question above.

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

You're asking me to pick a favorite child 😩 Ok. I'll talk about Alice bc I'm working on the sga bridgerton!au. Alice's backstory isn't fully figured out, I'm debating if she'll be adopted or not. I know for sure her relationship with her family is terrible and that's why she was so willing to join the Atlantis expedition despite no guarantee of return. She never learned how to balance work and life, thus leading to a rather isolated adulthood where she spent most of her time in the lab. But hey, her work was well acclaimed and got her to the Pegasus galaxy. Her personality has really come through while working on this bridgerton!au fic. She's terribly anxious, but aware of that anxiety having little logic behind it, so a lot of her actions are based on being brave despite being terrified. She's very courageous in that sense. I'd say her biggest arc (at least in the bridgerton!au) is learning how to voice her wants. She's good at speaking up for others but not so much for herself. Also genderweird feminine presenting chubby scientist in 2000's woo.

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

I can't deicde if it'd be a "get along swell because they are so similar" or a "so alike they can't stand each other" situation with my fandom ocs tbh. I think I might befriend Anya and Awyn, but Alice might upset me too much lol. I can say, for my Angel and Death characters from an original work of mine, they would be my friends.

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Again, not sure. Hard to tell.

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

I watch a show I like a character I make a sona/insert/version of myself I think would fit well in that world, make a cool story, and be a good ship with the character I like. Then the character blooms as I write.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

Parental issues, adoption abandonment, cults. Yeah. There's a few.

How do you picture your characters?

I usually draw them! :D

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Self expression, I can do it better (fix-it-fics), and entertainment. The process of writing itself is very enjoyable for me.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

When readers pick up on foreshadowing and hints I'm putting down, when they leave behind long "book reports," as I call them, detailing narrative devices/thematic beats/etc., and when they tell me outright how excited they are to read more of the story. But literally any comment is like gold to me.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Uhh. I've never thought of this before. I hope they enjoy my writing? And my ocs? I wouldn't mind being thought of as the person to go to with oc thoughts-not even about my own but anyones. I love ocs. I love seeing someone new I get to learn all about thrown into a world with all these characters I love. It's such a fun thing.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I'm not insecure with my writing lol. Art school really took the brunt of that one. But for a technical answer, I'd say character dynamics? Like. I'm good at a lot of things, but I think recently my ability to emphasize the emotions two characters have for each other (whatever those may be) has improved immensely.

Have you been told what is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

I've been told I capture individual character voice's rather well. The trick, imo, is once you have heard the character speak enough that you can hear their voice in your head, you can tell when dialogue fits them or not. (obviously this goes for mediums where there is an aloud voice to hear lol.)

How do you feel about your own writing?

I love it! I'm a good writer and I'm always improving.

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Yep. Re-reading my writing is fun!

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

Might be a mix? When I have an audience in mind (like for trades, gifts, and friends who are hype about wips I share with them) I tend to think past myself into bigger ideas. I'm still writing what I want to read, but I'm just giving more thought about the execution lol.

npt: @wolveria @nimata-beroya @silverwings22 @klynnvakarian @the-itzy-bitzy-spider

About me

When did you start writing?

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

How do you picture your characters?

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Have you been told what is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

How do you feel about your own writing?

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

#tag game #writing asks #writing interview #long post

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dykeofmisfortune · 5 months

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8, 33, and 40?

8: Any reaquiring (sic) dreams?

so i have this reoccuring dream every so often where i get on a bus to a place and a famous person is usually guest starring as the driver. but usually it has more to do with the circumstances of the bus ride than the person driving it. a few years ago i had one with gerard way, the most recent was wes anderson and we were driving from toronto canada back to where i live in america. on a darker note i have had many dreams where a best friend of mine dies and the police rule it a suicide and i go insane trying to prove it was a murder

33. any hobbies?

many. i enjoy drawing and painting a lot! i also write although i guess that's more for actual work and projects than for fun. i also play the guitar bass and piano. my favorite hobby during the spring and summer has got to be yardwork and gardening though.

40. any bad habits?

being outspoken about things and thus getting into arguments... it's been happening a lot less since i've been working on anger issues but probably worst habit of all. oh also i'm late to things a lot

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loeewenzahn · 5 months

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you know how people have reoccuring cravings, feelings and habits right around when their period starts? Guess what mine is: ya boy wants to go to a hardware store. I think without fail, I've been to either ikea or the hardware/garden store on the ugliest day of my period every month for a year now. Seemingly planned by accident. It's like my body thinks: gotta hypercompensate! Sike! We're on a trip to carry heavy furniture and bags of soil! Manly man with a flamingo lamp!

I'll have the nastiest stomach ache tomorrow, but guess what I'll do. Drive to the hardware store and get some wood, yayyyy

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monster-factorie · 1 year

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Character exploration art of my OC Laurel 💙

Absolutely MONSTROUSLY LONG art explanation under the cut if you’re interested! 😭🙏

Sorry in advance if this doesn’t make much sense, I haven’t explained any of my OCs lore on here yet! 😭

Laurel has been in the public medical system her whole life and has sustained deeply extensive trauma because of it. This drawing is about the dehumanisation and complete loss of both self and privacy you experience as a result of prolonged medical treatment and exposure to medical environments and doctors. It’s also about the inherent detachment from your body you experience as a person living with chronic illness/pain/mental illness.

As for the objects and symbolism, both hands are Laurels, the one with a locket is hers before a certain incident in her life and the one with an IV needle is hers after that certain incident. Both hands have blood on three fingers, a nod to both Laurels status as a triptych (this is an in universe term that I’ll explain later sorry!😭) and the events that caused Laurels face to become scarred. The locket is a matching friendship locket, the other one belongs to Bonita (another OC of mine, her and Laurel used to be best friends), the blood splattered on it symbolises a deep and unhealing wound in their relationship. The red eyes are Bonitas eyes, one set warmly smiling and the other set wide in fear, both are directed at Laurel. The smile and glasses belong to the head doctor who was in charge of Laurels care, these features are the only thing Laurel can clearly picture when she thinks about her. The watch also belongs to the head doctor and it’s displaying 2:05 as the time, 25 is how old Laurel will be when she chooses to die, a decision heavily influenced by her time spent under the care of the head doctor. The cigarette represents Laurels bad coping habits, a deadly pastime that only serves to hurt her more. The pill bottle and injection needle are just what they are, small but painful reminders of Laurels fragility. The text in the background are notes in Laurels medical files and reoccurring thoughts that Laurel has. The faces in the corners both belong to Laurel too, one younger and one older but both still experiencing the same despair, proof that things won’t ever really change for her. Both bodies also belong to Laurel, the one in a hospital gown is hers during her hospital admission and the nude one is hers currently. They are both headless, simultaneously expressing Laurels deep disconnection with her own body, and also how doctors have no regard for their patients thoughts or feelings, only seeing them through a clinical lense, assessing only their bodies as if they were never attached to a human being in the first place. The current body is nude, symbolising how Laurel has been entirely stripped of her privacy and dignity throughout her medical experiences, her body is no longer her own, simply a vessel for more pain, sickness and shame.

Okay explanation over!! Hope u enjoyed!!!! 😆😆‼️

#my OCs 😆#my art 😆#laurel 💙#original character #original illustration #digital art #artists on tumblr #trigger tags:#disturbing imagery #blood #eye strain #gore #needles #pills #body horror #censored nudity

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notquitequelled · 2 years

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nothing’s wrong- i’m just a STEM student…

[i rarely see stem rep- so here’s the extended edition of ‘stoners in stem’ that highlights the parts of this life that i find myself loving ;p]

- swerving around countertops and oblivious peers- doing your best to keep the various beakers balanced on top of the books you’re holding

- all eyes being drawn to you when something arises that stumps the rest of your friends

- falling into the habit of a heavy step- never wanting to sneak up on someone in the lab (still getting ‘oh! you startled me!’ comments, nonetheless)

- avoiding small-talk like the plague

- the constant gathering of three or more students (and the occasional staff) out behind the building- trading cigarettes and spectating on arguments that couldn’t wait five minutes for someone to finish their smoke

- ‘do you have a lighter?’ ‘no...? just- light yours on mine.’

- unfortunate clashes between the scientific mind and the scientific heart

- calculated actions, then second-guessing your results; maybe just one more test...

- the static in the air as everyone watches an experiment expectantly, pencils and graph paper ready for if it succeeds- a fire extinguisher and open doors for if it fails miserably

- dark and smudged eye makeup to compliment the ever-omnipresent dark circles you wear like a badge of honor

- harboring a distaste for bottles and containers made with material that has no translucence whatsoever (how are we supposed to see how much is in there if holding it to the light does nothing?)

- panicked glances at your peers when you hear the jingle of keys coming down the hall (you should get rid of the evidence)

- narrowed eyes at the calculations in front of you, feeling like the visual representation of ‘?!?!’

- ‘what were you trying to accomplish?’ ‘i don’t know- not this!’

