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prettyboyeddiemunson · 2 years ago

Note

(It's more of a drabble than fluff but I thought it would be really cute to write about how Eddie fell in love with you 😭)

Eddie is alone most of the time. Whenever Hellfire is done for the week and his band mates are busy, he does things that are familiar. Instinctual. He re-reads The Hobbit, partially out loud to himself with character's voices, wishing it would become a movie already. He sits on the edge of his bed, strumming away at his acoustic graffittied guitar (his electric is special and only used for shows) playing nothing of substance. He takes a scenic drive with speakers shaking from the weight of his mixtape down backroads he had memorized like the back of his hands, but only when he could spare the gas to do so. Usually, anything to fill the quietness of the space around him was enough. He grew up with his parents in a noisy environment before Wayne took him under his wing. He listened to and played loud music all the time, so one would think the silence is welcome. But it isn't. It just leaves room for uneasy, inky black thoughts to worm their way through the folds and wrinkles of his brain.

This all changes once he meets you.

You guys started talking one rare, rainy afternoon after school. You were standing under the metal awning of the tiny high school soaked through to the bone and shivering, cursing your luck and your ride under your breath. Most everyone else had gone home already and the only people left were part of clubs that wouldn't be done until the early evening. Just when you had been considering walking home in the middle of the storm, your knight in shining leather appeared. Eddie had stayed later after school to talk to a teacher about his grade, maybe offer some extra credit. All of his worries and thoughts came to a screeching halt when you walked up to him. He had seen your face around school before (it was a small town after all) and could put a name to your face, but had never talked to you before. He thought he heard you say something, but the way your pretty lips moved and the sound of the rain assaulting the metal awning pulled him into a trance. Your eyes held a color and a sparkle that made the rain behind you turn to falling diamonds. Your wet hair held fast to a halo of grey-blue light, like you were wearing a crown crafted out of the rain clouds in the sky. He only snapped out of the trance you had unknowingly put him in by your own word, ironically. Shaking his head to clear the fog, he laughed softly. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you could give me a ride?" You had raised your voice a little, above the sound of the rain.

Eddie nearly collapsed on the spot. "Oh! Oh, yeah, um..sure, yeah." He stutters out, putting his stuff on the ground to shrug off his vest-jacket combo. "Um...actually, maybe I'll just walk.." You had commented as you watched him, taking a slow step back from him with a look akin to one of a cautious deer in your eyes. Eddie looked at you innocently for a second and then just laughs softly once again. "Oh, shit, uh, no its okay. You are just wet and you looked cold, so I...thought you could use it more than me." He explains and you laugh nervously as you take it. You slip your arms through and the garment nearly swallow you whole, as it was already slightly big on Eddie himself.

The both of you jog to his van, him covering your head from the rain with his hands the entire time, and sigh in relieve once the doors are closed. He starts up the van and turns the nearly busted heater on while turning the radio down as well. Your damp face lit up completely when you heard what was playing and you quietly started humming along.

"You like Megadeth?" Eddie had asked, a pleasantly incredulous tone to his voice and he could do nothing but watch as you turned your head, giving him a smile that made every work of art look like kindergarten drawings and a giggle that made even his favorite song reduce to nothing more than a cacophony that was alien to him.

"There's a lot more to me than people think. I'm full of surprises, Munson." You say in that voice that makes his brain all fuzzy. Eddie just chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief, starting the drive to your house as per your direction. You guys talked sparingly throughout the drive, but he wasn't bothered by the lack of conversation. It didn't seem that you were either. You looked perfectly happy and content to watch the rain shower the pavement outside and hum along to his music.

When he pulled into the driveway of your little yellow suburban house behind your parents' car, he turned to watch you climb out. Another small 'thank you' passed your velvet lips and you started to shrug off his jacket, but he stopped you. "If you take it off now, how will you get to the door without getting soaked again? You can give it back to me tomorrow." He says with a goofy grin on his lips as he leans on the middle console. You giggle once again and hop out of the car with your school bag pressed tightly to your chest as you run up to your front door. The overhand of the porch shielded you from the rain and you lifted your hand to wave at Eddie as he pulled out of the driveway, setting off towards his quiet little trailer.

For once, he didn't speed down the streets he knew so well or turn the music up to scream-sing along to. It was the quietest drive he had in a long time and he found that he didn't hate it. He sat on his familiar bed and laid back, his wet, curly and unruly hair splayed out beneath him like dark wings sprouting from his temples. He just laid there for a long while, until Wayne came home from the plant in fact, replaying the events in his head. In only a matter of minutes, he had memorized so much about you and had his heart completely hooked on you.

For the first time in his life, Eddie didn't fear the silence, didn't try to chase it away with familiar sounds and routine movements. He simply laid there and let the thoughts rush in because they were no longer the inky black and infectious bad thoughts he was used to. They were no longer tar-like, seeping through every crack in his defenses until the damn burst. These thoughts were now filled with you. Your mouth and coated everything in honey and gold when you spoke, your eyes that seemed to suck the beauty out of everything around you and make them the centerpiece instead. The way the corners of your lips tucked into your cheeks when you smiled.

For the first time in his life, Eddie Munson didn't mind the silence. In fact, he welcomed it now simply because with the silence came you.

(Sorry its so long, but I hope you like it <33)

-🐝

THIS WAS SO SWEET AND SO BEAUTIFUL, THANK YOU FOR SHARING THIS WITH ME 🥺❤️

#🐝 anon

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quietlyimplode · 4 years ago

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Clint/Nat. (970 words)

There’s some telltale signs that Natasha isn’t coping.

Warnings for anxiety - based loosely on this prompt.

The house is quiet.

Clint puts his bag down on the table, and looks around for any telltale sign that Natasha is here. She said she would be.

The house is clean.

They’d both left on the same day. Her mission was shorter, a retrieval of information that should have only taken a day or so. His, however was protection detail. A full week he’d had to stay alongside a Marine, set for a deposition against the government.

She’s obviously been here. This is not how they left their house. There were clothes everywhere, dust in the corners and things not in their place. They’d laughed about it as they’d both left and he’d locked the door behind her.

Now.

Now it looks like someone had been through and cleaned everything within an inch of it’s life.

The house is cold.

If she was here, he’s sure it would be warm.

He calls her phone and it rings on the kitchen table, he hangs up and picks it up, concern curling in his stomach.

There’s no movement.

He climbs up the stairs towards the bedroom, hoping she’s in there. He doesn’t say anything in case she’s asleep.

Surely.

That’s it.

If she’s asleep, it accounts for the cold, quiet house.

He opens the door slowly, the is bed made.

He scans the room and sees her.

She’s watching him; blanket over her lap, sitting on the floor against the wall.

“Hey.” He approaches her slowly.

“Hey,” she gives him a smile. It’s genuine and he smiles with her.

“Why are on the floor?” he asks quietly.

“I..” she starts to say one thing, but changes her mind, “headache,” she decides on.

He knows that’s not the extent of it. She would probably have just taken painkillers and gone to bed if that was the case. This looks more like she hasn’t slept in a couple of days and the brain worms have got her in a holding pattern.

He holds his hand for her to stand up, but she shakes her head.

“Feels better down here.” She tells him.

He sinks down next to her and she rests her head on his shoulder.

“Do you want something for it?” He asks, grasping her hand and bringing it to his lips.

There’s a beat.

“It’s not my head.” She admits.

He stays quiet, hoping she’ll elaborate. He traces patterns on her palm. He holds two fingers on her pulse and feels it beating fast. Looking at her, she looks calm, rested. Inside though, tells a different story.

“What is it?” He prompts. She takes a breath and blows it out, perhaps unsure what to say or even how to describe it.

“I…” she stops again. He keeps his fingers on her pulse point.

“It’s becoming hard.” She begins. She sits upright, ramrod straight bad, ”being around people.”

He nods. He gets it.

A lifetime of being around people, of others controlling her every movement, of the anxiety of having to observe and know the intentions of every single person around her.

It’s a wonder that she’s as social as she is. He gets her introversion, craves it for her at times as he’s often watched her push through at the expense of herself.

Her pulse jumps at the confession and he starts drawing circles on the back of her hand again.

“You didn’t tell me it was getting bad again.” He says softly.

“It’s… it’s just, I need time to decompress afterwards and it seems to be getting longer to come back down.” Her breath hitches as she admits it quietly, to herself more than he.

Clint knows what that’s like.

“I don’t know how to make it better.” She tells him, eyes wide staring up at him.

Her breath seems to catch and she coughs. She’s missed a breath and panics on the loss.

“Lay down,” he tells her, seeing the beginnings of a panic attack. If he can get her head below her heart, maybe he can stop it.

Natasha follows the instruction, dropping her body and curling into a ball. There’s enough space behind her that Clint is able to hold her and fit his body around her, holding her loosely.

“It’s going to be ok.” He whispers in her ear. And repeats it so she hears.

It makes sense to him, the clean house, the neglect of warmth and probably food, not wanting the comfort of bed. She’s put herself at odds.

“It’s going to be ok.” She says back to him, reassuring herself.

“Clint?” She asks.

He hums, changing his position to make her hands grab his wrists, making sure she can feel his slow pulse.

“Please don’t go.” She asks holding on hard.

He kisses her neck and whispers assurances.

“It’s going to be ok.”

Morning comes and Clint wakes up on the floor alone.

His back creaks as he stands and stretches; it’s been a tricky night, staving off panic attacks.

He hears Natasha in the kitchen. The coffee maker hisses and the sound of the morning TV is playing quietly. He smiles, the house is loud.

He walks into the kitchen and hugs her hard.

The heater is on and as she hugs him back; he realises the house is warm.

They proceed to make breakfast together. It’s not better, the anxieties are still there but she’s talking and he’s taking it as a win. They talked about booking an appointment with the therapist and she’d agreed. She hasn’t shut him out, and on the contrary almost seems lighter for having made the decision.

He cracks eggs and fries them as she butters toast. They dump the dishes in the sink and eat together in front of the TV.

The house is messy.

One shots.

#blackwidowfest2021 #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #hawkeye #my fic #black widow 2021 #clintasha fanfic #marvel fic #whump fic #panic attacks #anxiety #wijday3 #sleep

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disasterofastory · 4 years ago

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Rivals (Severus Snape x Reader)

Rivals young!Severus Snape x Reader Warning: bullying

New fandom. I'm a little bit worried about this fandom because I'm definitely not a hardcore Potterhead, but I have so many ideas for Severus, and I want to share them with you guys.

Y/N and young!Severus are more than just rivals.

When you first stepped into the castle with a bunch of other kids around you, waiting for the Sorting ceremony, you knew your life would change forever, and you have to give your best. You were full of eagerness to learn and want to prove yourself in front of your teachers and fellow students. The Hat sorted you into Ravenclaw, you got to know the castle and your teachers, and you made friends as the months and years went by. You became the captain of your Quidditch team, and despite the endless training and matches, you are still one of the best-graded students.

You only have one headache.

Severus Snape.

The boy is tall and lanky, and you never see his face without his black hair he uses as a curtain. He has a few friends, but your circle of friends never mixes with his. He is quiet and stoic. The only times you hear him speaking loud and clear when he is arguing with you about an answer or a test.

Even before you knew, you were rivals. The fact that you are the captain of your team helps you a lot with your results, but while you are horrible at potions, Severus is talented and hard-working. At first, the competition existed only in your head, but as the years went by, you noticed the boy’s annoyed expression whenever you had better grades than him.

After six years of competition, you came to the point when you had to admit to yourself you will never beat each other. Since then, you look at it as a game. Severus keeps you on your toes, and sometimes you just tease him for fun. After years of staring at him arguing with you about something, you noticed he is rather cute. He has thin but kissable lips, and his pale skin becomes reddish from anger whenever you tell him you are the smarter one. You enjoy your encounters even if you don't know about Severus’s opinion.

You sit in the garden, hoping for some fresh air before your next class when you start to hear voices and laughs. At first, you want to ignore it and read over your notes, but the shouts get louder, and the word Snivellus pushes everything else out of your mind. You stand up from your bench to follow the noises till you see the sources.

Severus tries to gather his books and notes from the ground while the Marauders tower over him, laughing and guffawing. You see Severus’s torn potion book in Potter’s hands, and you see his mouth moves, but you can’t hear him because of the others. Pettigrew hits Sirius's shoulder when he says something funny, and Severus makes sure they don’t see his expression behind his black hair.

You are not the only one who comes to see the ruckus. People start to stand in a circle around them until you can’t see anything but their backs. You hear their cheers as Severus’s humiliation continues.

Your first thought is maybe you shouldn’t intervene, it’s not your business, and you still can call a teacher for help, but as these thoughts run over your head, you get angry at yourself. Could you really let the poor boy here? If you do it, you aren’t different from the people who have fun while the Gryffindors hurt him.

He is smart and, despite your interactions mostly about arguing, he always helps you on potions even when you tell him you don’t need them.

You grab your bag to place it over your shoulder and start to run into the crowd. You struggle through the people until you arrive in the circle. Severus still struggles with his books while the other four make sure to entertain their audience.

“Y/N,” Potter calls you as he notices you stepping out of the crowd. Severus’s head snaps up in a panic, hearing your name. “Just in time!”

“No!” Severus start to argue, but his words are meaningless for the boy who walks next to you.

“Look at this!” He shoves the potion book into your hand. “You have a secret admirer,” he laughs.

Severus’s handwriting is messy, but you can still read your name in a heart-shaped drawing. You have to force yourself not to smile at it, looking over and over again your name.

“Who thought Snivellus has feelings?” Sirius asks loud enough for others to hear, and he gets his reward in laughs and cheers.

“Shut up!” You shout at him, closing the book in your hands. Your skin is hot from embarrassment and excitement. “You shouldn’t be jealous, Black,” you continue, stepping next to Severus to help him gather his things. “You don’t have a brain and feelings but don’t give up, maybe a few years, and you will look like a man.”

“You shouldn’t stand up for a worm. It’s not good for your reputation,” Pettigrew says.

“You shouldn’t open your disgusting mouth,” you snarl. “It’s not good for your nonexistent reputation. And if you ever hurt him again, I make sure my potion will eat you alive.”

You and Severus the only ones who know you would do it because of an accident and not knowledge. You grab the boy’s arm to help him steady himself as you pull him through the crowd.

“Are you okay?” You ask him when you get far from the idiots. “Do you need to go to the infirmary?”

“No,” he replies quietly. He is too embarrassed to look at you, but the warmth of your hand on his arm is too good to get out of your touch.

“Come, I know a place,” you tell him, pulling him with you.

The corridors are almost empty. The classes started a few minutes ago, but you don’t care. You have a more important matter to do than Herbology. You're heading to the library because you know, in the middle of the day it'll be empty.

You sit down not far from Severus, and you wait for a few minutes patiently while he repairs his bag and puts back everything in it. His hair still hides his face from you, and your fingers itch to adjust it behind his ears.

“Your book,” you tell him, reaching out his potion book for him. He grabs it out of your hand with hurried movements. You can see his dark eyes and red skin for a moment as you still wait for him patiently. After he packs everything, he stands still, hovering over the table, fidgeting.

“You want to talk about it?” You ask him softly. “I mean… about my name in your book.”

You are sure you will combust if you don’t bring up the topic you want to talk about so much.

“For what?” He asks you angrily. “It’s not your business,” he continues defending himself.

“Well... it’s my name,” you reason. “Come on, Severus! Sit down!” You order him softly, grabbing his arm to sit down next to you. You know you have to be careful. He is embarrassed and humiliated, and he doesn’t know about your feelings for him.

“I’m sorry, okay?” He says. His voice is desperate, and it breaks your heart.

“No, don’t be,” you grab his hand and pull it to your lap. “I like you too,” you confess.

“Don’t play with me,” he tries to move out of your hold, but you don’t let him. His hand feels good in yours. You can almost imagine holding it as you walk to your next class beside the boy.

“I don’t, Severus, I promise,” you reply. You push his hair from his face with your other hand to see his expression. You can see the fear and slight hope on his opened mouth and black eyes.

“But… I thought you hate me,” he whispers.

“I thought you hate me,” you reply with a small smile. “I don’t hate you,” you continue. “You are the only one who smart enough to compete with me among these dunderheads.”

“So… you are not angry? Probably everybody knows about my book by now. They will pick on you too.”

“No, I’m not,” you squeeze his hand with a big inhale. “I like you too,” you repeat to ensure him. “I do for a while now.”

“So… so… it means…” he tries to have an answer for his unsaid questions, and you can’t help but smirk.

He is too cute.

“It means I would like to be your girlfriend."

His eyes shine as he looks up at you finally. His mouth closes and opens repeatedly but can’t utter a word out. His cheeks are still tinted with pink, and you can feel the sweat on his palm. The only thing he can do is nod. His lips are dry, and his throat tightened, looking at your soft expression.

“Come here,” you laugh at his shut down, pulling him closer to you by his tie.

At first, you kiss the corner of his mouth, and when you see he doesn’t against your closeness, you kiss him fully on his lips. He needs a few moments before he finds out what he should do, but you are perfectly fine to leading him. His skin is soft as you caress his cheek, and his lips are warm and taste like tea.

You pull back and look up at him to see his dreamy expression.

His breath is heavy, and in the back of his mind, he still thinks it’s just a prank, but the only thing you do is smile and continue to caress his cheek. He wishes you never stop it.

#severus snape x you #severus snape x y/n #severus snape x reader #severus snape imagine #young!severus snape x reader #harry potter imagine

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mystic-sanctuary · 4 years ago

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A (Hopefully) Helpful Guide to Syskids

A very quick disclaimer here: This is based on my own experiences as a Caretaker with the kids we have had and currently have within our own system. Some of, or even many of these things may not hold true for other systems.

Written by; Bronya (Admin, Archivist, Caretaker)

[GUIDE BELOW THE CUT.] [WARNING: VERY VERY LONG.]

Topics covered below;

Some Miscellaneous Basics

Getting to know your SysKid

Caring for your SysKid

Caring for your SysKid - Headspace Specifics

Navigating SysKids and Trauma

Okay, with that out of the way! Dealing with SysKids can be challenging, just like dealing with outside children, though with a few extra challenges because these children are in a system and that can make just about anything challenging at times!

Each SysKid can bring their own unique challenges, so there's no real "every SysKid can be handled like [x]" type situation here. The very first step to learning how to care for your SysKid(s), however, is to get to know them!

Their interests, their dislikes, and for lack of better phrasing, their maturity level. Do not expect your SysKids to always be 100% like their age group. Remember, they have a much older brain now, so for example, your 4 year old SysKid may have a wider understanding of things than, say, a bodily 4 year old might. That doesn't mean they won't still react to those things like a 4 year old would, though! Another 4 year old SysKid, however, may be a lot more similar to a bodily 4 year old. There's no way to tell for sure until you interact with and get to know them!

Our system is both Polyfragmented and Gateway, which means I have seen many SysKids come and go, and we currently have quite a few as well!

Some of them behave more like their age group than others, some seem to fluctuate between an age group (for example, one of them is in the 4-6 range). Some SysKids are nonverbal or some form of altverbal.

Unless otherwise specified by your SysKid, it's absolutely okay to treat your SysKid like an outside kid- as long as you aren't rude or patronizing about it. Yes, I know, "why would I be that way to a kid", but unfortunately I've seen this happen.

Syskids also have their own various boundaries and capabilities. We have a few SysKids who are able and allowed to front alone, provided we are at home.

This isn't plausible for everybody, of course, due to various personal situations the system may have at home, and not all SysKids are able to front on their own anyway.