- watching in disgust and amusement as someone lights a joint with a bunsen burner and gestures for you to follow- making a dash towards the staircase that leads to the back exit; you and a few others aren’t far behind

- the type of laugh that echos through the building- loud and sudden as it’s ripped from your chest

- bouts of blank stares as you work through something in your mind- only coming-to when the person in front of you shifts uncomfortably under your empty gaze

- the heavy silence that rests in the darkness when you know you aren’t falling asleep anytime soon

- the first part of your notebook being neat and color-coded

- the rest being vaguely sectioned and underlined instead of highlighted (all your highlighters and pens have been lost or lended out- you had to borrow this one)

- playlists that range from loud and angry, to gentle and repetitive- both help you focus

- ‘did you see that?’ ‘no, i... blinked...? on accident.’ ‘... fine- let’s start over.’

- screeching when a concoction begins to overflow- everyone gathering like a flock of birds to lend a hand or screeches of their own

- going out for a smoke one day and noticing a stolen handheld torch on the fire extinguisher- ‘communal lighter’ is scrawled on a piece of graph paper taped to the brick above it. thank god for the engineers

- wishing you had payed attention in second grade when learning your times tables

- slippery cobblestone that shocks you awake when you lose your footing in the mornings

- constantly looking around- startling your friends when you stop mid-sentence to glance alarmingly over your shoulder (‘what...?’ ‘...’ ‘seriously- what?!’ ‘mmm... it’s nothing- never mind,’)

- staring blankly at people as they tell you their deepest darkest secrets (a reoccurring phenomena)

- the cold in the morning, the heat in the afternoon, and the chill returning in the evening- all telling you that fall has arrived; sweaters beginning to show up under lab coats

- someone sprinting intensively across campus- papers flying from their grasp and out of the stacks of books, binders, and folders clutched in their arms; another person following close behind- picking everything up and quickly chasing after them

- the inked mustaches and tattoos drawn onto the plastic model skeleton that’s older than you are

- the burning feeling in your chest when someone mentions a theory or standpoint that you despise; sending them a glare and a shake of your head- but not having the energy to debate them on it (if they want to be wrong, that’s their problem)

- tapping your fingers on things to count instead of outright holding your hand in front of you

- being described as ‘intimidating’ despite often feeling uneasy around people yourself (they think that you know something they don’t) (and they’re right)

- vocal changes in tone being the height of comedy- there aren’t many other ways to safely express humor when dealing with dangerous substances

- ‘check this out-’ -sets off fire alarm-

- the suffocating pause after hearing ‘did someone leave the gas on?’

- the mixed reactions when a spider appears- everyone moves to crowd around it or to the other side of the room; one person is grabbing a torch while others scream at them to leave the poor thing alone- eventually someone just scoops it up and leaves the room. they’re gone for the rest of class

- the feeling of utter despair as you realize that the page you need has been ripped out of your textbook

- developing the immediate response of dropping to the floor when something explodes near you

- the unanimous hope that at least one person near you understands the topic just a little more than you do

- growing to find comfort in the constant aura of secrecy that surrounds everything around you (but hoping you never get used to the rush of being let in on those secrets)

- the buzz of the first few minutes of class- when everyone is stashing away their jewelry and comparing notes from the previous session; someone is laughing out in the hall, and the countertops feel like snowmelt under your arms

[i could go on and on... but i’m not gonna <3]

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v1c110 · 2 years

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V1C

Listen please, there is a garden, midnight: dear sky.

Part 1 △—San Antonio

…I have forgotten my coat—tho, here at the square, in my chilling utterances, with a concern of a pristine and common shock, that around corners: the man had had a heart attack, and whoever it concerned, was toned in sequence by my position to hum a somber habit for looming moments to hide shadows from myself.

While the Composer’s attentiveness, besides an image of these reoccurring, strange partings, which often times is merely a cigarette on a stroll. These consist of a transparent hum at the mist of midnight: where my off-time coincided with these bizarre exchange of eyes to directions with my Uncle, a dream engineer, also with honor—what was outside, the festivity, down a few blocks and around a few corners with a shake of a hand…it was quiet at the moment, and I was muttering details and options to consider as the image of a bandage. This is meant why I remembered the reoccurring bad dream that I have concluded to an improbable reforging with each night a sound from the walls—rather charm of sovereign prayers that resolves to a blessing and a curse.

The physic of jazz etiquette was his excuse to get out of the house, I notice his fidgeting along with other features looked just like my father’s, and I can remember vividly the scene where the wide extent of respect shared with his entirely stern resemblance and reminder that someone was seeking and unraveling to a similar version of mine; his was 70’s psychology, and the poison nights…and would go to great lengths to protect this family debts, I only see a different server, that way…in the midst of name congruencies of humans who held high the seated decoration of a certain obligation,…which was relevant to substantially uphold a blessing of family line that only I was obligated to hear a good piano, with guidance and objectives. So, whichever way my hair parted for that I remember a repetition that years ago, when I noticed a horrific quietness and confusion, and while them humming went echo; walking away with me from the paramedics with a family image I see…and as I was looking back to the trail, ambulances, and the hospital’s impossibility to obtain the choir lost in the fog of loss and despair, and our family went on, other ways.

Then and there I had sunk into a derange of storage filing that of images that seeing to the diminishment of the Composer’s in a purified opus, spurring me on in a manner just how copies reform…, but somehow the ones I have images of, strangers or kin, there was basically no healing to the drunkards and my Uncle or colleague, trying not to sweat. With each arrangement that was bleakly stoic with the memory twisted of the trueness that persisted thru this cigarette, we met back at our seats and muttered a joyful hooray, while we were folk, in most scenarios, that tended to the idolatry of each : the fact is of his cancer. Purple hows and matters of fact: maybe midnight post-pones from the bad dream that, never without fail pertaining a glimpse of the flashing images that predicted and formed my position with tonight’s side effects of the drunkard’s poison that these days: embodied coping with whichever option was corrected to a personal variety of resemblances to soul when my father’s cancer taunted a treacherous addition to occupied results of dotted obligations: this is how I learned to hear the timid choir everywhere I went—the memory of my father’s last days, where I still see where I thought guidance was lost and only in a drawer with important factors entailing his fondness of hearing my talents—in his way, there was the commonality with my father’s sacrifice hearing my laughter in the youthful part of remembrance…the spectacle of sight was the feeling of a convincing set of loops that find angels of hope in the Composer’s structure, and with each subject holding devotion, of which was naturally recognized and ingrained in my consciousness for a pause of what was surely being washed thru the viewer’s sins of a depth that resided and provoked a contradiction to what my presence was about in meaning—to me, the images are registered: the further examination and obvious obsession.

While that revealing clarity was truly found in the sparkling chance of each eye glistening the atmosphere—the keys wrung and ran towards a warm light, set to have an oceanic myth, while in our left ears, chattering to ourselves, and the coverage of a nearly vacant and quiet bar. While near the darts with my Uncle, and he saw the travelers around my destined perception as innocent chore that was my responsibility, and reluctantly it was fine, but if there consists of a lesson of reverence, then still with a busy groove heard that he looked from his brew to a player anticipating the solo, he chuckled—a mere signal regarding that courage while I was also amused, aware of the clock, being that if there happened to have a halftime to the hall—I shall grab the nearest seat while the squared and elder’s paced with compliments a roar, them stepping out thinking courageously for the rhythm in his chest, while sipped on fury poison for the my swear to last engage, what fog kept night young, for tomorrow I shall be back home.

My Uncle is a good man, and sees earth for the moments that were still covering the lamp—I waited inside with drunken brush, I saw the Composer…the tune was with a hint of conjoining a warm spirit for the night’s hum along my Uncle’s already singing whistle additions while the room shook from were so vibrant each way, that my hereditary rhythm, oh my….

When I was alerted to recognize my Uncle inhaling after his personal rhythms in his chest and his eyebrows raised towards me, from a then joy to a pulse in our split series of rhythm that kept our eyes sharp…I remembered breathing techniques that I had learned from my sister in times of pressure or a rate of life. Maybe this was a way of keeping a purity of truth and grace that was prayed for amongst and for the showcase of electricity versus the rhythms entangling and untangling depictions of time that glimmered thru a durable foundation that since my mother’s kept locket our family’s remaining poise while my ghost seeped out the window…, this was the truth of isolated destination stares of the preferences held much like my camera when it is a sacrifice for my eye—there was thoughts that If I kept a reflection version of simplistic decency when adjustments of height on the barstools and the sounds echoed thru the jazz club’s rather shrill of

We both knew our night was swell, and imagined each of us back at our drawing-tables for all the essential steps to increase productivity, favors or paid…tho, when into a beautiful fashion of beguilement when my Uncle’s preference was maybe to retreat to solace with x13000 system waving off his media center; it is spine rewinding and while there the intricacies of 70s beauty, psych rock…that was of sentiment to my Uncle: where seeing him reminded me that a sickness was hereditary

We used to go out here down different streets and talked; each night a spectacle for hearing the hum…it was offered as an option for the square’s jazz night to be every Saturday tho I was just stopping by—while I find the flowery spring in my mind, as hopeful as my ears heard a B flat: piano ghosts with happenings of those disgraceful lonely thoughts that some worry about what bothers and distracts from a moment of congruency. If it was as seemingly twisted as I found the night nervy; this is my idea of that my eyes which portray for my wandering immediate beliefs, while he blurts outs. ‘Yep that is how it was…’ while, when being revealed to the stranger across the room at a seat with a splendid display of talent she earned and was of great achievement: it was a day like any other—I sank back into my Uncle’s comforting words, but this is how I fell for classical melancholy. Tho my life of ignorance remains, jazz, classical, beer… and what rhythm anyway remembered indefinitely.