There are also systems who cannot control their switches which can lead to a SysKid in front alone, and to all of you, you are not a bad person for ""letting this happen"", it isn't your fault if you can't control your switches. Tips for you& include leaving notes for your SysKid if need be (we have a personal discord server we often use for this, for example, which has exclusively us in it), or letting close, trusted friends know about the SysKid in advance so they can help if they're able and needed.

In the case of the two SysKids we allow to front on their own, we know they are responsible/"mature" enough to follow the rules we've set for them without needing to be reminded/regularly enforced/etc.

These rules are pretty basic and by large focused entirely upon their safety: Who they can and can't talk to, discord servers they can and can't talk in, websites we know are safe for them vs websites we aren't sure about or know have inappropriate ads on them that occasionally manage to worm their way past our adblockers.

We also make sure they know, at all times, SysMates they can pull to front or call for help when or if they need it. For us, this includes myself, the Protectors, and a few others who are either Caretakers or have good parental or caretaker-y inclinations. This is something that, while they've both teasingly told us we don't have to keep reminding them of, we often keep reminding them of before or while they front.

"So, how do I get to know my SysKid(s)?"

Find out what they're interested in and spend time with them! Spending time with SysKids is very important, in my experiences. This may include playing with them in headspace, depending on your systems headspace situation, or even watching movies with them while fronting together!

Some SysKids may be shy- they may open up more as they get comfortable around you, but they also might not! If your SysKid is shy, you may need to approach them with more caution and gentleness than other SysKids might require. Some SysKids may not adjust as quickly as others to their new surroundings, either.

Think of... Getting a new pet, for example. They don't know you, your home is new to them, and that can scare them. You have to get them to warm up to you slowly; no rushed movements and soft attempts to initiate play times, etc.

Running with this same analogy, some new pets don't have a problem with any of that, and are in fact just excited to see all their new surroundings and meet all the new people around them!

SysKids have as much variation! For explanation on why I went with this analogy, I know a lot of folks do not have experience with children outside of Systems, for any number of reasons (not having younger siblings, never babysitting for others, etc.) and getting a new SysKid can be just as unique and even as challenging an experience as getting a new pet!

"How can I care for my SysKid?"

One SysKid can have a different set of needs than another, so the answer to this question can vary quite heavily. However, a few examples I can give are:

1. Spending time with them! This can range from coloring together to watching a movie with them! If you live with another system who has SysKids or live with somebody who is comfortable interacting with SysKids, you could even arrange playdates with them.

2. Giving them snacks or treats while they're in front, or even in headspace if your headspace functionality allows for this. Everybody's headspace is different, and some don't have a headspace at all, so this may not be possible outside of front and that's okay!

3. Like the above, depending on your systems headspace situation, this one may not be possible outside of front. However, this one also depends on your SysKid! Some SysKids can get grumpy after a little while without sleep. If you have multiple SysKids, this can get a bit challenging because you'll be trying to arrange multiple naps at once- not everybody is going to want to lay down at the same time.

4. Depending on your systems communication and the verbality of your SysKid (we have a kid who can only say one word, for example), you can also ask your Kiddo what they need or would like to do.

Obviously with this one, you may have to use your own judgement. We've all been kids at one time or another, and SysKids are often no exception to the "wanting to do things they see 'big kids' doing" mindset.

And of course, as with any SysMate, do not force your SysKid out of their comfort zone. This can be damaging to any SysMate (and your relationship with them), so of course it can be just as much if not more so with SysKids. If it's a situation where it's something the body needs that the SysKid is uncomfortable doing and your fronting situation allows you to: do it yourself or have another SysMate do it unless your SysKid has expressed wanting to become more comfortable with whatever it is.

For example, several of our SysKids are uncomfortable with things like going to the bathroom! That can seem like a weird, simple thing they "should be able to do", but keep in mind they are a child and your body isn't. That's a big difference! We are typically able to do fairly fluid switches, so we are able to switch the SysKid out of the "Main Seat" so to speak to do this for them, or "with" them if they've said they want to be more comfortable with it.

"What about in headspace? Do I need to watch them all the time? When should I check on them? Etc."

For me personally, I'm usually with most of our SysKids a good portion of the time. Of course, some of them have other SysMates they'd rather be with most of the time or spend time with sometimes, and that's okay too!

We usually try to keep an older SysMate with all our SysKids, but depending on your headspace, this might not be absolutely necessary.

For us, our headspace is not only incredibly large (an entire world in it's own right, at this point), but dangerous. Even a lot of older SysMates use the buddy system when traveling outside the main city just in case they run into more dangers at once than expected.

If your headspace is safe enough for your SysKid to be alone, it's still a good idea to check in on them! How often you should check on them probably depends on your SysKid's age and how they behave! For example, particularly chaotic SysKids may need to be checked in on more than SysKids who aren't quite so chaotic, just to make sure they aren't getting themselves into any trouble.

If your SysKid is usually fairly loud and there's a period of silence, that'd be a good time to check on them! If your SysKid is usually pretty quiet, you may need to use your own judgement for when to check on them! For example, you might be anxious about leaving them alone if they're pretty quiet, so maybe you'll feel more comfortable checking on them every 5-10 minutes or so.

And of course, if you hear them getting angry or crying, etc. that would definitely be a good time to check on them! Chances are they tripped while playing, can't get a toy to do what they want it to/can't figure out how to get it to do what they want to, or even messed up something they were drawing or coloring.

Personally, when I'm leaving our SysKids momentarily unsupervised for any number of reasons, I check on them anywhere from every 5-15 minutes, varying depending on amount of noise they're making and what kind of noises they're making, but it's important to keep in mind that I'm watching several SysKids at any given time!

To help myself stay organized, and because we have an entire city so this was a plausible option for me, I run a sort of kindergarten-daycare type thing within headspace! All our SysKids have an older SysMate they live with, and not all of them need or are interested in keeping up with any sort of solid education within headspace, so it more or less functions as both!

It's also possible your SysKid might not want to be left alone at all, maybe just at first while they adjust or even indefinitely, and that's okay too! A lot of kids don't like being left by themselves. In this situation, having them hang around another SysMate they like would be a good idea if you aren't sure who to put your SysKid with in this case.

In any case, if you are checking in on your SysKid, it's important to remember that you're not just making sure they're okay! Seeing you check in on them, whether you say this or not, reminds them that you're there for them and to help them/to care for them.

It's also important to remember that your SysKid might try to convince you to sit and color or play with them for a while during one of these check-ins! If you have the time to sit with them for even just a few minutes, I recommend it! It might not seem like much, but in my experience it often means a lot to them and can strengthen your bond with them.

"How do I navigate SysKids and Trauma?"

This can be challenging. Whether it's your systems own traumas, the SysKid getting stuck in front with somebody in a bad state of mind (it happens! front can be finnicky and disagreeable at times, even for those of us who can usually control their switches), your SysKid having ExoTraumas of their own, or even your SysKid being a Trauma Holder!

An important thing to remember in these situations is that, despite the trauma, your SysKid is still a kid! They may not fully understand the trauma they're experiencing (or witnessing). It can be hard to explain things to them if they're asking about it, and you may not even feel comfortable explaining it to them. In this case, it's absolutely okay to try and boil it down in a way a kid might understand- like adults often try to do with bodily kids.

Obviously, Trauma can be likely to stress your SysKid out pretty heavily. Like with older SysMates, coping skills will be helpful for them. Because this is a kid, these coping skills may be pretty different. It can include giving them their comfort item if they have one (for example, a favorite blanket or doll), playing their favorite movie and watching it with them, holding them while they're scared or upset, and comforting them (I usually go with soft "shh" noises and "it's okay", while reminding them that I'm here for them and they aren't alone. Also, just listening to them the same way you would a friend! They may not make as much sense in some cases, but they appreciate having an ear just as much!)

In the case of systems with trauma, avoiding putting your SysKid in situations you know triggers the rest of you because of that trauma as best you can is a good idea!

For a personal example, due to one of our own traumas, we are very Hydrophobic. Things like Showers and Baths are nearly impossible for us most days, and we never get out of them without anxiety attacks or bad dissociation. So even the SysKids who have said they "don't mind" taking a shower or bath through the body do not get to do this.

Some days we have a hard time even drinking water, so on those days we either make sure whatever we're drinking isn't water when the SysKid/s front, or we don't let them front that day.

Again, we are usually fairly in control of our switches, so this works for us, but things may be more complicated to navigate for other systems depending on the nature of their trauma/s and fronting capabilities.

Since that is not our situation, I will not try to make assumptions for how you can navigate your situation if this is how things are for you- given more information, I could certainly try to give you advice, however this is a random tumblr post, and I almost definitely do not know most of those reading this!

Ending notes!

For now this is all I really have, though I can always edit or reblog with more at a later date if need be! If you read this far and have any questions or comments, you're welcome to leave a message on this post, send us a DM, or drop an ask in our inbox! We have Anon turned on as well, for anybody who gets anxious about asks that are off-anon, etc.

#plurality #systemhood #syskids #system kids #plural guide #plurality guide #system guide #long post #endo friendly #endogenic friendly #plural advice #advice #system advice #syskid advice

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gasp-iwrotesomething · 5 years ago

Note

Can you please do R8 for cal please

Sure thing, anon! Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

R8: “How about a good ol’ game of rock paper scissors to settle things between you and I?”

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“Come on, don’t you know basic decency? A man always pays the bill.”

“I do know basic decency, excuse you. I just don’t follow it. You’re perfectly able to pay it, so pay it.”

“I don’t see why when you’re the one who suggested going here. I think you’re the one here who’s perfectly fit to pay. Stop arguing and just pay already.”

“No, I don’t like your attitude. Be more convincing and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“Cal...”

MC groans. The two of them had been going back and forth since they had cleaned their plates, right when the waiter brought their bill. Neither of them wanted to pay, even if the amount was barely twenty dollars. We’re both stubborn like that. Cal sits back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, expression stagnant except for the small smirk on his lips. “Will it kill you to be the gentleman for once, MC?” That smirk transcends his usual capacity of cockiness, the naturally carved lines in his face stitched with the ego of a thousand kings. MC hated how smug he was. It was as if he knew that he’d win no matter what she said. But I’m not about to let that happen. “Will it kill you to be a gentleman for once, Cal? That’s the only real question here.” Around them, the standard bustle of customers clanking their silverware against glass plates and smooth, jazzy music playing over the speakers continues, simultaneously locking them in a bubble of banter. MC lost touch of the reality beyond that frolicking sea in Cal’s eyes--they seemed so alive with mischief and amusement under the soothing atmospheric lights. Why’d I ever let this circus performer take me out to a fancy restaurant for a date? I should’ve known it’d be a mistake. “There’s no such thing as a ‘real question’,” Cal argues as he prods the few scraps of food he has left on his plate with his fork, “only dumb questions. I don’t think I’ve been the one giving them out so far.” MC frowns and loads her fork with some parsley from her plate, slinging them at the gunslinger. To absolutely no one’s surprise, he catches them in his mouth and grins with his victory as he chews. “Yeah, well, neither have I, so I guess we’re tied on that.” That grin sours as the taste and papery texture settle over his taste buds. Ah, his reflexes aren’t sharp enough to recognize that he’s catching and eating garnish. MC snorts behind her hand and snickers as Cal discreetly spits out the parsley into a napkin. His glare is as sharp as the laughing pains she feels pierce her gut. “Ha ha ha, what a comedian you are, MC…” He deadpans.

MC gulps in air and dabs at her eyes with her napkin, still cackling like a villain. She didn’t think Cal’s glower could get any deeper; he looked like steam would shoot out of his ears. Finally, after another minute or so of attempts to calm down and Cal most likely plotting on how to get his revenge, MC quiets down though she can’t quite peel the grin off her face as easily.

“You know, if you didn’t want to be laughed at like that, you should just let it hit you in the face. Besides, my aim is trash. It would’ve bounced off your shoulder or something like that.”

Still, Cal remains sulky. He folded the napkin with his saliva-and-parsley concoction and rolled his pearly blue eyes. Apparently even the reassurance of a poor aim could do no good to wash the taste of a prank out of Cal’s mouth. He must notice a prickle of secretive laughter in her expression because he scowls. “It’s not my fault you suck at aiming, so don’t even think of blaming that on me. If you can’t make a shot with a weightless leaf, then it’s no one’s fault but your own.” Cal transitions into his scolding mode, the mode that said he was annoyed about something incorrect and was to fix it. MC doesn’t even have enough oxygen coursing through her to laugh at that. “Whose fault is it if my target eats the projectile then? I don’t think your lessons touched on that yet.” She could imagine the eye roll Cal does before he even does it.

“Like I said, a real comedian you are.” His flat tone returns and it’s hard not to see a counter in his gaze, like a secondary emotion in the shadow of his anger. Could he be… amused? The way his eyes shined and his mouth twisted made MC think so at least. But that feeling is washed away by his deflated sigh, a hand raking through his hair. The windswept curls catch on his fingers; a detail MC wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been staring so intently into his face. But she doesn’t even flush; after spending so much time watching Cal go through every tick he had, it was hard to get flustered when she was too intent on admiring the languid movement. “You know what? I’m super tired and I bet you are too,” though fatigue weighs heavy in his eyes, a sliver of liveliness worms its way in as his mouth curls, “how about a good ol’ game of rock paper scissors to settle things between you and me?”

MC crooks a brow. He says this lazily, though his face sharpens with the smirk that pieces together on his lips. His eyes become alive, almost as if revived, and brighten with the promise of a challenge. She could sense his cocky attitude before he even says anything else, evident in his easy posture and eyes that peer at MC through lashes. Mirroring his growing smirk, MC offers her fist braced on her palm--the initiation position of rock paper scissors. Cal follows. “Don’t try anything funny.” MC warns, her brown eyes intense as they narrow. As expected, the slingshooter follows her example. “You think I’m some kind of cheater or something, MC?” He feigns offense and places a hand to his chest, right over his heart, as if her stern warning hurt him there somewhere. She doesn’t falter in the slightest. If a game of rock paper scissors gets me out of a bill, then I’m not taking any chances. “If the shoe fits,” she says, flat and devoid of the playfulness Cal probably wanted to hear from her. He shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, maybe, but I think that it’d look better on you by far,” his eyes flick to her shirt and in that brief flash of interest, MC’s chest seizes up like there was a clot in her heart and her blood flow was interrupted, “after all, ‘cheater’ seems to be your color.” Her eyes fell to the plate, smeared with the remnants of her meal, and she was suddenly so interested in how one piece of it resembled the state of Texas. Her face felt red and she hoped that her blood wasn’t bursting to her face because of his admiring remark and was just the result of the clot in her heart. Why does that seem like a better fate than to let Cal see his effect on me?

Inhale. Exhale. Cool your mind, she silently directs. And dear body, don’t do stuff like those...kinds of things. You’re selling me to the slaughter, you know. MC pastes a grin on her face like nothing happened and gingerly brushes the tip of her shoe against his calf, just enough for the pressure to be felt through his pant’s material. She watches his face combust and his throat bob slightly; it was so darkly satisfying to watch him fall from that cloud of smug Cal-ness every once and awhile. The tips of his ears even burn scarlet--something MC didn’t see too much. “So you’re saying the shoe must fit me then, is that right? Wow, that’s impressive how you found out my shoe size from just playing footsie with me under the table, Cal.” She remarks, resembling his tone, as she withdraws from his leg. Just to be that much more of a tease, MC knocks his foot playfully as she retreats to its standard position under the table. Cal opens his mouth but just flaps his jaw a few times, the words ashes stuck to his tongue, before huffing and shutting it. “...I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, MC.” At this point, the clatter of patrons digging in eagerly to their pricey meals is barely loud, the crowd having been deducted by the few groups leaving for the night. Looking around, only a few tables were occupied besides MC and Cal’s, which meant that they were among the last throng of people who stay at restaurants minutes before they close. Which overall meant that they were running out of time to decide who pays the bill. Meeting Cal’s eyes tells the same quiet urgency that she feels squeezing in her rib cage--it was now or never. That’s dramatic but… fitting. Competition seems to always be dramatic with him. Their eyes meet and narrow. Their hands pose to strike. Their hearts beat just a little faster. Both anticipation and determination reflects and bounces back and forth in their shared gaze; an intense stare-down.

Then they chant, muted, as to not draw attention to themselves.

“Rock, paper, scissors!”

MC’s brain jumps to scissors and she separates her two fingers and tucks the rest into her palm--but anxiety makes her thumb jab outwards awkwardly.

Cal chooses paper last minute and flattens his fingers out to align with his palm and wrist.

A moment passes, a tense, wobbly, silent moment, then MC whoops with her victory and Cal’s scowl is back with a vengeance. “Scissors beats paper and I-” she reaches across the table to catch Cal’s flat hand between her two fingers, opening and closing to mimic the blades of a pair of scissors “-win!” She gloats, alight with the glee and relief of winning, while Cal rolls his eyes so hard and so dramatically that his eyelids flutter. Her snipping fingers manage to bisect his middle and ring finger, creating a divide in his mimicked paper. “That was scissors? Since when do scissors have an extra blade sticking out from the handle?” He snipes as he swats away her hand. Cal was bitter that he lost, obviously, and scavenging for a reason to redo and win--she could see it clear as day. He says he’s not one but that fits the behavior of a sore loser, I think. The trick shooter was casual and nonchalant about the way he pointed her jittery mistake out, though MC could see the disappointment leak from his tense shoulders as they relaxed. MC nudges the bill towards him inch by inch, to which he mirrors as he pushes it back towards her, stubborn. “Since I said so, which is now, so pay, would you?”

“Hmm… how ‘bout no. You flubbed the scissors. What if that’s the sign of a cheater, hm?” Cal argues. He flicks the bill towards and it sails across the tabletop, to which MC frowns heavily at as she stops it. “I’m not a cheater just because your reaction was delayed, Cal,” she sweeps the bill towards him only for Cal to bat it back to her mid-slide, “I went off muscle memory, alright?” Still, that skeptical frown remains and for a second, they just slap the bill back and forth until it flounces to the floor. They must’ve appeared to be two children trapped in two adult bodies battling each other over something silly and childish. A few pairs of eyes flick towards them with bemused frowns while others pretend to not spot the flouncing couple just a table or two away from them. But they were so engulfed in their fleeting rivalry to spare any of their audience any mind. MC squints at Cal. Cal squints back. She swipes the bill up and stiffly offers it to him, her smile strained and her lips thin. “You lost. So. Pay.” Cal’s eyes don’t disconnect from hers as he slowly pushes the bill towards her again. “You cheated. So. Pay.” A silence stretches thin between them, just glaring at each other in an unexciting and monotone tug of war, before MC groans. Now you’re just pulling excuses out of your ass, Cal. “Fine, fine! We’ll play again and whoever wins this pays, no matter what,” she compromises as her abdomen feels like there’s dozens of hot coals simmering there. Had she ever been truly this angry around him? Who am I kidding? Of course I have!

Cal’s scowl loosens a few ticks but no clear figments of relief color his face. He plants his fist into his palm and nods towards MC, “ready?” She sighs just to snuff the angry pit of fire in her bones--though she suspected that there would be a re-ignition no matter the outcome of their rematch. I swear if Cal wins this time… I might just flip this table right now. MC bobs her head in a silent agreement. Just like before, the atmosphere thickens and the rest of the restaurant is washed away outside their bubble, the conversations and clatter of silverware distant. Only the world alcoved within Cal’s illustrious and winding gaze fills her mind. Their eyes narrow in unison as they begin their chant for the second time.

“Rock, paper, scissors!”

Cal leaves his fist clenched tight, his fingers furled into his palm. Rock.

MC levels her fingers straight out. Paper.