Although if there was a person I had forgotten in my realm of drunken aimlessness, downtown would have a copy with the randomness scary to perceive myself more than I have to—that is why my job is simple. They think it is hysterics when the grayness of the sky was amidst the moments reoccurring in vivid shimmer at the streetlamp, where, at times, it is simply felt in phrases to a thought of harmony—how nature’s awareness was impossibly vibrant and the portals to love for these fraction of moments, seeing the glimpse of the edge…tho, I realized to an even more sickening perversion of infectious joy in a ghost’s song, or your tv: where choirs were pixelated formation that took form as a flash of green in the sleepwalking square visits, and while the stranger’s presence and slipped into a stare, but I went helping a homeless man, with grey hair and we slowly got to our destination—the sky; the corners.

*Their professions were themselves portioning to a doctor’s precision, but with a schedule independent at the transmission quickness, of their turning hearts, like morning shifts at the cafe or shoe clerk, for example: to what extent of poison that was referenced, so as long as it entangled me from a matter of dignity each image proving along with the pulsating line-fragmentation in rhythm waves, and what extraordinary, high-stringing passion that each image portrayed from literalism, like as it might suggest while the sounds of familiar ring but not imaginary: nearing improvements at the calculation of windows and what in the sense of freedom I thought to myself…, and by chance the recirculation of a common dignity was left in awe for the finding of what one could believe they were so effortless like the Composers and directing to varying similarities which only mere

Of certain poisonous images equal to the digits memorized with personal views on the symbols of what was heavenly to me—but differently glimpsing without hysterics for an impossibly of pictorial blend to what Mars guarded capsules in rumor, for this was my legacy. I sat in my Uncle’s apartment; it was 3 am There are my traditions of humming and having a coffee, burned to CD—there was a backpack I brought home when I fancied to leave and wander the streets…I was content at the moment, and then there was a sense of magic from the atom darkness of the room. I then removed a piece of paper on the kitchen counter and starting prescribing affirmations of the beauty of cigarette strolls and how I prepare…if I had class.

My Uncle works at a research center that develops and crafts the blueprints of Dreams themselves; this has not risen to common practice—yet, of course I always wonder if my memory reoccurrences at rest with the same fright that was all my Uncle’s leverage, but it was mutual; he promised it was out of his control and that my generation were the prototypes to those who were somehow connected to what I was oblivious to—even tho gentleness found me elsewhere, and what was something else became an addicting matter of haunting with the humming obsession constantly…, not telling the cowboy story—my fix is the harmonics and hidden in subtle truth of what my father lent to my brighter days before the looming, vacant lonesome guest at what he fancied as theatre, like how the corners seem to represent an eye thru a crowd, finding, looking as what spectacle relays how we can heal to begin with, and then divine flip—this is something you do not unsee when I a played back a portion of the keys on the desk: drawings of their physic and are examined from a date set to common interest with the spectacle suggesting the sheer relevance of human interconnectivity sickness.

Where why and the meaning of a dream, my Uncle saw the holograms…When the memories were lost. Not jazz nights—my collection indifferent. The memory was actualized to an extent where there was nothing but all my nightmares circling every night at each display, regardless of a progression of symphony comfort, but I twisted my spine through and dialed in during a gambling for what mutual sobrieties toxicity and we both figured on through the mist and vision, men with hats.

In the dining room, it was a dash all too swell when my ghost was watching me, there had been twilights and curtains of symphony mirage of the blooming dances of my ghost’s expressions. It has been stared at and questioned in public shade, and forging the sense of belonging to that commonality where the harps maintained the electricity that glamorized a general meaning of beauty in with humming along…in the simplest feeling of home that was an image deriving the sky to my eyes, like a way where any vibrance was flowing directly to the delicate temperatures—then I realized myself a fool in a deranged sound of laughter…

When the spectacles of health lift a sense towards what whispers much of the hurry to reassemble what which stillness withholds stories like hearing of family—hypothetical dementia, and why a vast identity of it was due to a certain derange and ghastly addiction to the corner image expression that jettison out thru the door while the Composer clocks out, until my eyes look back—that with the emotion of a remembrance each time to wait there, for I never familiar with an admiration in the reality, or so I was thinking, like how going home was my hum so ancient—with my images and backpack sat on my desk, and because of their continuation of a certain images that was each its own edition for ears—I was not directed by any specific timeframe, and the magic of it was, I was outside with stinging eyes by the serene moment of my cherished acquirements…, and because of a few signals that would be on towards further than the sky. it truly meant something inherently mundane to like a night out in San Antonio as this monthly throughout—for often I find remedy in a string of thoughts blurted out briefly while I could not embody any of their openness or indifferent brilliance. The times unless

Then my phone rings, and my eyes have hardened to the image with a prolonged echo thru the walls heard from the outside—it was delicate; the Composer was not in their true occupied shadow, that which was now a mere talent for additional steadiness earned thru simpler turns of sound without their input or design; a night gig—slow jazz was cherished mutually, but what I heard and what my mind could confirm is that a delicate gasp of fluidity heard thru and conjoined with orchestra-purity; translated among their then appeal of what is a hum to me. The jazz was abnormal of me, and it remained with my patience correlating the points of tradition the Composer suggested behind the noise. It was sort of agitating in a way that there was not a moment of translation between tonight’s sky. Together, we were both enchanted for what life told us. How, and the different squares…

Part 2 △—Phantasmagoria

Tho, being simply equipped with a microphone in clothe with me for each attendance, and containing an intent of adjoining these opus spectacles with my collection of discs hidden here at home on a shelf, labeled and dated—this was the only way to maintain a personal affection to the Composers; tho my images remember—how a simple maneuver, such as an accidentally misstep across a cafe, which would nonetheless occur and has for many assignments; it was simply to a purifying remedy to the library of what I notate and hum as the ghost stains the glass…

Here, outside in the shade, with a brisk morning adorned by the chirping of birds and swaying of the trees: I was daydreaming on the porch while the thin tones subtly merged through and out the open door towards me…from the light there was images of lines with points of rest due to the persuasive addiction of hearing events for the ritual is the recording point of the mic: testing is flick,… and the ones on the other end had me to a familiar smirk, which brought me back inside to the shelf in the miscellaneous alternative genre of memories—for I was daydreaming while my radio scanned, and I sat down at the kitchen table at the beginning of a football game talkshow rattling about ERAs. It was merely a phantasmagoria daily, even thru when the fog kept my eyes distilled to the core in a pause for solace, so that when I had undone the backpack each time, there would be presented a few suggestions of leisure to exist tomorrow night. Tho, today is rather anticipation equating to my eyelids glimmering at purple glitter…

-tie

-credentials

-cigarette

Etc.

Often when there was a map scenery in technology, our dreams with the spectacles, there sighed to a rest for the stations—rather, an expressional image to the purpose that is determined by G-d in the sense of what is out of a human’s and computer’s control, that is how time expands, or how mattering to me in representing stories from honor on night’s out and to spectrum of tone—how they talk.

This evening there would be dim lights where the ghost mocks, and there could be many politicians and figures who orchestrate with other means, that there libraries have been sifted thru presumably by downtown: when the violin; third chair, like if silk opportunity meant a viewing so withstanding—thru the kitchen with the hopes of timing the crowds absurdness, but there would not be gamblers by the station tonight when there is Composer’s guiding you home…

There was a map, a curios one that seemed to involve a cigarette, and I did not need the distraction, tho a cigarette is scheduling near town—this Composer was renting an apartment a few blocks away, tho she was no longer a student at the community college, for I was in the lengths to visit my old teacher per se, or find poetry in a bookstore a block away. Whether the Composer was aware of the flick in my ear as the spectacle with duplicates from the backpack stay hidden beside the alley I set them there days ago. I would not recognize her till tonight, but description was among my daydream—a hum.

I smoke a cigarette while locals and guests of a reputation of grand gesturing of being near a studious dedication to wherever there is a Composer and their shadow; I suppose. There was never a development of direct aspirations—my ears correctly as what tho it cannot latch onto like the image and dreams based in dystopias after the curtain. The buildings have a sort of reflection of light that a spectacle ought to be a day of angelic swiftness. An hour before the show; the temptings from the looks of vulture folk—she with the ensemble were rehearsing the only light in the room; there are mad men in this hall. A spectacle, dream hall for the majestic gesture. I was row E, where I laid my jacket, and decided to go out to the entrance room where the viewers were grouped. There were images near the entrances of utter glee, family members with flowers, the mad men, and my humming to the halls and stairs—I went for poison at the chance of overhearing while everyone kept a casual civilness, tho I would change frameworks by tonight after the show, that the celebration and commotion may develop the image; from an expression scan, hers more towards midnight…

I was transfixed at the sequence of hindsight renditions, for one by this gentleman’s informative and blatant mystery of his own, and there there—to himself, there were many others, I watched in awe. When I walked to the bar and a familiar man and his date brushed my shoulder and our eyes met—the same green eyes that saw me in a fright years ago at a cafe across the country—I ignored this particular hunch, and the man called Captain stole my attention; he was a composer himself. The Captain had achieved marvelous earth sounds from Antartica. I asked him about this in a quiet tone, tho these were immaculate and extraordinary sonics he was implying….I heard altogether in honest was a kind, talented, interested, man—and nonetheless lent me a cigarette. I offered him another poison, and thanked him for the square, he showed me images of Iceland and Spain,…I then excused myself and fixed up his orchestrated recording music into my ears while I walked back up the stairs.