And just like that, MC had won again. This time, she doesn’t make a scene with her victory snug on her belt; instead, she throws him a sleazy smirk and casts a knowing glance at the bill just waiting to be snuggled with some of Cal’s money. “Well, would you look at that, Cal? Looks like I don’t even have to cheat to win against you after all.” She saw the pout outline his lips and the way his eyes swung to the bill with distaste as she coyly slid it to him. She could see how the taste of failure felt wrapped around his tongue just from his taut posture. Arms crossed, shoulders slumped, jaw clenched, face scrunched… Those are the sure signs of a secretly sore loser, I bet. His eyes only briefly brush her gaze while he huffs, exasperated, and snatches up the bill. “Yeah, yeah, you got lucky,” Cal grumbles. MC pats his hand gratefully with a teasing grin. “Thank you.” She was partially serious and partially pulling his leg just to see the oceans in his eyes swirl with indignation. I really do appreciate him paying for it though. I hope he understands that too.

His attention flickers from fishing his wallet out of his pocket to feigning a cordial smile at MC, tone clipped and falsely cheerful. “Don’t mention it.”

...well, in time, of course.

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

Thank you again for your request and I hope you don’t mind how late the request has been completed! I had a lot of fun writing this though!

Also, before you go, make sure that you support @vowtogether!!

If you want to request something, here’s the Prompt List, here are the Guidelines, here’s Who I Write For, and here is where you can Request me.

#cal north

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fearfearer · 5 years ago

Text

i have caught up with the magnus archives.

when i started listening, i started a text file to note down any thoughts/confusion/analysis/jokes i had as i listened. i isolated a few bits of it into standalone text posts that i already posted, but here is the whole thing, my long-form liveblog

thoughts on the magnus archive as i listen

jonny sims gives an impassioned performance of someone's statement-- a diegetic impassioned performance, as we witness it being interrupted and resuming-- and follows it up with his own judgement of merciless doubt. classic. why the impassioned performance? he's just a nerd. i dearly hope this is the fandom consensus

every episode ends at the perfect volume to which i have adjusted it, and then i start the next episode and it blares in my ears. i think the volume of the intro must be like 1.75x the volume of the rest

*makes a serious effort to listen to and remember the name and date at the beginning of the statement recording* *forgets completely within 2 minutes*

i saw a fanart of gerard keay and learned [1] that he must be a good guy after all, since they drew him lookin cute, and [2] that his name is not, in fact, jared key. what, am i supposed to be looking at the transcripts? understanding names properly? in my defense, jonny sims clearly articulates "Jared" when he says it. maybe i'm not as good at decoding british accents as i thought. [footnote added in later: ok good i'm not the only one who hears "Jared" and thinks "Jared" instead of "Gerard"]

when gerard keay was described as having numerous eye tattoos on his joints, obviously my first thought was, "including the ankle? so he's count olaf?" because that's definitely a way count olaf would disguise his eye tattoo: by tattooing eyes everywhere else too and becoming The Eye Tattoo Guy. anyway this is part of why i was not at first inclined to think favorably of gerard keay

"The first thing about this statement that makes me dubious is that it comes from a fellow academic." if you know shit fuck you

it has come to my attention that there are ships. makes sense... after all, everyone in every fandom is horny af*. i'm not in deep enough to ship yet but naturally i'm keeping an eye on it

*horny af for depictions of intimacy, sexual or otherwise, but mostly sexual

definitely feel like i need to be writing down every name i hear because they're never not cropping back up but for now i'll just let it all wash over me

so sasha has been replaced with not-sasha, huh? pretty sure. though i'm not good at distinguishing voices. but that sounded pretty different, and my listening comprehension wrt that table isn't that bad. <<as time passes i doubt myself more and more on this point but not enough to go back and listen again

"You believe me?" "Yes, I think I do." (smashes button labeled "CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT" and a loud buzzer sounds)

IT'S MICHAEL!!! i hope michael is a long-term good guy... he's not seeming like a good guy right now... he says he's mostly neutral. vaguely recall seeing a tumblr post about michael in the recent past but that didn't give me any hints and i don't remember it well anyway. michael's voice is good though. good laugh

i'm not good at visualizing characters based on descriptions, let alone based merely on their voices, so the only image i have in my head of jonathan is a furrowed brow

i'm on episode 49 and i don't like jonathan's distrust of his colleagues... i don't understand why his immediate suspicion was that gertrude's murder was an inside job. hasn't he just learned firsthand that the institute is not impenetrable? it's not inconceivable that someone could enter and shoot her and leave. especially when it took place in underground tunnels connected to unknown locations.

there's a good Old Lady Voice Combo on episode 62

so agnes montague was heavily cursed... that's my conclusion after episode 67

elias seems to tell jonathan to "get some sleep" a lot. though it IS generally good advice

episode 70, 9 minutes, 41 seconds: jonny sims's cell phone goes off in the background

small brain: ghost ship medium brain: ghost train galaxy brain: dirt train

i wanted to see if there was fanart of michael so i looked it up... i might as well have googled "blonde slenderman"

sweeney todd mentions tally: II

for some reason, hearing michael described this time as "a tall man with curly blonde hair and an unnerving laugh" puts an image in my head without my consent, and that image is chris fleming. now, he's not quite blonde, is he? but that doesn't change my casting decision, which is now set in stone. hope he does a good british accent

"YES i know what a meme is."

why is melanie the first/only one to notice that sasha is now not-sasha? is it because she is experienced in firsthand paranormal encounters (whereas the archivists are experienced in decidedly SECONDhand paranormal encounters, save for the worm debacle)? oh, my question was answered handily in the next episode. ok.

the replacer definitely limits its glamour to everyone except one person just so that it can be amused by the distress and confusion of the one person who can see the truth. that must also be the reason it chooses a completely different appearance. it surely COULD replace a person with their exact likeness; it just uses another face for fun, and to be satisfied that it can get away with it.

this table has appeared in like 10 episodes... Guess It's Crucial

jonny sims yelling while swinging an axe. jonny sims goes through michael's door (eyes emoji)

the idea of the replacer killing jonathan and not even replacing him brings to mind "AT LEAST RIDE IT YOU ASSHOLE"

wasn't expecting to hear from leitner at this point... he's dropping tons of lore here. too much lore. so much is happening. i have to say i kinda like it better when the stakes are not quite so high as this.

so at the end of season 2, tim and martin believe that jonny sims killed this guy, who they probably don't know is leitner... and we the audience believe that elias, now almost certainly a double murderer, has very quietly stabbed leitner to death. do i the audience believe it? i'll keep an open mind for now. things are not always as they seem. except when sasha was replaced with not-sasha, which was exactly as it seemed. [footnote added in later: looks like elias being a double murderer was exactly as it seemed.]

so jonathan sims is the name of the actual guy voicing jonathan sims. it's a cecil situation. so are they someday going to go back and retcon every episode to change his name, like with palmer/baldwin? or does jonathan sims just not mind being a character as well? as long as it doesn't devolve into RPS i guess it's fine. if there's fanart of jonmartin i hope it doesn't depict them as their actors bc that's too close for comfort to RPS

there's been a truly hellish c*ndy cr*sh ad that has played like 40 times between episodes and i'm pretty well convinced to never ever play that curséd game

elias has some serious blackmail for daisy, huh? that's heavy, having police characters in fiction who do extrajudicial killings. life imitates art imitates life

"i'm not on drugs or anything. ...what? i could be on drugs!"

he said "ample opportunity" but like "amplopportunity" with emphasis on the "plop"

it was obviously elias who delivered the statement to jonathan in hiding, because he knew he would record it despite not being at work... bc he's a nerd

so if gerard keay has eye tattoos, does that mean he also serves the uhh the observing or whatever? [verdict arrived at later: no he just has those because he's cool. or because his mom tattooed him. ok almost certainly the latter.]

"what do i feed it?" obviously you feed it filled up cassette tapes, jon... nothing has ever been more obvious

it's okay that jon very stupidly burned his hand to a crisp. you don't need even one hand to turn on a cassette recorder. you can do that with your nose

so if these people who are wax figures serve the desolation, and not-sasha was spending time at the wax museum, does that mean there is a connection between the replacer and desolation? i think that would make sense, since both seem to enjoy making people feel bad feelings. also i'm starting to think that agnes was not actually cursed, but that would mean she burned that guy on purpose after being nice to him... was she just really selfish in that way? using him to experience Dating and mutilating him when he crossed the line, so she punished him as a cruel goodbye? or just building up his hopes so they will be even more fun to burn down when the time comes?

"perhaps doing a bit of mindless filing will help distract you." honestly that is something i would like to do in real life... i do enjoy a good mindless task. though doing mostly mindless tasks 40 hours a week is not a fun time for me lately. but it would be better if i didn't have to listen to bad radio at the same time

what?! the friendly midnight acrobat described in episode 90 sounds totally non-threatening and i hope there's fanart of it. was that gym just jared the bone turner helping people live their twisted athletic fetishes?! [footnote added in later: YES! god i hope people draw these turn-boned creatures optimized for their gymnastic of choice. show me a person who remade their body specifically for the balance beam]

so the power endowed in the archivist by the viewening is that when you sit them down across from someone they want to interview, that someone will invariably spill SOME beans and think it was their idea. maybe? [footnote added in later: yes.]

ok so Michael "The Distortion" Michael, of fractals and golden ringlets, has specifically tormented this other michael, lichtenberg michael?

jon is clearly moved to ask questions by an external force because he's a sensible guy who would not try to ask questions when daisy is holding a gun on him

i think basira has precisely the same accent as estelle... or maybe just a similarly staccato way of speaking (or of line-reading)

[episode 93] elias: (holding jon's face between two pieces of bread) what are you? jon: (sigh) the archivist...

well, they did something i didn't expect them to do with this show: create a compelling in-universe reason for jon to read statements aloud. because obviously until now there was none.

jon did the cockney accents. (insert emoji for indescribable feeling)

here's the purpose of the pit: if we all climb in the muddy pit together at night, the earthquake will only jiggle us gently and no one will be inside collapsing buildings to be crushed. it's only logical

ok i was gonna say this before but why is jon still at georgie's house??? he's not on the run for murder anymore, right? he has an apartment with all his stuff in it, right? [footnote added in later: i still don't understand why it was like this.]

i will confess that usually once the credits start to roll i zip to the next episode, but this time i zoned out a bit and it's really funny that jonny sims reads out "Rate and Review Us Online" in his archivist voice

a third michael. this one is probably already dead though. unless distortion michael takes over this guy's body or something. oh, jon came in at the end of the episode to say precisely this.

was episode 100 mostly improvised? if so, that would be appropriate. but i wouldn't put it past them to write every stuttering bit of those four statements

MARTIN...................................................................................................................................................... (typed this as martin gave some of his own money to the lady who expected payment for a statement)

i'm skipping 100.1 through 100.5 for now... just for now.

ok so michael is michael but not lightning mike michael, and two of these michaels are dead, but one is something that has never been alive nor dead. got it

everyone's morality is much more gray than i at first anticipated. the only people who seem to be solidly and earnestly on the side of good, as much as possible, are jonathan and martin and basira and georgie and maybe tim?

so michael just died and was overtaken by pseudo-helen? neo-helen? ok. that's kinda too bad, as i enjoyed michael's terrible laugh and unpredictability. but the feeling of michael being revealed as having been michael shelley feels somewhat similarly disappointing (but a bit less staggeringly groan-inducing) to when the mysterious koro-sensei in assassination classroom was revealed to have been a twink in his past. because of course he was. (that's when i stopped reading that manga. too precipitously dumb to sustain my suspension of disbelief.) it's like, ok, you had an interestingly mysterious character going on, but having solved the mystery, what interestingness is left? not much. fortunately this was resolved by promptly ending the existence of this michael and instead introducing new and improved helen

ooh martin has the asky ability too huh? nice [footnote added in later: he only used it this one time, and i'm wondering if they did that and then forgot and decided that jon is actually the only one with asky ability.] [[another footnote added in much later: How did i manage to mistake jon’s voice for martin’s voice? How?]]

the way martin said "kumo ga tabeteiru" in episode 110... alexander j newall does not watch anime

"I'm a book." ~Gerard Keay, 2017

it was a few episodes ago now but i noticed that when jon clearly articulated "Jared" referring to gerard, elias was like "Jared? you mean Gerard Keay?" (pronouncing it like "Gerard.") there is definitely a disagreement between these two (actors) about how to pronounce that name

the eye, the spiral, the end, the stranger, the lonely, the desolation, the slaughter, the vast, the buried, the dark, the corruption, the web, the flesh, the hunt.

Q: why would anyone want one of these rituals to succeed? A: it's their fetish. it's their sexual fetish

ok time to make up names for each possible apocalypse. these are the real and true names according to me, who knows such things: the eye - the viewening the spiral - down the drain the end - the really end end the stranger - oh wait we know this one. it's the unknowing. the lonely - the alonening the desolation - Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Lightless Flame the slaughter - world war all the vast - the expansion the buried - the grand lahar (or the Smothering) the dark - the extinguishment the corruption - the Great Rot the web - the spidening the flesh - the smorgasbord (or the Eatening) the hunt - come and get it

gerry said there was no dark god of indigestion, but i can tell you from personal experience that there is. though it's true that there is also fear involved, so maybe no separate pantheon is necessary

i sense that there is a battle between people who say it like "gotta get myself oriented" and "i feel disoriented" (as feels correct/natural to me) and people who say "gotta get myself orienTATed" and "i feel disorienTATed," and this podcast falls SQUARELY on the latter team. they've said it like 20 times

idk why he has to be such a dick to helen. jeez

the guy who coded his mind into a computer, which of the 14 was that? the corruption? the stranger? gotta be the corruption, but that doesn't fit perfectly with its rot/bugs aesthetic...

speed -> speeding -> sped. heed -> heeding -> hed. thus i decree

in my dream i listened to a whole episode of this show, narrated by gertrude, and i was like "whoa this is cool" and i went to write it down but i was still in the dream and writing doesn't work in dreams :( also any successful writing in dreams doesn't transfer to real life paper :( the only snippet i remember: “...in his white mouth, which had known only bread...”

"I, uh..." Jonathan Sims, a thousand times, 20XX

martin's job is PLAINLY to distract elias and elias barges in like "martin. i see you're trying to distract me." and martin's like "maybe i am!"

o, jonny took a breath. that's good

he wasn't hooked up to an EKG or anything? you spend long enough with no heartbeat that they're just like "i guess we can turn this off"

this episode about philosophical zombies sounds a lot like that NPC meme from a year or two ago... and it makes me kind of uncomfortable, the way this person inspects others to determine whether they are True Minds or Impostors based on their emotional expressions, their eyes... because i don't always do the correct or appropriate expressions, and would someone judge me as being a non-person who is trying and failing to imitate human emotions?

i generally don't enjoy ships that have more-or-less explicit canon support, but i can't say jon/martin isn't good

melanie blaming jon isn't right... no one had a better plan to stop the unknowing, did they? (they didn't!) didn't all of them agree on the plan and understand that they might die? (they did!) she's just imposing survivor's guilt upon him because he survived for supernatural reasons. but it's not like he eagerly embraced his new supernaturalness, or even asked for it outright! i think she's being unreasonable. i didn't like her insistence on trying to kill elias either, even though elias is a huge dick. what's with her?

wait, peter lukas is the lonely? (meme where calculations and equations whiz past me)

jonathan baa'd

oh, see. the bullet is making melanie act without reason. i get it now. can't say i think they had the best approach to getting the bullet out, but all's well that ends well (???)

martin is being prohibited from talking to jon >:I martin is on a first-name basis with peter lukas >:I...

martin grumbles, "i don't like being manipulated..." while obviously and continuously allowing himself to be manipulated

jon is afraid of and uncomfortable with what he's becoming, at least to a degree, right? but he seems to be going about his duties (i.e. feeding the eye) with vigor and without reluctance. is he really that motivated by his own desire to know and understand? who is he doing this for? is the eye's influence on him so strong that "doing what the eye wants" seems to manifest as what HE wants to do?

"He'd place it over the one he wore already, and he would larf and larf and larf" (from breacon’s statement... just heard it like this for some reason)

deep water could be the domain of both the buried and the vast, because you could lose yourself in the vast ocean, but experience the physical effects of being buried under thousands of feet of water...

so tom han was an avatar of the flesh but he ultimately died after being tortured by the spiral... right?

"we're not people, though, are we? not anymore." close enough, i'd say.

jonathan has deployed THREE "I, uh..."s in episode 131 alone and i want to smack him in real life. FOUR NOW. JON. JONATHAN SIMS THE REAL ACTOR. LISTEN... quit falling back on your "I, uh..."s. and if they're written into the script i'll punch whoever did that too. total of five in a single episode. never utter "I, uh..." again

i hope whoever's throat is okay after doing bone turner voice for a whole statement.

jonny sure needs saving quite often, doesn't he.

peter lukas being a slightly chipper advocate for becoming a follower of the lonely is very strange

neil lagorio and his whole cinematographic history is made up but they namedropped kevin costner, who is real

VERY, VERY GOOD laugh at 23:44 of episode 136

melanie getting her session recorded... i was doing audio transcription for a while and you'd definitely come across bits of therapy-type sessions that very much seemed like they should have been confidential.

i wonder if the eye ultimately turned its back on gertrude and allowed her to be killed. if jon could survive a collapsing building, could gertrude not have survived a couple of bullets? wouldn't the difference be the protection of the eye? [footnote added in later: of course now i see who turned their back on whom.]

i'm somewhat heartened to learn that agnes montague was, in fact, a heavily cursed individual, though she seemed to have embraced it to a degree... and she wasn't made of wax.

i like that jon now includes helen in his office politics briefing

basira's like "Edmund Halley" and jon's like "Halley's comet?" (like “Hale-ey”) and two minutes later jon's like "Edmund Hally" (not "Hale-y")

"What's this?" "OH... That's, uh... that's... my rib..." "Right." (tiny clunk of rib being set down)

so giving a statement puts a curse on you... or is it "having a statement extracted / being compelled" that puts a curse on you? and the resulting curse, the fear it reawakens, is that good for the eye, or is that good for the powers that initially caused the fear?

well, i heard a homestuck reference in one of the patreon names at the beginning of an episode, and who is surprised? of course, i'm not one to talk

episode 144- the english think their summer is bad... as a professional "hot weather is bad" person, i feel doubtful, because if the sky is grey, it is not as hot as it Could Be, and therefore one should quit one's bitching

first statement about the extinction... interesting. but hearing martin be a jerk to daisy makes me sad :(

the powers never tell avatars exactly what they need to be doing, but that's just concerning the means. the ends are always clear: the power gets fed. and all of the powers feed on fear. also jonny is horny for statements. i hope, but also doubt, that his harmful behavior is at least partially the spider's doing. oh, i see now that it's not. yeah.

jon wants to eat fresh and delicious statements produced just for him, instead of reconstituting the dusty old statements already in the archive

episode 148 - samson stiller gets a crush. but in all seriousness, is he becoming an avatar of the eye but like, not institute-related? is that a thing? i guess that would make sense, but still seems weird

episode 149 - considering ring -> rang -> rung, we seem to have stumbled upon spin -> span -> spun, and the compasses gently span around (9:40)

does martin have loneliness powers now? it's sad that he is getting lonely... as a lonely person, i know.

the lady on TV in episode 150 was just speaking simlish.