The sky was black—praying for light, just viewed from the building’s windows. I texted home about a trip to Antartica, and the lights dimmed low while the event’s composer took the stage. I tapped my foot and hummed along in a manner of timely, flick or two. There was a nervous cello, but excellent to most all extents of artistic and outstanding character—with each detail located in my spectacle of mind image, located by manufactures and live to a computer somewhere downtown.

What was really said can be found in the year 2008—(reference unimportant). The image was of sports and photography of fields, while the American flags heard the trumpet. Then intermission announced my departure, in the mist of the lights of busyness; tonight I think I may dream awhile. Fields and lands to fly like I really pertain hat freedom, and consume the insight on the bizarre being truly as exploration suggests a garden that the Captain was the key in sight of taste of diamonds. This garden hosted the Captain along with many others who met together in a dream of morning fog. Her flawless performance played back on the recording; he was impressed. In the kitchen we started waltzing to and fro: while we our chins met, and I asked if we knew certain fellows, or when my Uncle was going to call him back about rental company fines and large boxes, etc..

I poured us some poison while he turned on the local news. Typically, I store away my savings and meditate with the moon before bed as I imagine what dream would intertwine my lungs—a guest was a surprise that was destined for a worth of some wisdom, and the Captain seem to skip past the formalities and courteousness as if it was a hall worth visiting again. His feet were propped up while we sipped to the middle of interactional chaos—he said we could help each other. That my Uncle owed a penny but was satisfied with a professional job. The Captain said to imagine the northern lights, and I did—then to see about cathedrals…this had was my interest. One is where your soul is, the other where it is shelved. I only considered this for a moment as an escape from the squares; with the beauty of design—G-d would sees.

At home, I hummed near the tv as reporters that resembled a fear that my images would lose connection if in a bind of the unknown, and how almost a decade of the same repetition, that was in honor to my family—the last Composer was a family friend that I parted ways from those societies, and it is evident that the Captain has met a great deal of strangers at the corners of the northern lights: to off menu in the middle of Canada or Portland. Tho, he continued teasing if I would even have the slightest interest; as I did, and the subject of cathedrals I drew my closest ears.

New passages to balconies, dressing up, catacombs, foreigners, a chance for distance to the heat of it, and the infatuation for new images was surreal to all in all work for a what he called ‘the big fish’. The Captain said our exchanges would be only by handwritten mail and drops at points after two rings. The infatuation of uttering foreign farewells, or the architecture viewing people from stain glass windows, or cafes overhearing the melodic or destructive tones of the unknown chatter acquainting my perception’s extent of a Composer blending out the door to my forth going adaption of aimless following till each own’s spotlight of destiny that suggested my attention in multiple ways.

Tho, at this moment I sat at home and listened to a recording of last year’s approval, and really imagining where the key point to excuse myself in the form of a shadow messenger, and when they were packing up themselves, there is a mutual, startling to the maneuver of partners I was rarely informed of sequence that my images supply a certain collection in the database of my heritage’s functionality. Even of wanderings thru the suburbs, in the city: all scored by a drastic means of contracted delight in my life of their regrettable emotion, but being at the point of my life where the shelves become a memorial to my thoughts of involvement.

With a cheerful swig of wine and a flute that was of conversation then, that a symphony was grasped and lived thru the Composer’s spirit, and the Composer for her was a serious madman that I has been in San Antonio for months on end. The recording queued for a flick when I quickly shut it off and stood up in an anxious jolt to my feet. I had been tailed, and wondered how long it had been tuned to the frequencies of a chaos—I wanted to flee; so I jotted worries and concerns to the Captain, explain that after I had heard the flick, there was…a different ghost.

I stared at the corner in the living room for two days while patting a rhythm on my shoulder, until I got a letter slipped under the door—an eagerness to set back at ease with reassuring that the tail was arbitrary, to the point of his meditation while speaking with to me dressed up with an idea of, somehow, my nerves caught up to me and my paranoia remained withered. To my surprise there was a piece of paper…a flight to Berlin tomorrow evening.

That morning I was not aware of my fate. Like my own fatal depth of non-existence. When I was talking this morning, with breakfast on the table: I get electrocuted and it was oblivion with only the startling moments sonics.

Part 3 △— Enchant

I walked along my ghost in the graveyard, of where people and I share a point precise conclusion away from town and into the lands where I began, beyond the evil images with, from here, memory as the dreams diluted, the locket of secrets, or a random obsession. You see, senseless: cold and gloomy…wouldn’t their be other numbers, and different ordained, how I never could wake from an abyss without a direction to point, how where Texas’ desert sees none and flying thru the sky…

Near the lamp posts, there was a more than adequate means of the natural swirl of oblivion’s daily filter, perhaps even if the senses revived, there could be a sign. What seemed like time was and was not latched on to the cancer I left behind, or those I cannot see, because they remain alive and these are some things that steered and curved streaming thru a tide of migraine inducing relations with the only one who hums; my ghost. There is not a day that goes by that certain obstacles of light being the source of every gold gratification. The graveyard disappeared and I was looking into the sky from a distance near.

△△△△△

rees hagedorn

1114sound @ proton . me

#writing

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shesherbest · 3 years

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How to Stay Productive

I saw this post on Twitter that said, "you're not overwhelmed, you're lazy and unmotivated." and to a certain extent, I agree. I definitely used to be a lazy, unmotivated person until I started working on my time management and organization skills. Here's how I did it:

Time Management

Get a planner

Everyone needs a planner; they are not just limited to students.

Find a planning system that is functional for you

I like to use a physical and digital planner:

A huge key to being consistently productive and organized is to make your task, especially reoccurring, as enjoyable and engaging as possible, which is why I like to use a physical planner; it allows me to be creative.

I like to keep it simple and just use stickers and washi tape; you want to make it enjoyable, but you don't want to take the focus away from the task at hand (planning)

The first photo is mine, but the other two are spreads by study_withashley that I've been using as inspo.

I use my digital planner for the "always on hand" convenience and the minimalistic layout. I use the apps Actions and Timepage; they are both a subscription ($2 a month), but it's super worth it!

Timepage is a calendar app with a monthly, weekly, and daily view; and Actions is for planning tasks (week view) and making lists.

You can change the background color and color-code your calendar and list. They have a 1-month free trial if you're interested!

How to efficiently plan

Monthly

♡ In your monthly and weekly view, write in any important dates that are set in stone (appointments, work and class schedule, due dates for assignments, tests/exams, birthdays, etc)

♡ Now that you have an idea of what your month will look like, on a notes section or sticky note, write down your own personal goals/action step, habits you want to practice or break, and unscheduled things you need to do. Don't overwhelm yourself - try to limit yourself to 5 in each category.

Daily

♡ Plan your days the night before - that way you have an idea of what your day is going to look like when you wake up and you can act accordingly. Don't plan days ahead; life is unpredictable.

♡ Schedule and prioritize 3 things every day; whether it's studying or having a self-care day.

Getting things done

♡ Set the tone - wake up early (at least by 9 am), fix your bed, and change out of your PJs.

♡ If you are going out, give yourself 1-2 hours to get ready. Avoid having to rush as much as possible.

♡ If you are staying home, have a designated space for getting work done - Some ideal spaces are at a desk, the library, Starbucks, and dining rooms. Do not work on a couch or bed.

♡ In addition, keep your space clean, and surround yourself with positivity and progressive things. Your environment affects your mood and productivity.

♡ If possible, stay ahead of your assignments to prevent stress and cramming.

♡ Like I said before, make your task as enjoyable as possible - Example: I don't like cleaning, so while I am, I watch vlogs of people being productive. It's motivating me while also distracting my brain from the fact that I'm cleaning. However, when it comes to more serious tasks, make them enjoyable, but not distracting.

♡ Use the Pomodoro technique to avoid burnout (no phone breaks!)

♡ Create routines - you don't literally have to follow a routine every day, but routines are good for days that you feel like you need some structure in your life.

♡ Stay emotionally aware and prioritize self-care - don't neglect yourself trying to get things done because, in the end, it will backfire. Every day take at least 5 minutes to do something that makes you feel good.

Thanks for reading

xoxo

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marveldc-imagines-hub · 2 years

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Imagine Trying to Cheer Nanaue up With a Makeover:

A/N: I love Nanaue/King Shark from The Suicide Squad very much and I haven’t written an imagine in forever, so here’s a silly thing I came up with at like 2am a couple of nights ago. Also Reader is a part of the Suicide Squad in this so... yeah. Also, this was beta read but it was beta read at 5am so... yeah, lol.

“Do you think he ever gets bored of like… just wearing jeans?”

Cleo stopped staring out of the bus’s window to glance down at you slumped against her shoulder, then to where Nanaue was sitting across the aisle pouting. She looked back at you and after a moment gave a low-energy shrug. “I don’t know, I don’t think he seems to mind. He’s probably more upset about the fake moustache.”

Poor Nanaue, not being allowed to join the rest of Task Force X-slash-the Suicide Squad in the gentlemen’s club to find the Thinker. Your skills on the team included using technology to make realistic illusions that would have dealt with the “King Shark doesn’t have a feasible disguise” problem that DuBois and Rick were using to keep Nanaue out of the public eye but when you offered up the suggestion, you were shut down by the secondary issue of the demigod seeing every living creature as food. So there you were, feeling bad that Nanaue couldn’t join the fun as the bus slowly pulled up to the club.

“Well, guess it’s time,” Cleo commented at you. She lightly shrugged and you moved off of her so she could place Sebastian on her shoulder instead. Then she stood up and adjusted the dress she was wearing as her own disguise.

Sebastian gave you a cheerful wave and squeak as he passed and you smiled and gave him a quick head pat in return. You however made no other move to prepare to leave the bus, which had Cleo quirking an eyebrow at you and shooing you to move so she could get past.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” you said as you pulled your legs up onto the chair and wriggled your way across the seat to give her room to get out.

“Why not? It might be fun.” Despite her very casual attempt to convince you, your rat-controlling friend shuffled past you into the aisle.

“Might be,” you admitted, “but it’s not fair that all of us aren’t able to go. Besides, I don’t drink and clubs aren’t really my scene.”

Cleo snorted and offered you a smirk. “And you think it’s mine? Or his?”

She pointed and you looked over at Abner, the Polka Dot Man, who was trying to decide whether or not he should tuck in his shirt while Dabois and Rick tried to brief the team in the aisle next to him, with very little success.

You smirked back. “To be fair, you look very pretty. Like my grandma. In her coffin.”

The comment earned you a flick to the forehead, which made you snicker. Then Cleo shoved her hand into your face as she flipped you off but she had a goodnatured smile on her face all the while. “Fuck you.”

“Hey,” Rick suddenly hollered in your direction, and the two of you jolted to look over; he was coming your way. He stopped in front of you and Cleo, grabbing the back of the seat in front of you as he threw an expectant look your way. “What are you doing? Get up, we’re about to go.”

You frowned and looked over at Nanaue again, who had now moved to grumble in the back of the bus. His back was facing the rest of the team in pouting defiance.

“[Y/N],” Rick scolded, “no.”

You turned back to the man with a puppy dog-eyed pout. Outside of Harley Quinn, you were the longest reoccurring member of the Suicide Squad–killing, robbing, and being good at your job had a habit of doing that to people under Amanda Wallace’s thumb–so you and Rick knew each other well. Well, not well; you barely knew each other really, but you had a love-hate relationship that you enjoyed. That is, you loved to give him shit and he was forced to admit that you were a pretty good asset and thus had to endure you.

“Ricky,” you whined, flinging yourself over his arms, “he looks so sad, though.”

Rick sighed but made no move to remove you. He knew that if he actually tried to wrangle you, you would do the exact opposite of what he ordered you to do, so he tried half-hearted reasoning. “We are this close of being done here, [Y/N], and this whole thing would be a lot easier if you could just… illusion us in and out of there.”

You gasped, eyes growing starry as you stared up at him. The expression changed from lovestruck to morbidly amused in a flash as you smirked, “Aw, Richard, are you saying you need me?”

“I’m saying it would be easier–”

“Say please~”

“No.”

“Please~?”

Rick looked like he wanted to bash his head into the nearest wall. The thought made you giggle. After a few moments of what you assumed was silently begging whatever higher powers existed to give him patience, the soldier’s eyes rolled back to glare at you. “Please, would you just–”

“What’s going on?” DuBois yelled from the front of the bus. You peeked over Rick’s shoulder and saw his older war buddy glaring. The man, first name being Robert and alias being Bloodsport but you liked DuBois better, was messing with his mundane clothes like everyone else with. You supposed that being imprisoned for a while with only orange jumpsuits to wear would make any other clothing feel a little odd.

You answered before Rick could with an aggressive wave in DuBois’s direction, just to make sure he knew who was talking. “I’m not going!”

DuBois’s eyebrows flew up his forehead. “You’re not going? Why?”

“They are,” Rick tried to intervene, “Just give us a minute–”

“We don’t have a minute!”

“We also don’t need a minute!” you chimed in. You sat high up on your knees on the bus seat and tapped Rick’s nose with a finger. “I’m not going. The idea of needle-head man freaks me out and it’s probably smarter to leave Nanaue versus a very nom-nom-looking human bus driver, yeah?”

You heard shuffling from behind you followed by a questioning sound from the shark-man in question. “Nom-nom?”

“No,” Rick, DuBois, and Cleo sounded at once, then Rick gave you a glare.

The kindly stating that you weren’t going didn’t seem to work but pointing out that you were more qualified to keep Nanaue from eating people than Milton was definitely a swaying argument. Just for added effect, you clasped your hands together and gave Rick your best puppy eyes and smile once more, although it once again cracked and turned into an expression that was a little more unsettling when you pleaded, “I’ll be good, I promise! C’mon, Dick Flag!”

“Heh, dick-flag,” Cleo snorted next to you.

Rick frowned but you could tell his resolve was cracking. “You’re not much better than the bus driver. Probably worse. You killed 500 people in two days because you said they all looked like your ex.”

Your eye twitched. “They did! At the time. And if he hadn’t cheated on me and stolen my money, it would have never been a problem.”

DuBois broke first. “Flag, we don’t have time. We’ll figure out something else, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

For a moment, Rick looked like he was preparing to argue further but he quickly decided it wasn’t worth it. He pointed a warning finger at you before turning and walking to the front of the bus, then out of it. One by one, the other squad members followed, until Cleo and Sebastian came up the rear and the two waved at you before departing.

“And then there was three,” you chirped to no one at all, although you were still in the presence of the pouting Nanaue and Milton the bus driver. You sat and waited until your teammates disappeared into the club, then twisted in your seat to face your sharky companion. “Hey, Nanaue!”

Nanaue only grunted in response. After being disappointed twice now, he wasn’t willing to take the bait for a possible third.

You had no intentions of disappointing him, though. You hopped over the back of the bus seat, then the next two, until you were sitting in the same row as him with only an aisle separating you. You waited there for a moment to see if you would earn anymore acknowledgement and when you didn’t, you slid over to sit directly next to him.

The so-called King Shark’s small, dark eyes watched you but when you got closer, he harrumphed and turned as far away from you as he could without literally leaving the bus through one of the windows. You gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder but his only response was to cross his arms and growl over his shoulder at you, “Go away.”

“But Nanaue, how will we go explore the town without each other?” you asked. In the meantime, you pulled up the sleeve of your disguise’s puffy blouse and fiddled with the dials on an augmented arm brace that you wore underneath. Once you were satisfied, you pressed a button on the brace an a small puff of pink smog was released from a grate on the device’s wrists. For anyone else, the puff was simply a small billow of colored air that smelled a bit sweet, but you knew that there was an army of microscopic nanobots following your orders. As the smoke dispersed, you pulled down your sleeve again and wafted a breeze in Nanaue’s direction.

“No exploring,” Nanaue pouted, “No disguise. No fake moustache.” Then he caught a whiff of your brace’s work and shifted to catch you still waving air at him. “Ew. What is that?”

“Well,” you started, then paused as you took a glance at the bus window to confirm your nanobots were working. The reflection in the glass showed you sitting next to a random, albeit large, human man instead of a sharky hybrid and you grinned. With a point at the window to draw Nanaue’s attention there, you continued, “It’s not a fake moustache but it’s one heck of a disguise.”

Nanaue looked at the window, then grunted in confusion at it. You drew his attention to the reflection itself and then he growled at the reflection that didn’t seem to look like it belonged to him, only for him to be surprised that that the human reflection moved with him. You watched with an amused little smirk as he executed some tests; he raised a webbed hand and the human reflection followed, he tilted his head and the reflection did the same. It took him a little while to get to the most obvious conclusion–that the human reflection following his movements was in fact his own–but then he looked at you as he raised both hands to his face, patting lightly. He groaned confusedly with a twinge of sadness, “Human?”

“Oh, gosh, no,” you said as you quickly shook your head. You placed your hands over the shark-man’s own and squeezed, giving his face a squish. “You’d be much less fun that way, promise. I just gave you a little disguise of your own so you wouldn’t feel left out on the party! You’re still all sharky-like, I just changed what everyone else sees.”

“Party?” Nanaue echoed as he dropped his hands. His head lurched to look towards the club where the rest of the team had gone.

“I mean we could go in the stuffy boring bar,” you admitted with a tilt of your head and a bored sigh for effect, “or we could take a walk on the town. Check out the stores, try some of the local cuisines, have a nom-nom chaser or two…”

Nanaue’s eyes shined like little black pearls; he didn’t get some of the words you were saying, like cuisine, but he certainly understood nom-noms. He got to his feet, jostling you and the entire bus in the process, and pushed into the center aisle. In the process, one soft, silvery hand engulfed your own human-toned one and Nanaue dragged you after him. “Friend and Nanaue get nom-noms!”