i really want jon to overcome his urge to forcefully take statements because i want to be able to root for him still

british podcasts really have a leg up over american podcasts, at least among american audiences, purely based on their interesting and varied accents

i can't say the gravedigger's envy doesn't make me myself feel like going to sleep in the cold dirt forever. but bad depression lately is also a factor, so

jonathan having to settle for reading already archived statements instead of harvesting fresh ones is exactly like a vampire (not the kind detailed in this series) who has to choose between hunting people to suck their blood or drinking bags of donated blood from a (near-endless) stockpile. there's an ethical choice with a clear right answer, but the urge is also understandable

jon following up gertrude's tape with just "fuck" was really good. now he's like "ok martin. let's run away together"

spent all day at work thinking about how i can't fuckin believe the first thing jon did when he heard how to escape the institute was to go tell martin like "there will be a great cost, but... we can elope now"

also if tim was still around jon would tell him the way out and he would do it right then and there, i'm 100% sure. like before jon was finished explaining tim would be like "the eyes? (grabs scissors) got it. (does the deed)"

earlier today i was just thinking that we would almost certainly hear gertrude's death on tape, especially given that we now understand tape recorders are wont to turn on autonomously whenever something important is happening. anyway then i came home and heard gertrude's death on tape

peter, as an avatar of the lonely, is easy to play like a cheap whistle because as someone who clearly hates spending time around other people, he is not keen to the symptoms of being played.

elias is like "you'll have to go into the lonely to get him" and jon's probably thinking "but then at least we'll be in the lonely... ~*~*~together~*~*~"

i think martin's whole thing for most of the series has been that he sounds a little doofy, for lack of a better word, and people constantly underestimate his intelligence. and now he has played peter lukas like a cheap whistle and forced me to realize that by taking for granted that he was being successfully manipulated by peter lukas, i too was underestimating martin... and his pure love for jon <:3c no but seriously i even remember explicitly making a mental note to remember that martin is smartin but it fell by the wayside as my emotions (of sadness that jon and martin seemed to be growing further apart) took precedent

i work a non-verbal job just doing mundane tasks and that gives me all the time in the world to think about things like "if they were to have jon and martin reunite in a tearful embrace, how would you convey the physical contact in an audio format? like, whap? soft thud?"

jon enters the lonely and voiceover peter comes in to try and factcheck the ship

i guess it makes sense that peter would try to do the ritual for the lonely all by himself

did he kill peter by asking him to death? or did peter just self-destruct rather than be forced to answer?

the way jon snapped martin out of the loneliness just by making him look at his face... that's powerful. as a lonely person, i know that the most cry-making thing you can realize when you feel alone is that another person is, in fact, there with you

martin went for a walk and now it's thunderstorming. i wonder if he came back as soon as it started raining and now he's standing nearby invisibly as jon reads the intimidating magnus statement. ...I GUESS NOT

i plan to read through the transcripts of all the episodes (as it’s faster than re-listening, though i might selectively re-listen) so that i may better understand some things and answer some questions in this post that i didn’t ultimately resolve. i can’t say i was paying 101% attention all the way through. also april is very far away

#the magnus archives

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symflash · 6 years ago

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Ultimate Spider-Man Symflash headcanons

Because I can’t write, I can’t draw, and I can’t pay other people to do it for me.

* The symbiote that's with Flash is a fragment of the larger chunk of symbiote that went down with the Helicarrier in season 1, episode 26, and not the brand new symbiote created in season 3, episode 2. Consequently, they remember Harry, but not the time the Goblin injected Peter with Venom (different fragment).

* Also, in this continuity, "Venom" is actually the name the symbiote picked for themself.

* Venom was a blank slate at their birth, like an infant, with zero concept of morals or social mores. They might've been able to suss it out by osmosis from their hosts' brains, if their most long-term host hadn't been Harry "I hate my dad and I wish he was dead" Osborn.

* Flash's and Venom's first dance as Agent Venom went something like this: Venom: “Okay, I think I've cracked the code. Every time I assert my personhood separate from my host, I get electrocuted to smithereens. So maybe if I... pretend to be an inanimate object, act super low-key, this new host won't notice, and I can delay my next near-death experience.” Flash: "This is awesome! You're awesome! What's your name? I'm Flash! Do you wanna be friends? Do you like football? Do you know what football is?" Venom: *tears streaming down their metaphorical face* "wHAt tHe fUcK Is goINg oN"

* That was not the moment Venom decided to bind themselves permanently to Flash, though. That happened after Beetle tried to hit them with a sonic blast. Venom was in pain, and Flash was telling them not to be scared, because Spider-Man would help them, they could trust Spidey. That was Venom's first exposure to the concept of trust. And after they saw that trust paid off, they decided to trust Flash. And their trust paid off. Flash: "Did you hear that, buddy? You won't have to leave after all! Isn't this great?" Venom:

* Flash's training period at SHIELD was mostly dedicated to teaching human morality to Venom and training himself to not refer to himself as "we" (it gives the people with the sonic guns twitchy trigger fingers).

* Sure, I could NOT shoehorn in Flash's comic book backstory. But I'm a slut for cheap angst, so I'm gonna. ** Flash didn't so much live at the gas station as he squatted there after running away from home. ** The smell of alcohol is a trigger for him. He drops off the radar on his 21st birthday because he's terrified his friends will try to take him to a bar.

* Flash and Venom converse telepathically more often than they let on. They like to do Mystery Science Theatre 3000 running commentaries during boring meetings. They also do a psychic duet of Bohemian Rhapsody whenever a known mind reader walks into the room. Just in case.

* Venom thinks the fact that Flash was The Very First Host They Ever Took is the most romantic thing ever. ("It was destiny!") Flash is just embarrassed that their first meeting was so inauspicious. ("You came out of a toilet and I tried to feed Pete to you.")

* Venom can do a bang-up impersonation of Harry, and you can bet they use it to make fun of him at any opportunity. ** "Hurr burr, I have a limousine, a penthouse home and billions of dollars, and when my favorite Spider-Person doesn't reciprocate my gay crush *choking up* I don't cry about it."

* There was a brief period after "Anti-Venom" where Venom was too weak to speak to Flash, and Flash wasn't sure if they were dead or alive. ** Of course he cried; slut for cheap angst, remember?

* Flash has undiagnosed dyslexia. He didn't figure it out until Venom asked him why letters wiggle for him but not for Harry.

* Venom likes dandelions, especially ones growing out of cracks in the sidewalk. ** "They're considered weeds and eradicated on sight, and yet they're strong enough to break through rock, and hardy enough to survive in environments that would be inhospitable to all other plants. It's just... poeticcinema.jpg." *** "Buddy, you can beam a crisp and clear mental impression of any picture directly into my brain. There's literally no reason for you to say 'dot jay peg' out loud, ever."

* Peter & Co. keep making references to stuff Venom did that Venom has no memory of (because there's an entire branch of symbiotes that diverged from them, so they literally weren't around for those events). Flash decides to investigate and pulls up all SHIELD case reports about Venom. That's the first time he finds out how many symbiotes SHIELD has killed or attempted to kill. Venom can only shrug their metaphorical shoulders. People have been trying to murder them nearly from the moment of their birth. They didn't have a point of reference, so they'd just sort of assumed it was a normal part of life. They don't really understand why Flash is crying. And that makes Flash cry harder. ** And that's the story of how Flash got over his crush on Peter. *** Venom doesn't see much point in holding grudges. After all, if they ever express anger or try to retaliate over their treatment, they'll be stuffed in a jar at best and incinerated alive at worst. Luckily, Flash is a finely-tuned rage producing machine; he can be angry on both of their behalf.

* Flash encourages Venom to have their own hobbies separate from him. To facilitate this, Venom has permission to drive around Flash's body while he sleeps, provided they don't stray away from SHIELD headquarters and wake Flash up if there's an emergency. ** Venom likes looking up video tutorials for random things. And because they share a brain with Flash, he ends up learning things by proxy. (The morning he woke up fluent in American Sign Language was a trippy one). *** They're also into videogame speedruns, of all things.

* Scarlet Spider would very much like to forget the time he got up for a midnight snack and found Flash, with solid black eyes, hunching on top of a vending machine like a goblin, attempting to insert three chocolate bars into his mouth at once.

* Venom is the only one allowed to call Flash "Eugene". They're very territorial of their monopoly.

* Venom has a dim, dim view of father figures. Their genetic progenitor tried to murder them multiple times, and their only second-hand experiences of fathers are, well, Norman Osborn and Harrison Thompson.

* What's the point of having a foot long tongue if you don't use it to lick the bottom of your ice cream carton?

* Venom and Flash have such divergent music tastes, they need to have two separate playlists. (Flash likes punk rock and hair metal, Venom's into eurodance and chiptunes.)

* Incomplete list of animals Flash unironically thinks are cute: tarantulas ("Fuzzy!"), snakes ("Their tongues go blelele!"), amblypygids ("They cuddle their babies!"), velvet worms ("Their feet are so stubby!")

* Flash is actually pretty insecure about being Venom's host. He feels the only reason they stick with him is because he was the first person to be nice to them, and they could do better. ** Flash: "I mean, you give me superpowers, the means to get away from my old life, the opportunity to be somebody... but what do I give you in return? Maybe Doc Ock was right... maybe I AM a parasite." Venom:

* Actually, Flash is insecure about a lot of things. He's afraid Peter secretly resents him for the years of bullying, he fears that he's just fooled everyone into thinking that he's a good person and really he's just as much of a monster as his father, he's scared he's too stupid to make anything of himself and he'll become a deadbeat... it's a bunch of separate but interlocking self-esteem issues. ** Venom helps, though. It's useful to have an outside perspective to your own brain.

* Flash initially calls Venom an "it", because they're genderless and he doesn't have a lot of insight into gender politics and pronouns. He later learns about they/them pronouns, and asks if he can use it for Venom. Venom, who's used to being called "it" and knows even less about personal pronouns, is confused. They have a long discussion about dehumanizing language that ends with Venom shrugging their metaphorical shoulders and going "Sure, if it makes you feel better".