You would have clapped if you had both hands free but you simply grinned and followed Nanaue off the bus, much to bus driver Milton’s dismay.

~~~~~

“Nanaue~” you sang from your perch on a chaise-style lounge chair in a random clothing boutique. The rest of your sentence faded off a bit as your eyes caught a particularly interesting tidbit in the magazine that you were perusing and you casually kicked your feet as you looked the text over. Towards the end of the reading, you remembered that you had been saying something and shook your head to refocus. “Nanaue, how’s it going in there?”

Some grumbles sounded and the curtain that separated from you from the dressing room that your companion was in shivered. From the gap between the floor and the curtain’s end, you could see Nanaue’s feet turning, and a bulge appeared caused by his dorsal fin appeared briefly in the fabric as his back faced the exit. Eventually, he got twisted around enough in the tiny space to be able to grab the curtain, but rather than pulling it open properly, he yanked it off it’s rail completely and tossed it to the side.

You tossed your magazine to the side and clapped as he wriggled himself free from the dressing room and stepped out into the viewing area. “Look at you! What an outfit for a man! So much better than some of the stuff that everyone else was wearing, like that god-awful yellow shirt that Rick had on. Didn’t fit him too bad, though.”

Not too long into your and Nanaue’s tour, you managed to find a store that sold clothes for larger men. With some minor editing–like tearing a hole in shirts for a fin and hemming some pant legs–you were able to come up with enough outfits for Nanaue to give you a little fashion show and the demigod, high on exploration and human flesh, was in a good enough mood to give you what you wanted. Instead of his usual and only pair of ratty shorts, Nanaue now wore a pair of what looked like jeans but were made with a stretchier fabric along with a tank top and a brightly patterned button-up polo shirt.

“And I thought the jean jacket was the best one.” You chirped as you hopped to your feet. You tried to circle him and assess the outfit from all angles but to no avail because Nanaue started turning with you. You checked out the outfit in the three old mirrors that faced the viewing area from different angles instead and noticed the collar of the overshirt twisted oddly–probably because it wasn’t really a shirt meant for people with fins on their backs–so you stepped up to Nanaue and fixed it for him. Then you stepped back and placed your hands on your hips with an approving nod. “This one’s definitely the best. What do you think?”

Nanaue shrugged but then appeared to notice one of the mirrors for the first time. He eyed himself a bit and flapped his arms, then shrugged again. “Okay.”

“That’s all?”

“Mhm. Hungry.”

You sighed but you couldn’t really blame him. He was quite big, after all.

“Well, let’s head out then. Sorry for the lack of cash, Ms. Shopowner, Ma’am! You’ll just have to put it on our tab.” You waved over to the counter, where the bloody remains of an arm sat on the glass, then headed toward the shattered front window of the boutique with Nanaue in tow. “Wait, do clothing stores even have tabs? Hm.”

Nanaue shrugged yet again and grabbed the leftover arm as he ambled after you.

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heliosthegriffin · 4 years

Text

He’s channeling his energy productively.

Jaune walked down the halls of Beacon backed to his dorm, it had been a long day so far, not a hard day though, just one of those days that kept going and seemed like they wouldn’t end. Making it back to his room would at least let him spend the rest of day how’d like.

The sounds of laughter followed a group of older girls walked pasted him. It was outside of class time so the students could wear whatever they wanted. They wore clothes that were made to go clubbing.

Jaune’s eyes had a life of their own as they stared at the girls walking past, you’d think having seven sisters would make him more respectful wouldn’t you? But, having a lesbian older sister, and a couple others that were bi, all they did was teach him how to peak without getting caught.

That said he’d doubt his friends would call him out for staring, considering some of the girls here had assets that would give Yang pause.

They didn’t notice him pausing and walked by, a fragrant fruity perfume left behind. Jaune couldn’t help but look behind him, watching those girls go, a sway in their step that cause something in Jaune to rise up.

“Dammit,” Jaune cursed as his pants tightened up.

Jaune look around before he adjusted his pants, so that his zipper wouldn’t fly off by accident again, and tucking his erection down his pant leg so that it’d be less noticeable.

Jaune felt frustration well up in him, this had become a reoccurring problem since he started Beacon. The girls here were just too damn hot! It made walking anywhere a damn hassle and a embarrassment, and he had no way to release any of his damn tension in his dorm, Nora had broken the locks to the bathroom and the door; That had probably been the closest he had ever come to killing somebody.

Letting out an other sigh he resigned himself to shuffling back to the dorm as the blood went flowing elsewhere. He should just thank his lucky stars that he’d never popped a boner anywhere near Ruby, Yang would have found out somehow, probably Nora, and then killed him.

Right as he got close to the dorms, Jaune’s blood-flow was back to normal, but he still felt tense and incredibly worked up.

The sound of weights being lifted, treadmills running, and other exercise equipment sounded from nearby.

The gym was only a short walk away from the dorms. Jaune paused for a moment, Nora and Yang always seemed to go to the gym when they go worked up, maybe he should try it, it’s not like he didn’t go often anyway, so what would it hurt to work out so stress?

---------

Jaune stared at the scroll in his hands, ‘10:03′ where did the time go? He went in at ‘4:26′, went to the weight rack, and then everything seemed to go into a blur, and then the next thing he remembered was a upperclassman telling him the gym was closing in soon.

“Guess, I had more stress to work out than I thought I did.” Jaune said to himself walking to the gym showers, suddenly starting to feel exhausted and wanting to jump into bed at the closest opportunity.

-----------

The next morning was agonizing, his arms felt like they were made of pure, while on fire and being pulled apart! Maybe he went too hard last night.

He was also feeling cavernously hungry. No wonder Nora has an appetite like a black-hole.

------

Jaune’s problem came back in full force during lunch when Yang leaned too far back and the top couple buttons of her shirt decided they wanted a life in the air force.

Leaving Jaune with a delicious view of her cleavage.

Yang looked at her shirt, “Shoot, I actually liked this one.” She then resumed eating.

A hand caressing his leg, brought him out of his vision. “Are you alright, Jaune?” Pyrrha’s warm, gentle voice whispered into his ear

A mildly blush went up his face. “Yeah, just, uh, taking in the view.”

“Oh, ok then, but if your not feeling well, I can take you back to the room.”

“I’m good.” Jaune said a little too fast, as his mind started to fill in the blanks of what his monkey brain wanted to do to Pyrrha.

Pyrrha nodded.

Jaune felt thankful that Yang or Nora hadn’t found a chance to tease him about being alone with Pyrrha.

Lunch came and went, and Jaune made sure he was the last to get up, so that his problem wouldn’t be seen. He couldn’t exactly fiddle with himself under the table without drawing attention. So with all the swiftness he had, he tucked himself into his pant-leg while getting up.

In hindsight, maybe walking behind his developed female friends, and especially Blake, was a bad idea. His other head disagreed with him.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, combat class was a mess, but mostly cause he can’t being drawn to his friend outfits, they showed so much leg.

He went back to the gym again after class, he went to the treadmill and leg exercise machine. The upperclassman had to tell him to leave again.

-------

The rest of the week seemed to follow a similar pattern for Jaune, he’d wake up sore, but a little less so each day, go to class, end up aroused, then pent up, then go to the gym when he had the free time, and only when he had free time, going into those workout trances made him lose anytime for studying, hanging out, or training.

Training with Pyrrha was probably the hardest part of his week, literally and metaphorical, because while he loved Pyrrha like a sister, his body constantly reminded him that they were not siblings! It always made him feel disgusted when ever he looked at Pyrrha that way. No way Pyrrha ever looked at him that way.

After training with Pyrrha though, he still had two hours before the gym closed, and he was pent up again.

The upperclassman had told him to get an alarm or something, cause he wouldn’t always be there to tell him to leave.

-------------

Hanging out with team RWBY was always a... Experience, they were fun, don’t get him wrong, but it was like chaos in a bottle. The bottle was also cracked, and there was no cork either.

Today he and the rest of his team came over to hangout, and Ruby insisted they play twister.

Jaune was forming a bridge with his arms bending backwards to stay on there spot, while Ruby was draped across him with one leg over his shoulder and the other over his arm, with her front laying across his stomach, and her arms going in between and around his legs. While Nora lay under him her chest pressing into his back. It was also a really small mat.

Everybody else had dropped out, or refused to play, while Blake controlled the game, and Yang video taped everything.

Then Nora sneezed into his neck. That was the straw that broke the camels back. Sneeze both tickled his neck and scared the life out of Jaune, as he somehow managed to jump a foot into the air from his position, carrying Ruby with him. They landed on Nora with a thud.

Jaune’s position with Nora’s chest on his back and Ruby’s legs on his chest, really wasn’t going to help with his tension, as his lower-body decided to achieve liftoff.

That said he had managed to get a grip on himself lately,. So Jaune calmly got off Nora, and picked up Ruby, putting her next to Nora. All while hiding his full mast, then went to the gym again.

“You think he’s alright?” Ruby asked innocently.

“Probably just rubbing one out.” Nora said full of confidence. “These sweater puppy's of mine are of a quality most women can only dream of, yet here I sit, my majesty a reality, I don’t blame Jaune at all.”

------------

Jaune was watching with wrapt attention as Ms. Goodwitch strode across the arena pointing out several flaws in recorded fights she had on holographic videos. Tapping them with her wand to enhance the smaller images at time.