* Being a couple kind of sneaks up on them. In their defense, both of them have little to no experience in giving or receiving affection; they have trouble distinguishing different kinds of love (hence why Flash thought his giant gay crush on Peter was just wanting to be his best buddy).

* Cons of wearing actual clothes instead of a shapeshifted symbiote: Doing laundry. Pros of wearing actual clothes: Nobody can tell you're giving your boyfriend a fullbody cuddle under his shirt in public.

* They're both super affectionate and flirty. They both get super flustered and embarrassed when receiving affection and being flirted at. Together, they are a disaster.

#symflash #flash thompson #venom symbiote #agent venom #ultimate spiderman #man of action studios: *give flash a shallow two-dimensional characterization and the symbiote zero characterization*#me: my city now

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 5 years ago

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Hive

Case: 0142302

Name: Jane Prentiss Subject: A wasps’ nest in her attic Date: February 23rd, 2014 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I itch all the time. Deep beneath my skin, where the bone sits, enshrined in flesh, I feel it. Something, not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free. It itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me. If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand, it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right and I need help. I need it to be seen. To be seen in the cold light of knowledge is anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks. In the pitted holes of the hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere. A feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear at holes, irregular, honeycombed holes. Makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too, in your own brain, rotten and hollow and swarming. Is that real?

I’m sorry, I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened. What brought me to this place. This place of books and learning, of sight and beholding. I’m sorry. I should. I will.

I... I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged. Not just slithering and burrowing,. though it is the burrowing that draws me. They always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling, that instinct that squirms through your belly. There will be great violence done here. And I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder? As I watch you sitting there through the glass. Eating a sandwich. Do you know where you are? You called me “dear”. “Have a seat, dear.” “You can write it down, dear.” “Take as much time as you need, dear.” Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. A fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house, I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money. About how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks, as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building. He does not even know about the wasps’ nest. I wonder how long he has not known. How many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body right, makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now, when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it, and the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do.

How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear. It didn’t matter, because no-one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained and I left.

That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism, I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or pujari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods. I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures.

I wish, deep inside, below the itch, that they were still my raptures. I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley lines and mother goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is then it is a dead god, decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing graveworms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and��I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? The face of the one who sang to me dwelling within the hidden darkness above me. I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there, to be in the dark with it, if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom, staring as close as I could get to my face to the mirrors, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then?

Was it when I was a child, such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever? Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house, after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface.

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion the hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that are there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

I need to think. To clear my head. To try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word because for all your Institute and ignorance may laud the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.

I do not know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

Archivist Notes:

This is... uh...

Excuse me, reading that was, um... hmm. While I am pleased that we have... found the statement that Prentiss gave the Institute, it answers far fewer of our questions than I would have hoped, and gives us little new information about her than we had before, save for a snapshot of her mental condition before her hospital admission. We were already aware of her religious history, and her breakdown over an ant infestation that apparently led to her termination from her work at the Good Energies spiritual supplies shop in Archway.

The wasps’ nest is interesting. The paramedics report claims that when they and the police responded to reports of screaming at Miss Prentiss’ flat on Prospero Road, they found her in a loft space, passed out, with her forearm buried up to the elbow in “pulped organic matter”. This could indeed have been a wasps’ nest, I suppose, but no nearby residents reported to have seen any wasps in the area. Unfortunately, it could not be examined further, as later that night there was a fire that completely destroyed the flat and killed the landlord, Arthur Nolan. The fire service determined he had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, due to the fact that he was found sitting in the remains of an armchair, with no sign he had made any attempt to escape.

Miss Prentiss was taken to the Emergency Department at Whittington Hospital, but she was already showing signs of the... infestation that would characterise her later appearances. Six hospital staff were attempting to treat and sedate her, when many of the worms were violently expelled from her body. They quickly burrowed through the soft tissue of the medical personnel – eyes, tongue, et cetera – and into the brain, killing them after roughly a minute and a half. She then walked calmly out of the door to A&E. A nurse attempted to run, but in his panic he tripped on the stairs and broke his neck. Then she was gone. The Institute was consulted, as apparently during her admission she had claimed that she was being possessed, but it was decided the situation was medical in nature and our involvement was dropped in favour of, what I can only describe, as a cover-up. If we’d known about this statement, perhaps things might have been different, but here we are.

Still anyone who’s familiarised themselves with her file could tell you this. We still don’t have any evidence that Prentiss is actually paranormal. It could just be an unknown, aggressive parasite. There are weird things out there that are perfectly natural. It’s not, though. I know it’s not natural. Somehow I... I feel it. I’m sorry, my academic detachment seems to have fled me. Something in this statement has got to me a bit. I’m... I’m going to go lie down.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 31 First Hunt)

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG32 #MAG 32 #Hive #Statement #The Corruption

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centaurianthropology · 8 years ago

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Because I have some vague hope of doing a dramatic reading of ‘Hive’ at some point, I just spent some time fully transcribing the episode. I immediately thought of you guys, and wondered if maybe some of you would like this as well, either for dramatic readings of your own, or for analysis purposes. Anyway, under the cut is my full transcript.

Hive, by Jonathan Sims

Statement of Jane Prentiss regarding a wasp’s nest in her attic. Original statement given February 23, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins:

I itch all the time, deep beneath my skin where the bone sits enshrined in flesh I feel it—something not moving, but that wants to move, wants to be free—it itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me—I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do, and if it hates you, then maybe you can help me.

If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand: it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right, and I need help. I need it to be seen—to be seen in the cold light of knowledge; it’s anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks, in the pitted holes of the Hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere, a feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear of holes—irregular, honeycombed holes—makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too in your own brain: rotten and hollow and swarming.

Is that real?

I’m sorry. I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened, what brought me to this place—this place of books and learning, of sight and beholding—I’m sorry. I should—I will—I … I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged, not just slithering and burrowing. Though it is the burrowing that draws me.

I always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling—that instinct that squirms through your belly—there will be great violence done here, and I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder, as I watch you sitting there through the glass, eating a sandwich? Do you know where you are? You called me ‘dear’: “Have a seat, dear; you can write it down, dear; take as much time as you need, dear.”

Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasp’s nest in my attic: a fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that entrall me; I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals. No. It’s what sings behind them: sings that I am beautiful, sings that I am a home, that I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house; I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence, as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money, about how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building.

He does not even know about the wasp’s nest. I wonder how long he has not known, and how many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss, and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body, right? Makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it. And the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do.

I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely—not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear.

It didn’t matter, because no one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained, and I left. That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism—I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or punjari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods.

I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures. I wish, deep inside below the itch, that they were still my raptures.

I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley-lines and mother-goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is, then it is a dead god: decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing grave-worms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went into the attic; it was locked, and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find: the face of the one who sang to me, dwelling in the hidden darkness above me? I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there—to be in the dark with it—if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the Hive is infinite, an unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards.

‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’

I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle, buzzing song, but it was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the Hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom staring as close as I could get to my face in the mirror, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then?

Was it when I was a child? Such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever?

Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface?

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny—maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick, squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretense that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home.

That love us, in their way.

I need to think; to clear my head, to try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before; I know that. I had friends, at least I used to. But I lost them, or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur.

I do remember that they called me toxic. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason that I was so painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not ‘loved’ as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love; a need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I’ve tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words that you would understand, and now I stare at it, and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word, because for all your Institute and ignorance may lord the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the Hive hates you. You can see it, and log it, and note its every detail, but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear, even though your weak words have no right to do so.

I do not know why the Hive chose me, but it did, and I think that it always had.

The song is loud and beautiful, and I am so very afraid.

There is a wasp’s nest in my attic.

Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

St—statement ends. This is … um … excuse me. Reading that was … ahem. While I am pleased that we have found the statement that Prentiss gave the Institute, it answers far fewer of our questions than I would have hoped, and gives us little new information about her than we had before, save for a snapshot of her mental condition before her hospital admission.

We were already aware of her religious history, and her breakdown over an ant infestation that apparently led to her termination from her work at the Good Energies Spiritual Supplies Shoppe in Archway.

The wasp’s nest is interesting. The paramedics’ report claims that when they and the police responded to reports of screaming at Miss Prentiss’ flat on Prospero Road, they found her in a loft space passed out with her forearm buried up to the elbow in pulped organic matter. This could have indeed been a wasp’s nest, I suppose, but no nearby residents reported to have seen any wasps in the area.

Unfortunately, it could not be examined further, as later that night there was a fire that completely destroyed the flat and killed the landlord, Arthur Nolan. The fire service determined he had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, due to the fact that he was found sitting in the remains of an armchair, with no sign he had made any attempt to escape.

Miss Prentiss was taken to the Emergency Department of Whittington Hospital, but she was already showing signs of the … infestation that would characterize her later appearances. Six hospital staff were attempting to treat and sedate her when many of the worms were violently expelled from her body. They quickly burrowed through the soft tissue of the medical personnel—eyes, tongue, etcetera—and into the brain, killing them after roughly a minute and a half. She then walked calmly out of the door to A&E. A nurse attempted to run, but in his panic he tripped on the stairs and broke his neck. Then she was gone.

The Institute was consulted, as apparently during her admission she had claimed that she was being possessed, but it was decided that the situation was medical in nature, and our involvement was dropped in favor of what I can only describe as a cover-up.

If we’d known about this statement, perhaps things might have been different, but here we are. Still, anyone who’s familiarized themselves with her file could tell you this. We still don’t have any evidence that Prentiss is actually paranormal. It could just be an unknown, aggressive parasite. There are weird things out there that are perfectly natural.

It’s not, though. I know it’s not natural. Somehow I … I feel it. I’m sorry. My academic detachment seems to have fled me. Something in this statement has got to me a bit. I’m … I’m going to go lie down.

End recording.

#The Magnus Archives #transcript #Hive #it's still my favorite episode #and would be such a phenomenal dramatic reading for Halloween #or any time that creepiness is called for

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