RIIIP

Her blouse broke, showing off globes of creamy white flesh barely being contained by a purple bra.

Ms. Goodwitch paused, a light blush on her face. “Well, Students this should teach us to be prepared for anything.”

Jaune then got up, walking out the door.

“Mr. Arc, where do you think your going?” His teacher asked severely, as several laughs broke out of the room, many people pointing at him.

“To the gym. I don’t think I’m going to be able to focus much today.” “Very well, any others who wished to join him?”

The gym was very packed that day.

------

Jaune enjoyed hanging out with Pyrrha, she was probably the best friend he ever had. He just wished she would stop having to bend over so often in front of him, or walking in front of him when she did that he couldn’t help but focus on her swaying hips.

Jaune sighed as he felt a rise tower start to erect. “I’m going to the gym be back later.”

Pyrrha merely looked bewildered. She though she had him for sure this time!

----

The transfer students were interesting people, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of them. They came from all walks of life, all paths, all creeds and kingdoms. From the strictly dressed military like Atlas Academy, to the survival of the fittest types and loosely dressed Shade Academy, or the storied and traditional style of Mistral. They were all interesting, diverse, strong and incredible sexy.

Ever since he ran into that black haired girl and her green haired partner, he somehow kept managing to find them in the most compromising or revealing positions possible.

So, Jaune started hitting the gym harder than ever.

--------------

1 Year later....

----

With a slight shaking arms Jaune pushed the loaded bar back up, exhaling. Then he took a slow, deep inhale as he lowered it down to his chest, then exhaled rising it up again. Inhale, exhale, till he finished his rep.

He rose up from the bench with a grate moan, feeling the warm soreness across his body. It hurt, but in a good way. In a way he couldn’t have appreciated a year ago.

Grabbing his towel he wiped the sweat off his face, and then cleaned off the bench. Treat the gym right, and it’ll treat you right back.

Jaune paused as he walked toward the shower, he had gotten into a habit of showering here so he didn’t have to make his teammate's rush to clean up, there was wall of mirror he looked himself over finding nothing of note, beside himself sweaty and his hair kinda sticky looking.

The water was cold, but high pressured, helping unwind any knots on his back and wash off grime better. He had started taking cold showers more frequently as in the field your rarely got to wash off in general, and if you did, it’s not likely you’ll get hot water, so it he thought it was probably best to get into the habit now.

Working out felt good, taking a shower afterword was just perfect. The only thing that would make it better was wearing his onesie, he had a right to comfort! But, it had gone mysteriously missing after he met Coco on his walk back from the gym half a year ago. So, for now he was stuck wearing white tank-top, and a pair of cotton shorts back to the dorm.

He waved by to the upperclassman about to close the gym, and left for his dorm. He may not have started going to the gym for the right reason, but over the course of a year, he felt like he had grown from then. In fact... what was the reason he started going to the gym? Something about women? Eh, must have been nothing. Ever since he started taking his training double seriously during the Vytal festival, it was like he just didn’t feel dating anybody till he around to being a huntsman, like that there was more to life than dating or stuff.

Jaune ran a hand through his hair, he had started growing it out at the beginning of the second year and now Pyrrha and everybody else vetoed him getting a hair cut!

“Hahah, jokes on them though, they have to brush the knots out of my hair!”

Walking back to his dorm a fruity perfume pasted his nose, a vaguely familar laughter along with it. Then a slightly familar group of girls were walking in the opposite direction as him. They looked like they came back from a night on the town. He liked the way they dressed, it complimented themselves very well.

As he walked pasted them they paused and stared at him, Jaune paused too, but shrugged, giving them a broad smile and a wave before walking back to his dorm.

Jaune failed to miss the women eyeing fucking him as he walked away, all of them red face and heavy breathing.

“Hmm, why do I feel like I’m in danger?”

----------

Jaune wasn’t sure when, but he had grown into a morning person. It was fun to get up in the morning now, he liked watching the sun rise, seeing the sky change colors on his morning runs.

Being team leader meant having responsibilities, so being a early riser now meant getting up his team, they were going to be third-years in a not small amount of time. So he made sure that they got up at a reasonable time to prepare for the day. Along with the fact on mission they would have to get up before the sun rise on most days.

Also, he especially liked to watch his teammates get up, it was entertaining in different ways from Nora crashing out of bed, to Ren rising from a blanket cocoon, and Pyrrha’s silly little death threats to any man stealing bitches out there.

He tended to wake them up with a gentle approach putting hand on there shoulders and carefully shaking them awake. He had forgotten how strong he was a couple of months ago when he sent Nora flying into a wall by accident, so had tried to be gentle.

The rest of Team Jnpr had learned a couple months ago that they no longer had a choice in waking up early, the only choice was before the sun was up or after.

Jaune put on his uniform for class, he frowned a little bit, as it was tighter than it was yesterday. Maybe it’s new? Guess it needs to be broken in.

Team RWBY met them at breakfast, Ruby refused to let her other bestie get ahead in the leader game by letting just JNPR get up early! Jaune didn’t notice but he often got murderous glances from Blake.

Eating breakfast Jaune felt a crick in his back so he leaned back.

Pop-pop-pop-pop, RIIIIP!

His buttons on his shirt fired off like a machine gun shattering against the walls of the cafeteria, and then his shirt fell to pieces, revealing his sculpted torso, arms and abs.

“Ahh man, I liked that shirt.” Then continued eating, not aware of the stares his friends, other students, and Ms. Goodwitch were giving his body, eyeing him up as much or more than he used to do to them.

AN: If this Jaune was ever put into a situation where couldn’t exercise for like a week, his libido would come back with vengeance and make him a unstoppable sex monster. That said, what are the odds of that happening?

#Jaune Arc #Not quite crack #Slight Himboification #Team JNPR #Team RWBY #Glynda Goodwitch

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infinitewarden · 3 years

Text

Osiris & OCD

I’ve had this post on my mind for a while but I never got around to sitting down and writing it. So here we are.

Osiris has OCD.

Yes, you read that right. Osiris has OCD and I’ll be going into depth here why he can be read that way.

To start off I would like to clarify what, exactly, OCD is since there are many misconceptions about it perpetuated by pop culture. OCD is different for everyone who has it, at least the way the symptoms present themselves. It’s not entirely about “ew yuck I hate germs.”

OCD is a long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and/or behaviors (compulsions) that they feel the urge to repeat over and over.

Obsessions are repeated thoughts, urges, or mental images that cause anxiety. Compulsions are repetitive behaviors that a person with OCD feels the urge to do in response to an obsessive thought.

Not all rituals or habits are compulsions. Everyone double checks things sometimes. But a person with OCD generally:

Can't control their thoughts or behaviors, even when those thoughts or behaviors are recognized as excessive

Spends at least 1 hour a day on these thoughts or behaviors

Doesn’t get pleasure when performing the behaviors or rituals, but may feel brief relief from the anxiety the thoughts cause

Experiences significant problems in their daily life due to these thoughts or behaviors.

Source.

Now, with this clarified I can go into detail about how these symptoms present themselves with Osiris. Let’s start with bringing up a couple of instances that stood out to me (as local OCD haver.)

Bodies in the rubble.

Evacuees from the Eastern breach caught in the blast.

Their deaths filled his mind through twenty gilded eyes, capturing the scene in its totality.

Osiris would scour the Northern front in golden Light.

He looked to the shattered wall. Through the gap, mind inutile, overshadowed by the eternal precipice. Crowded with menace. Eyes peering down, seeping over, hungry, waiting to flood this last hope with plunging depth. Even now, as Fallen lines break against the Light, others stand watching from deep starless hollows. If not this, another. The dam will fail, as all do in time.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 9: Thin

Osiris is absent; preoccupied with insatiable predilections that drive him to worry.

The Pigeon and the Phoenix. 11: Breathe

His mind is still taxed from his last visit. He remembers—camouflaged against the rushing atmospheric bands of Jupiter—how he drifted alongside its evergreen moon. He remembers the deep wedge that sunk between the two bodies, dividing them.

The Pyramid before him, lascivious tendrils of wildfire hue flowed from it like a grasping hand across the Cradle. The image as clear as relived trauma. Io had been dwarfed against the black angular pit seated in its atmosphere. His eyes could not leave it then; even now, he feels himself falling into its gravity as they approach again.

“Have you sent it to Saint yet?” Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.

Immolant Pt. 1

Osiris tenses his jaw in forced silence. He twiddles with code. “I’m worried about what Vance found.”

Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest. “Let go of your obsession. Do not leave chasing phantoms again.”

“Phantoms… You think the Darkness is satisfied? This is just the first move. I need to know the next before it’s made.”

“If there is something you fear, let me help you. We face this together.”

Osiris’s mind drifts to the Dark anomalies. Saint doesn’t need another burden.

“The safest place for you is the Tower, Saint. Time... tends to renege on its gifts.”

Immolant Pt. 1

So.

Obsessions: Upsetting focus about the dark future he tries to avoid, of the Vex, of the Darkness, and of death.

There is another instance in the Tomb Rider lore where he starts down an “OCD Spiral” of obsessions, starting off with his worry over Mercury. In which Saint promptly shuts him down by grounding (lifting him by the shoulders), and diverting attention (feeding him candy.)

Let’s look at his compulsions.

“He’s dead because of me. I’ve made every precaution. I’ve had my Echoes check against trillions of disaster scenarios.” He turned to look at the fluctuating glow of the exposed chronometric core. “Mercury is the only planet that will be affected. Because that’s where he died.”

The Sundial.

Without thinking, Osiris pulled off his gloves. Freed of the metal gauntlets, his hands looked old. He wrung them together, his fingers worrying at the edges of his ragged nails. "If the Darkness is able to claim Mars… if they take Mercury—"

"Quiet your mouth," commanded Saint-14, and Osiris did.

Saint-14 stood and then moved toward Osiris in two enormous strides. He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris's hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.

Osiris obediently placed a few in his mouth and chewed silently.

Tomb Rider.

I see infinity.

An infinity of possible worlds, so perfectly simulated as to be indistinguishable from the experiences I once called "reality." I can touch them, taste them, pass lifetimes in them! They grow within this machine like fruit upon a tree—no, a forest of trees, its fractal expansion nigh unmeasurable.

I said that to Sagira and she replied, "Sounds like a challenge."

This Ghost of mine knows me too well.

It strikes me now that I could find in this Infinite Forest a reality in which Ikora accompanied me into its endless mysteries.

What an awful, destructive machine this is.

I must know everything about it.

Kairos Function (Chest)

Osiris nods, realizing he had no right to demand action. “I apologize. Thank you.” He motions toward the windows’ reinforced glass. “The Traveler’s reforging was a sight to behold.” His words have a faint reverence to them.

Zavala turns away from the Traveler’s pale light, his face dimmed. “Indeed. I wish it was more than just that.”

“These events were beyond us all, Zavala. I should have seen it… I just want to correct my error.”

“I’ll help you where I can, Osiris. Remain in contact, and if it is dire, I will point every gun at whatever fiend you uncover.”

Immolant Pt. 1

Compulsions: Checking and double checking again and again, picking at his nails (picking is another common OCD Thing), learning everything he can about an Upsetting Thing, chasing “loose ends” to correct stuff he considers his fault.

Interestingly enough it seems that both Saint and Sagira are aware of his tendencies and respond to them by either physically grounding him or distracting him. ( “Saint places a heavy hand on Osiris’s chest.” - “Sagira flitters into view. She brings him back to the present, soaring across space.” - “He grasped the Warlock by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He took Osiris’s hand in his own and wordlessly filled it with triangular orange candies.” - “Sagira darted down as if to dive bomb her chosen, but stopped just short and met him eye to eyes.” )

Let’s also not forget that Ikora, the Speaker, and Saint have described Osiris to be obsessive, and though Osiris denies this it’s hard not to see that he is. Thus… “Obsession” part of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

So there you have it. There’s quite a bit of lore that points towards or at least allows it to be read as him having OCD.

#osiris #theus.exe #lore.exe #i had more sources but i didn't want it to get too cluttered

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theskeletoninthegarden · 2 years

Text

The story of Charlie Mads, an every day person from our own world enlisted to try out a brand new VR experience. What Charlie doesn't expect is how very real that experience is. Dismemberment, disembowelment, death itself, they feel it all, only to come back again and again to face the Commonwealth and all it's terrors. What Charlie expects even less is how different the 'Wealth is. The sights, the people, it's all much more real then they could have expected. What happens when Charlie wakes up and …realizes that maybe it is? Stuck in a simulation turned part nightmare and part dream come true, it's up to Mads to hang onto what sanity they have in order to conquer the Commonwealth. The real question is, it is the monsters, or the people that will get to them in the end? A very self-indulgent series, made purely for my own entertainment.

Notes:

Relationship: John Hancock/Original Character Reoccurring Characters: John Hancock, Nick Valentine, Robert MacCready Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Attempted Suicide, Child Murder, Xenophobia, Self-Harm, Imposter Syndrome Tags: Platonic Relationships, Romance, Found Family, Resurrective Immortality, Game Mechanics, Healing, PTSD, AU- Canon Divergence Additional Notes: Will contain, mostly, one-shots, multi-chaptered and not.

I've finally gotten around to posting chapters of a story I wrote six years ago (this seems to be a habit of mine). I touched them up a tiny bit, but the chapters are still pretty rough. All the same, I feel like I want to share them.

#fallout #fallout 4 #even if this doesn't kick up a lot of attention i used to be really proud of my self for it #fanfiction #writing #the tags make it sound really serious but there's a lot of comedy #and after the set up chapters there was due to be a lot of fluff #just a lot of it

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godkilller · 3 years

Note

“ look thanks for finally giving me a reason to get out and do something, but why me ? didn’t you used to say i was a creepy kid? ” it was only jest truth is he is relived that gin showed up when he did, he was bored and often wrestled with being able to sleep properly, these nights reoccurred often for almost no indication of when the mood would strike, he’d adjusted back almost as normally back into school as he could, “ do they know your all the way out here ? ” he asked inquisitively as they wait for any sign of a hollow.

THAT SMILE OF HIS DROPPED, died, and not due to any particular offense taken nor was Gin particularly upset -- just... a reminder of that day, wasn't it? That conversation. The reinstated captain sighed out -- rather than in annoyance, it was in relent; Ichigo lived a fairly confusing life in which everyone around him always had plots or plans for him, about him, using him, without ever once deciding on informing him. Just tugging him along -- never answering his questions, for one, and rubbing his ignorance in his face when it was, in fact, crafted by their own designs, their schemes. This poor fucking kid deserved better than the vague and unknown. Gin reckoned this was better than nothing, and a good start to continuing a better habit of communicating in general.

Plus, he was fairly certain their conversation and little skirmish had Ichigo haunted in some capacity; you and your friends're gonna die and that'll be all she wrote. Telling him to turn tail and run, that he wouldn't judge him -- ah, well, Gin wouldn't've either way. This was a kid. The crisp night air, brisk, billowed through them both, and Gin hummed out whilst they both awaited a rogue remnant of Aizen Sousuke's Arrancar Army to make their appearance. Information given by the ex-traitor's knowledge of Las Noches' straggling beasts, left to fester in Aizen's defeat, now creating factions of their own which needed dealing with before an ample uprising was eventually crafted, plaguing the town Ichigo had given everything to protect. Quiet, in the light of the clouded moon, they waited.

Then Gin spoke.

❝ -- ... I was half-teasin' you, then. Half, 'cause y'can be creepy without realizin' it. Creepy as in y'got a lotta power 'n a good heart, 'n that's rare -- 'n also creepy in the way y'were managin' to get pretty good guesses in 'bout me. Nobody jus' does that. But the teasin' part's 'cause it'd be hypocritical for me, the intentionally 'creepy' guy, to call ya creepy instead. It was me pullin' your leg, distractin' ya from continuin' to try and dissect me. ❞

"With Aizen turning into that... what do you think's going to happen to you?"

A shrug of haori-adorned shoulders, an empty sleeve swaying at Gin's right, a dismissive gesture made whilst Ichigo's query quietly instilled the reminder between them that even the kid knew about his parole. And seemed to not want him to get into any trouble.

❝ They know. I gotta have a babysitter to be in yer lil town. They're watchin' me from that roof over there. ❞ A dipping nod downwards towards one of the buildings under construction, a crane stretching out, and a subdued reiatsu lingering at the edge. Gin looked back towards the kid, head tilting -- curious.

"When I cross blades, I can tell a little of what my opponent's thinking. I'm not saying I can read their mind or anything like that, but I can tell what kind of resolve lies behind their blade, whether they respect me or look down on me. That kind of thing, I can tell. When I'm actually fighting, there's no time to think about it, so I don't usually realize until afterwards, but in general, the stronger the opponent is, the more of that "heart" seems to come across."

A reversal of that day, of how Ichigo claimed to have the ability to know the hearts, the feelings of others, whenever he crossed his blade with theirs in battle. What did you see in mine? Was it empty? Was anything there at all? Gin could still feel the despair from Tensa Zangetsu's blade, the powerlessness. Powerlessness hadn't gone well with Ichigo before, in wake of being beaten down by Yammy -- and by his run-in with Grimmjow, among other instances. Funny what insight Gin had on this kid's life and likely mental and emotional state given Aizen's observations of Ichigo's growth, his life turned into an experiment loaded to the brim with conflict and confusion. That inner Hollow-esque entity... did Ichigo know Aizen had been behind that, too? That Quincy girl, a few decades ago.

Ah, well... it was to be expected, his restless nature, this kid. Moving along as though everything was normal, attending school like a regular teen after having just dealt with a traumatic event. Of him nearly being unable to stand up to a seemingly inevitable apocalypse which sought to wipe out everything he held dear, his little town, and his little friends, his little family -- everything relying on him and him alone --

❝ ... Are you havin' nightmares? That's why y'ain't been sleepin' lately, right? ❞ A pause, and Gin turned to properly face him, stepping a pace or two closer with a sway and dip of his hunched posture. ❝ Y'know, you should actually talk to your buddies -- about this, I mean. They all care aboutcha, they've gone to war 'cause what you were fightin' for was worth them followin' ya. So maybe you oughtta open up about your fears 'n anxieties, they're not gonna think you're weak. ❞

#[ roleplay ] predator; murder on his mind & hymns on his tongue #[ verse: redemption ] i am healing by mistake; rome is also built on ruins #heyooooo uwu

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